The Last Footsies

THE LAST FOOTSIES

by

Wallace E. Briggs

Chapter 1

Do you believe in fairies? Well! I don’t! There are no fairies at the bottom of my garden.

Beyond the closely mown, alternately striped lawn, almost sixty metres away from the house, there is row of five pine trees about ten metres high. Beyond that the ground shelves steeply, through tangled brambles and undergrowth, down to the crystal clear brook. Just a short distance upstream, to the right, the brook tumbles over a series of large rocks creating miniature rapids. Then the stream widens to about two and a half metres as it flows more leisurely past my garden before it plunges over the next ledge thirty metres downstream. The sound of falling, bubbling water creates a special kind of music, ever changing throughout the seasons.

I sit on the bank side, many a time, under the shade of the trees with my back against the rough bark trunk, watching and listening. Sticklebacks and minnows dart in and out of the dappled shadows; croaking frogs and noisy jays make discordant harmonies; arrogant black and white magpies contrast with shy long tailed tits; cheeky finches, some common greens and the occasional and red chested bull finch flit among the branches in the undergrowth; a family of kingfishers, who live in a hole in the willow tree that grows on the opposite bank, perch on a favourite bough that overhangs the brook; over the other side is where the red squirrels live, high in the beech trees; and, when the light grows dim, hedgehogs and foxes, swooping, clicking bats and very occasionally, if I keep very, very still and quiet, the badgers may visit the brook for a drink.

The bottom of my garden was always my most favourite place in the world, but last summer it became a most treasured hiding place.

It was dusk. The hedgehog family had just crept passed my feet, snuffling for worms, when I thought I heard a cry for help. At first I could not tell where the voice had come from. As I could not see anything behind me in the garden it had to be from the brook. I scrambled down the bank and the cries became louder. They were nearer now and growing more frantic.

“Grab him!”

“Save him!”

“Jan, grab a hold!”

“We can’t reach you! We’re out of control.”

A small bobbing head was swept into view on the current, followed by a small raft riding the rapids. It was loaded to the gunnels with terrified faces. Cartons and boxes that had tumbled off the raft floated by.

I immediately splashed into the shallow water and with two cupped hands, scooped the bobbing head safely onto the bank side. Gently I stopped the raft from careering further downstream and pushed it onto the grassy bank. Ten tiny faces jumped off the raft and surrounded the spluttering figure I had rescued, who was now coughing up gallons of brook water.

While they were busy fussing I retrieved their belongings from the water and then sat down, took off my wet shoes and socks and watched the remarkable scene.

At last, Jan seemed fully recovered and they turned their attention towards me.

“It saw us,” cried one small, frightened voice.

“We’re done for now,” quaked another.

“It’s all Jan’s fault,” piped a third.

The fourth voice was female and calm. “What do we do, Joz?”

“I don't think it’s going to hurt us,” Joz ventured, “not after it saved Jan.”

I sat perfectly still, entranced, staring over my knees at the strangest creatures I had ever seen. They were less than thirty centimetres high; they had round moonlike faces; they had pale pink skin and were as bald as coots; their ears were pointed like pixies, not that I believe in pixies either; their large, oval, grey coloured eyes were so sad; but strangest of all was the fact that they had no bodies, arms or legs; just two large feet. The biggest impression I had was of eyes and feet. In my own mind I had already christened them “Footsies”.

“It can’t decide whether to have us boiled or roast,” quailed the smallest Footsie.

I laughed softly. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to eat you or harm you in any other way. I’d like to help you, if I can.”

Jon, obviously the most senior Footsie, turned to the soft voiced Jen. “Did you hear that? A human offered to help us, after years and years of hounding us to the very edge of extinction.”

Jen’s large eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m Jen and this is Jon. We are the very last surviving clan of J’s. There seems to be no safe place left for us to live out our lives in peace. Everywhere we try to settle humans and their dogs chase us and large machines come and dig up our homes.”

“You can stay here,” I offered. “For as long as you like. But we had better think first about providing a shelter for the night.”

Jon corrected me. “We shelter only during the day. We hole up in burrows which we can dig very quickly and then line them out with fresh grass or straw to make comfortable beds. We’re nocturnal creatures, you see.”

That explained their large, owl-like eyes; to help them see better in the dark.

Just then I heard mothers’ call. “Anthoneee!” The Footsies looked worried.

“Don’t be scared. Please stay here,” I pleaded. “It’s just that it’s my bedtime now, but I’m sure that if I ask mum nicely she’ll let me stay up a while longer.”

Jen nodded and I ran up the garden, through the open back door and into the brightly lit kitchen, quite out of breath.

Eventually, mum gave in to my pleading. “All right! You can have one more hour but only if you put on a warm jumper and take your torch.”

I ran full pelt back down the garden path and stopped at the edge of the bank. My torch shone through the undergrowth, but I could see ... nothing. There was not a sign or sound of J’s anywhere.

Disappointed I sank to the grass and hit the ground with my torch. “I only wanted to help,” I cried. “Why didn’t they wait for me?”

The grass rustled in front of me and Jon climbed out of a well-hidden burrow, right under my nose. “We know you won't hurt us, Anthony. All the animals around here have told us they know you as a friend. Without the food, you provide during the winter many would die. The hedgehogs said to thank you for the cat food you leave for them. Now! Please put out your torch. It hurts our eyes and spoils our night vision.”

I quickly obliged, switched off the torch and stretched out on the grass-covered bank so that I could talk, face to face, with the J’s who came out of their burrows and gathered around me in a semicircle.

“You must stay here,” I suggested. “You’ll be safe in my garden. There are no dogs here and I won’t tell a living soul that I have seen you.”

The smiles on their moon faces spread wide and they did a Footsie dance, more like a jig. They danced around me singing a Footsie song, of which I understood not a single word.

When the merriment subsided I offered my chocolate bar around. But they did not much like it. I soon discovered that their diet consisted mainly of vegetables, roots, berries and nuts.

“Dad has a big vegetable garden, on the other side of the house,” I said. Jon shook his head and Jen explained. “J’s never take anything from anyone. We never need to steal. There is plenty to eat all around us and during the autumn we gather and store enough food to last us through the winter.”

“Just like squirrels,” I laughed.

“Except that we don’t hibernate,” added the now happy Jan.

I could not understand how anyone would wish to hurt a Footsie, yet for over a thousand years they have been in hiding, in mortal fear of humans.

They need not be afraid again. Not while they live in my garden. I won’t tell you where my garden is. I want to be sure that my friends survive undisturbed until they find somewhere even more secure far away from the intolerance of humans.

In the meanwhile, I may not believe in fairies, but then, there are Footsies at the bottom of my garden.