Bulberry Juice

Bulberry Juice



In a land where mystics delve, in a hidden town, lived half-sized elves. Called the Dundledrools in all good truth, when they drank the Bulberry Juice. Into their town, the juice was new, so the men, women drank—the children did too. Then they began to swerve and to stare and be as brainless as a March hare.
“Psst,” hissed Bulwee, a hand to the side of his face. A dwarf in with elves was quite out of place. At Mumbletoe, he hissed like a snake, and Beemer’s notice, he did take. “I don’t want to stir up a fuss, but do you think we gave them too much?”
“Whee….” Little Poplelou spun in a circle, going faster than a red spotted turtle. “Where is my sister? Where is Heather? Tell her, I’m as light as a feather.”
“Oh ho,” laughed Mottle-eye, at the top of the hour. “I’m as delicate as a baby-spun flower. Look at me, the way that I am. Touch me. Touch me. Try if you can.”
“Psst,” Bulwee hissed once again, and hid his face with the same hand. “The elves are acting way too loose; I think we gave them too much juice.”
“They are a quirky bunch,” Mumbletoe said. Scornful and thoughtful, he eyed them with dread. He watched the Dundledrools as they were there, as they frolicked and danced, around the town square.
They wore silver colored, blue trimmed pot-hats on their heads; and clothes of pants and shirts, skirts and gowns, of blues, reds, greens, yellows, pinks and browns. “Who-ree,” they chanted. “Who-ree,” the Dundledrools said, drank and danced a two-step on the ground.
“They are different, that’s for sure,” said Beemer, standing under his own cap of fur, to block out the sun. “But they appear to be having fun.”
Bulwee grinned, but Mumbletoe did not. He never did. He was just a sordid sot. He was a dwarf from the Northern Toad, half a length and a good run down the road. The dwarves never laughed as they worked, planned and schemed, and for good measure, they stole a few things.
“I can see what you both think, but we gave them too much to drink.” Bulwee spoke like an old country wife, his hand pointed out a sharp, jagged knife. The clothes he wore were two shades of blue, and the shoes he stood on were the same color too.
“They have not had enough,” Mumbletoe muttered a sound. “Look and see, they are still moving around. They should all be still, not making a peep…safe in their beds, all warm and asleep.”
“They look like they are drunk, if you ask me, as crazy and loony as daffodil bees,” Beemer snickered, a grin to his face, as he watched the Dundledrools dance out of place. To being a dwarf, Beemer was taller than most, a fitting legacy to which he could boast. Blond hair and eyes of green, he wasn’t as mean as he should have been. With a brown shirt and pants browner still, he appeared like the trees high on the hill.
“Bah!” Mumbletoe cursed with a wave of his hand, and swept the air like a fair maiden’s fan. “I do not care if they are drunk thru and thru, we have better things, more important to do. There is the treasure away in this town, gold, coins and jewels all to be found. So stop wasting time and walk where you see, go by yourselves or come search with me.”
Bulwee raised his hands and looked all around, then stomped his foot hard on the ground. “Where do we look, here in this town? Where do you think the treasure will be found? And to these elves, if we raise their alarm, will they chase us or cause us great harm?”
“There is no need to fret or to run, look at them all, they are just having fun.” Beemer said with a sly sort of grin, winked his eye at the both of them. “They do not see us. Of us, they do not know. They do not care if we come or we go.”
Bulwee reached out with his hand and took one step in, caused Beemer and Mumbletoe to look straight at him. “Where is the treasure? Where do we look? Here in this town or down by the brook?”
“I know,” Beemer nodded, and nodded away, then turned back with more words to say. “We will ask the first elf we happen to see. Where is the treasure? Where does it be?”
Mumbletoe puffed and then he huffed. “Don’t be a fool. Don’t be a twit. You can’t ask for treasure, think of it quick.”
Then an elf skipped along, with a dance and a song. His name was Sallagee, and as happy as could be.
“A treasure you say,” said Sallagee, a Dundledrool, aged ninety and three. Gray hair and tall, he appeared more like a doll. Yet he danced and sang out of key. “Who-ree. Who-ree. Who-ree.”
Mumbletoe turned red, all flush in the face. “Where is this treasure? Where is this place?”
Not caring what the dwarves asked for, Sallagee grinned and danced all the more.
Mumbletoe grunted, shook his hand like a stick. “Where is the treasure? Where is it quick?”
Bulwee spoke next, as mean as could be, then spoke these words to old Sallagee. “Open your mouth and come out with it. Tell us the truth, with no riddles or tricks.”
Sallagee stopped and stared with a frown, then all at once, danced all around. “Who-ree,” he chanted. “Who-ree,” he said, as he tipped the hat on the top of his head. “Find a tree and you will see, deep in a hole, the treasure will be.” He laughed and grinned with no more to say, turned and danced, then skipped away.
“Wait,” Mumbletoe shouted, all in a huff. “We are not done. We’ve not heard enough.” Bring the elf back. I want him here now. Bring him to me. I do not care how.”
So Bulwee left without word to his name and brought the elf back as part of a game. They went back to him, the one you know who—who said with a grin. “There’s a chore you must do.”
“Give us the tree and take us there, friend, and we’ll make sure the juice never ends.”
Filled with juice and as happy as could be, Sallagee led Mumbletoe to the old treasure tree. Beemer and Bulwee, each one and two, followed along; to the tree they went too. So they all left, off they all went, to a green tree, all crooked and bent.
There they looked and looked again more, the tree had an opening and even a door. With leaves and branches way up high, Mumbletoe let out a good, haughty sigh. “This looks good. I think this is it. Let’s get this over. Let’s get it done quick.”
With a hoot and a wave, he said, “Follow me.” Then he moved to the old treasure tree.
Mumbletoe, Beemer, Sallagee, and Bulree made four. They went to the tree and opened the door. Through a tunnel with barely a light, into the hole they moved with a fright. Further and further, they traveled down, left and right then curved around. Out of the tunnel, far from the gloom, to the treasure—a bright lit room.
“Ah,” Mumbletoe said as he came to a stop. “Look at the treasure, that large silver pot.”
Bulwee came in and stared with an eye, gave it a wink and two words, oh my. “It is shiny and far more than that; it’s the same color as a Dundledrool hat.”
Beemer stood and stared quite a lot. “This treasure’s not more than a big chamber pot.”
“Who-ree,” he chanted. “Who-ree,” Sallagee said then took off the hat from the top of his head. “A gift from the gods, it fell from the sky. It hit our good king right in the eye. A sign from the heavens, a sign from the gods, our king beat the grim reaper. He beat all the odds. Who-ree,” he chanted. “Who-ree,” Sallagee said then took the pot, high over his head.
Before anyone spoke the words they would say, Sallagee turned and quick ran away. The dwarves gave him chase, all the way to the top, that’s where Bulwee and Beamer came to a stop. Mumbletoe walked next, stopped with them too. It seemed it was all he could do.
But he changed his mind, so it was heard. He let out a sigh and grunted a word. “I thought before, it was only a hunch, but to these elves, they’re a quirky bunch.”
“Who-ree,” he chanted. “Who-ree,” Sallagee said, with the pot up over his head. “Do a two step, or do maybe three. It doesn’t matter, just dance with me….”




1, 489 words.