The Gnorbu and the Crystal Woods

     No one knew precisely how long 52 Bika Lane had stood, there on the outskirts of town, nor was anyone familiar with its owner, or if a shift in ownership had ever occurred. The neopets of Happy Valley made it their business not to stick their noses into the manor’s perplexing history... and why should they? As far as Happy Vallians were concerned, if it did not sell wintery confections or attract the merry crowds during the holidays, it was none of their business what went one within those four weather-worn walls. This is not to say that people forgot about the manor: no indeed, most Happy Vallians founded their entire cartography around this peculiar house, as though it was the very heart of the Valley. For example:

     — Excuse me, where is the Rental Kiosk for Mt. Armin (the place to go skiing in the winter, I’m told).

     — Why, it’s to the right of the old manor!

     Yes, 52 Bika Lane was a beacon to the villagers. And to some, it was a beacon of an entirely different sort.

     ***

     "Do be careful, Pinecone! You’re being too reckless, you’ll slip on the black ice, they haven’t swept the streets with rock salt yet." This small voice, no louder than a chirp, belonged to a gnorbu whose arms were entirely occupied by lumpy paper sacks. The bags numbered three per arm, which was not altogether impressive unless one noted her slight frame and the worrisomely long tricolour scarf constricted around her neck. It dragged behind her and snaked underfoot as she hobbled towards a korbat (whose name was Pinecone).

     "It is cold, and I would very much like to be inside right now, Coco, " the korbat called over his shoulder without slowing down. He hurried along the path as though he had left the oven on back home, and like Colette, he firmly clutched three grocery bags between his wings.

     "All the same, let’s try to get home in one piece if we can." For all her worrying, Coco ought to have been more concerned with herself than she was with Pinecone. Her arms shook under the bags’ collective weight, and the tricolour scarf slithering in between her ankles made the icy road all the more treacherous. But Pinecone would not heed her warning, and Coco was far more annoyed than worried that he did not slip on the ice as a consequence.

     Soon, 52 Bika Lane came into view, its stony turrets peeking over the pine trees lining the road. Coco and Pinecone drifted off the main path and into the deeper snow, taking care not to be seen by the few stragglers still shopping the latest in ski fashion at 50 Bika Lane this late in the afternoon. They skirted around the manor and trudged towards a stout door embedded deeply beneath a stone archway, halfway hidden behind dried shrubs. In the Month of Storing, these shrubs had already shed their leafy coats. All that remained was an offensive pile of barbed twigs, and they caught in the gnorbu’s skirts.

     Arms thoroughly occupied, she balanced on one foot and used the other to knock and scratch a series of secret passwords against the grainy wood. Minutes passed, and the pair shivered. The sun in Happy Valley was strong and, for the most part, dependable, but a frigid breeze whistled through the trees. The breeze had infiltrated Coco’s coat with tiny, invisible shrapnels of ice before anyone came to their rescue.

     "The ona tolls the bell," said a grainy voice behind the door.

     "And the Snowager always answers," Pinecone responded in between chattering teeth. The door swung open, and Coco and Pinecone tumbled out of the cold and into the manor.

     The Alpine Society swore all of its members to this sort of secrecy. A ragtag assembly of outcasts and orphans, the Society had made 52 Bika Lane its secret base of operations for as long as anyone could remember, and none in the Valley was the wiser. The Society’s secret operations, meanwhile, were primarily concerned with offering these family-less neopets a safe spot to stay out of trouble.

     Coco and Pinecone hurried into a room that offered scant improvements from the temperature outside. The entrance was dark: the round window next to the door was so dusty, it could not be bothered to let in any light from the sinking afternoon sun. A stout vandagyre (as stout as this manor, some might say), greeted them in this arctic foyer, armed only with a single candlestick for light.

     "Colette, Pinecone, welcome home," she said. "Were you able to find anything good?" She said this all the while leading the shivering pair deeper into the manor.

     "Yes we did," said Coco. The gnorbu eyed the depressing entrance," no one dusted the foyer like I asked? "

     "Everyone was busy earlier, but I’ll have someone remember to dust right now."

     "Never mind, Ms. Carol, I’ll just do it now that I’m back," Coco sighed. Ms. Carol glanced at her, but it was too dark to make out her expression. This vandagyre, with her dusty blue feathers and sleepy gaze, happened to be the unelected leader of the Alpine Society. For longer than Coco could remember, Ms. Carol had taken every street urchin, had rescued every lost and hungry neopet from Terror Mountain’s cruel splendour. She housed them in her manor, fed them, helped them to survive. Colette had only been three when Ms. Carol had found her, frightened and shivering, during the apex of a blizzard.

     The further the trio stepped into the house, the warmer the air became. With each chamber they passed, the furniture and decor grew in splendour and quantity. Ms. Carol led them through a hallway, past a sitting room, and into the kitchen, an enormous chamber nestled at the very front of the manor. Its massive stone hearth sputtered glowing sparks, bathing the interior in fiery orange light. Coco and Pinecone dropped their bags on the nearest surface. The small thump of paper and groceries was almost immediately answered by a stampede of small feet echoing from every part of the house.

     A chorus of "hi Pinecone"s and "hello Colette"s and "what did you bring this time"s filled the kitchen before either the gnorbu or the korbat could think of shedding their coats. The kitchen was filled with young neopets, seventeen in total, all varying in height and age.

     "We’ve returned with many things," said Pinecone with a smile, "cans of ham and beans, tomato soup, carrot soup, rice… chocolates."

     To this, the smallest neopets were very much overjoyed. They cheered and rummaged through the grocery bags, transferring all those cans and soups and grains onto the table. "A feast!" called the youngest, a green-eyed acara no older than five, "let’s have a feast!"

     "No. No feast." The voice was small, but a hush fell over the room all the same. Coco had shrugged off her coat and mittens, and was unravelling the coils of a scarf from around her little figure. Unperturbed by the silence, she finished her metamorphosis by popping off her bonnet, allowing a veritable mane of loose curls to spring in all directions atop her head. A silvery coil of hair—the only imperfection in the otherwise chestnut locks—brushed her cheek. "Finnian, you know we can’t have a feast: this food needs to last us all month." The chorus mmhmm’d in solemn agreement. This late in the Month of Storing, the Valley would soon greet its first winter blizzard. The Society needed to be ready. "Please, could everyone put the food away?"

     As the youngsters sorted and stored nine bag’s worth of groceries, Coco set her boots and socks by the fire. She heard someone mutter, "Coco’s just no fun anymore," but she did not look up. There was dusting to be done, and dinner to be cooked. The gnorbu made herself small in her chair by the hearth. Her scarf was flooding everything it touched, thanks to its sojourn in the deep snow: she thought, I ought to let it dry…

     "Dear, I’ve told you before, you needn’t always tell everyone what to do." Ms. Carol had come to sit beside Colette near the hearth.

     Coco let her gaze vanish behind her mass of hair. (That was the beauty of having curly, unruly hair, see? It made for a perfect hiding place). And despite what the old vandagyre said, it wasn’t like Coco had a choice. She was the only one keeping this bunch of orphans from freezing in this mountainous winter. As far as Colette was concerned, no one ever did anything to help around the house without needing to be reminded fifteen times. And Colette was the one who was left to do the reminding. It was exhausting. "Please remember to clean your room. Did you take the fish out of the freezer, like I asked? Where is your coat, you will catch a cold! Think, for once!" It was as if she’d been cast into the role of a mother.

     "Take care of yourself a little bit, Coco. You know it’s out of love when I tell you I promise this family won’t fall apart if you worry more about yourself, for a change "

     Personally, Coco wasn’t so sure about that. Of all of Ms. Carol’s "rescues," she was the second oldest. So long as Coco had lived in this creaky manor, they had survived each winter with enough wood in the stove and food in their bellies, because Colette had been there to take care of it all. Even today, it was Colette who had noticed the pantry’s depleted stock. It was Colette who had trudged five miles to the store to purchase groceries. No other members of this household had taken the initiative. Well. Pinecone had tagged along. To that, she reluctantly conceded.

     "There’s going to be a blizzard. I overheard it in town today," was her response. "I better make sure the storm windows are all shut. And that the foyer is dusted. And everyone’s boots are inside." As Coco rose to go, Ms. Carol took her hand.

     "Take the day off tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow is the anniversary, is it not?" Coco offered a small smile in return.

     ***

     Colette sat in the quiet of her room, needle in hand. The shrubs at the manor’s entrance had done a number on her skirt, and the tear needed to be stitched before it tore wider. Her room was a retreat from the hubbub downstairs, nestled within the estate’s southeastern turret. Colette hadn’t even bothered to light a candle: the glow from outside was enough.

     Though it was only the Month of Storing, Happy Valley had already decked itself out in its merriest accoutrements, and the soft twinkling light from the village shimmered through the only window in the space. Only one more week before the Winter Starlight Celebration would kick off its month-long festivities.

     "Finished," she said, even though no one else was in the room. The little gnorbu put her needle and thread in the drawer of her bedside table and nestled further into her quilts. The jinjah plushie in her lap shifted along with her. The doll (whom she had named "Canelle" for its permanent cinnamon scent) was riddled with mismatched patches and stitches, courtesy of its owner’s sewing expertise. Colette loved her plushie very much, even if she may have been too old to admit it. She idly traced the outline of its sewn-on mouth with her finger. In spite of her doctoring, echoes of forgotten frays and tears were still visible in the fabric.

     "I thought you’d be up here!" That voice, deep and strong and pleasant, like mulled borovan, belonged to the cybunny who had just burst in through the door.

     "Oh, hello Gwen," said Coco, whose fingers maintained their steady sojourn over the jinjah’s stitches. To her dismay, the cybunny did not end the conversation there, and jumped onto the tiny bed. Coco flew an impressive two inches off of the mattress. "Gwendolyn, must you act so childish!" she huffed, "you could have broken the bed, and then I would have had to somehow replace it!"

     Gwen did not flinch. "I would not have broken the bed because I’ve done this every day for 15 years," she chuckled, "and even if I had broken this bed, how do you know I would not have replaced it for you?"

     "Don’t you mean fourteen years?" said Colette, tucking Canelle behind her pillow.

     "Fourteen years?"

     "It’ll be Fifteen years tomorrow."

     "Since what?"

     Coco shot an aghast look at Gwen. "Since I lost—since I came here!"

     Gwen made a long production of thinking. She tapped her chin. "Why! Has it been that long already? My, how time flies." The gnorbu kicked her blankets away and sat up to glare at the cybunny.

     "You forgot?!" This hurt. A little. After all, Gwendolyn was the only orphan in the Alpine Society who had lived in the manor for longer than Colette. And not by much: while Coco had found shelter in the manor during a particularly horrendous blizzard in the late Month of Storing, Gwen had been brought to the manor only a few weeks prior. They celebrated their "anniversary" days every year. The gnorbu scrutinized her friend’s expression.

     A giggle escaped through Gwen’s clamped mouth. "Of course I did not forget, silly!" She scooted behind Colette and began ritualistically braiding her fluffy ringlets of hair. "We will celebrate tomorrow—you will take the day off and we will go to the village!"

     A shy smile melted across Colette’s face. Yes: she would like that very much. Even after living on the outskirts of Happy Valley for so long, it was a rare luxury to enjoy the comforts of a hot cocoa at the ski chalet, and an even rarer luxury to slip on a pair of skates and waste the afternoon away at Skater Lake.

     "Oh Gwen, that sounds lovely," she sighed. And, in spite of herself, added, "but I have too much to do tomorrow."

     Gwen had moved on to a fresh section of hair for a second braid. "Like what?"

     "I have to chop wood before the blizzard. In town today, the grocer told me they were expecting the first storm early this year."

     "Why don’t you ask someone else to go in your stead?" Gwen offered, "how about Pinecone? I’m sure he’d be eager to chop wood!"

     "I doubt it," said Coco, "I’m always telling him to be more proactive, to pull his own weight, but he never listens. I’m always doing his chores."

     To this, Gwen dropped the heavy braid and hopped off the bed. "No Coco," she shot the gnorbu a stern look, "you don’t give Pinecone enough credit. You’re always telling him what to do and then you get upset when he doesn’t do it right away."

     "If I’m gone all day tomorrow, then nothing will get done," Coco bit back.

     "How do you know?" demanded Gwen. The cybunny sighed and sank back onto the bed. "Go out tomorrow. Let’s celebrate your birthday—"

     "—It’s not a birthday—"

     "—Let’s celebrate your day tomorrow. Ask someone to get some wood in your absence. Give the others here a chance, Colette! The manor has survived long before you graced its halls."

     Colette tugged at her half-finished braid. Perhaps she had been unfair about Pinecone—about everyone living in this house.

     "Alright," she finally said, standing up. "What would you like to do tomorrow?"

     Gwen grinned. "Anything you want!"

      The End.