THE GNOME PROJECT

The road was looking a little rough after the storm last night. Branches and leaves were strewn about with no apparent sense of order. Large puddles pooled along the edges where the drainage farther down had given up.

The clouds had cleared by midnight, and now a few of the brighter stars in Orion's Belt showed through the scant clouds in the early morning sky. 

There was no hurry in Tariqat's step as he walked around the puddles. His boots squelched softly; the air smelled of wet fir and cool earth.

Up ahead, an old friend — the opossum — was nosing through the ditch. They fell into pace together, unhurried, talking about where apples might still be found this late in the year.

"The orchard up on Maplethorn Hill," said the opossum. "Always a few late ones left."

"Always," Tariqat nodded.

As they walked, his boot slipped in the mud.

"Careful there," said the opossum with a toothy snort.

Tariqat grinned. "Seventeen times a misstep, and still not enough to teach me."

When they reached the base of Maplethorn Hill, their pace slowed. The opossum slipped off through the brush, tail flicking once before disappearing.

Tariqat watched the branches settle, then hummed a tune softly, stepping into the bushes on the other side of the road. Droplets from the maple leaves above fell now and then, keeping easy time.

Before long the sound of both — the water and the song — faded into the quiet morning.