Chapter Text

Tiny Thieves Chapter 1

The late summer sun close enough to setting to turn the light golden saw Bog kneeling in the soil of one of his vegetable beds. He was pinching the side shoots off his tomatoes, the way his face was pinched suggesting he would rather rip someone’s head off.

This year he had not been able to harvest one single ripe tomato. For two weeks now, when one looked like it would be perfect with just one or two more days on the plant, the next morning it would be gone. Other things had disappeared, too. Two small Kohlrabi had vanished without a trace, and there seemed rather fewer onions in the lines between the carrots than there should be.

Of course, there always was some loss. Birds carried off onion sets, possibly mistaking the tops for worms; slugs gnawed holes into anything they could get their slimy mouths on; birds got into the cherries before they were even ripe.

But the kohlrabi disappearing rather than merely being hollowed out, that was just too complete. Nothing ever had stolen a whole kohlrabi. And the tomatoes, every single one of them, completely gone? That was no vermin, or at least not the small vermin you usually dealt with in gardens. More likely human vermin, probably out to annoy him. If it had been someone really hungry, there would be more missing.

Bog sat back on his heels and looked around. When he wiped his forehead, his hand carries the yellow-green smell of crushed tomato leaves to his nose. The fence around his property was tall and didn’t lend itself well to climbing, but he should check the back for holes. He let part of the garden grow as it would to give insects and bird somewhere to hide and feed and breed, but that meant he saw that fence only once in a while, when it was time to make sure nothing grew through it.

His dogs liked it, particularly the little terrier, whom he could hear rustling and snuffing around right then. He was probably chasing something that would bite or sting him if he caught it.

Leaving the pair outside was unfortunately not a realistic option. For one thing, he didn’t trust them to not destroy the vegetables he wanted protected, for another, they were not aggressive towards strangers. Not guard dog material.

Bog unfolded himself and picked up the bucket he had collected the leaves and weeds in. Not much today, since he had been at it regularly lately.

At his whistle, Stuff got out of the thicket and trotted out on the lawn. She was probably a french bulldog, not that the hoarder she had been rescued from had had papers.

The other dog kept scrabbling in the undergrowth and took up snarling. A sizable section of shrub shook.

“Thang! Come here!”

He didn’t listen, but started barking hoarsely, in a rhythm he could keep up forever. A shock went through the foliage, and a moment later something small and brown and red raced out onto the lawn, terrier in pursuit.

Bog acted on instinct, diving for the critter, upending the bucket on top of it. There was a faint thump when it hit the side of the bucket.

The grey-brown terrier scrabbled at the edge of the bucket, growling, until Bog snapped “Stop!” The dog hung his head and shuffled back, whining a little, his ridiculously long bushy eyebrows trembling.

“Good boy,” Bog said absently. He had caught something, but what? After laying one of the bricks he’d lined the vegetable beds with on the upturned bucket to make sure the prisoner could not escape even with help from possibly too curious dogs, he made some preparations.

***

Once he had everything arranged to his satisfaction on his kitchen island, he made sure the dogs were in the living room, and closed the lower half of the kitchen door to make sure they would not disturb him.

He had used a cutting board as a lid for the bucket, sliding it very carefully under the bucket, like you’d use a postcard with a glass to catch a spider, and readied a small plastic terrarium he’d used occasionally to transport mice.

Bog stood staring at the arrangement, arms crossed to curb nervous gestures. The nerves were brought on by a weird find that he had also deposited on the table. It was definitely a bruised tomato, in what looked like a very tiny netting bag. He had found it near the shrubbery, were the… whatever-it-was that Thang had chased out dropped it.

Bog shook his head with a snort. He’d figure it out.

Tilting the bucket and pulling away the cutting board just enough to leave a narrow opening, he transferred the contents into the plastic case. Small tomato leaves, some uprooted chickweed and crumbs of soil, and something that moved.

Bog quickly snapped the lid on before he allowed himself a closer look. Then he stared until his spine hurt from bending over.

It looked rather like one of those 80s troll dolls, if that had let the crazy dye grow out of its hair, got a tan, and put on some clothes. Clothes! An overall over a short-sleeved shirt.

The tiny person sat up and held their head. Bog thought he heard a matching tiny voice go “oh no no no”.

“What. The. Hell.” Bog pulled over a chair from the breakfast nook and sat, which brought him face-to-everything with the whatever-they-were, and glared. He had a good glare, bright, deep-set eyes under dark brows.

The object of his attention tried to stand, but their leg buckled under them, dumping them back on their butt. Bog got a good look at their hand, splayed against the clear plastic of the container. It had four fingers, like a freaking cartoon character. But definitely hands, and definitely wearing ratty fingerless gloves.

Unwilling to ask some critter he caught in his garden what it was, and not sure what else to do, Bog kept glaring. His prisoner wrung his tiny hands and bit his lip, and very soon cracked. He took a deep breath and called “Hi? Uh. Thanks for saving me from that dog?”

Abruptly, Bog got up, running one long-fingered hand through his hair. He was sweating, be had been drinking enough water, so he was not having a heat stroke. He’d had one beer, and unless somebody had broken in without leaving a trace no-one could have spiked it with hallucigenics. A treacherous thought suggested someone mouse-sized could pull that off. But even if, the crown cap had been closed. Bog would have noticed the lack of a hiss when opening it.

That was, if he could trust his senses. What he needed was a reality check. After short consideration he picked a number from his very short list of contacts and dialled it on the landline phone. “Hello Aura, it’s Bog.”

“I guessed; there aren’t many people left whose phone doesn’t support showing their number. What’s up? Anything wrong with your furbabies? Or the scaly babies?”

“No, not as such.” There were tiny screams of protest coming from the kitchen table, which Bog ignored. “It’s… Thang rustled up and injured some kind of critter. I have no clue what it is.”

“You seriously want me to make a house call to identify a half dead, what, rodent maybe by species?”

“I’d consider it a personal favour.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet. OK, I’ll do it. But you will get a bill, too.”

“Thank you.”

“And call your mother!”

“I will talk to her again if she manages to go three months without trying to set me up for a date or similar.”

“Oh, you’re both so stubborn. Okay, I’m on my way. Toodles!”

Bog hung up and sighed, his shoulders sagged and he braced himself against the counter. In the quiet kitchen, the prisoner piped up again. “Sir? I’m really not supposed to be seen by humans. I’d be ever so grateful if you’d let me out.”

With someone who could tell him if he was imagining things on the way, Bog lost his reluctance to interact with this maybe-hallucination. “You’re going nowhere. First, you can’t walk.” There might have been a not quite loud enough demurral along “It’s just a sprain,” in there. “Second, I’m not letting you out.” The little guy did sort of a full body cringe, his voice going quavery. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s start with questions.” Bog sat back down to glower at his prisoner from a short distance. “Who and what are you?” “Uh, name’s Sunny, I’m an elf, I was just passing through…"

Bog was not entirely sure how to process all this, so he fell back on what he was quite certain of. “Have you been stealing my tomatoes?”

“No?”

Bog held up the tomato in its tiny net bag and glared some more.

The elf cringed, which included drooping his ears, which stood off his head to the sides and, yes, were pointed. “Um. Not successfully? I mean, you have it right there…”

“This time.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. We don’t usually take that much, but this year our harvest was bad—”

“So there’s more of you. And you’ve been stealing from me in other years, too.”

Sunny stammered before finally getting something that made sense lined up. “Not much, really, usually. You never noticed before, right? But there really is a shortage—”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’m just—”

“Silence!”

The elf actually covered his ears.

Bog dropped the tomato on the tabletop and crossed his arms. What in the world was he doing here? The guy was so tiny shouting might actually burst his eardrums. And it wasn’t like he was going to keep him in a box or feed him to his pets. I’m actually thinking I caught a tiny person. Bog decided to ignore his catch for a while, and fix himself a sandwich, to pass the time until Aura arrived. Maybe some protein would be good for his nerves, too.