The Strangers
The sounds of commotion filled the darkness. Aone awoke in his sleeping area with sleeping area was filled with the throat-tightening smell of dust particles. The taste buds at the top of his throat could not only feel the smoke, but it could also taste the smoke. He could feel pieces of the sod ceiling cascading down on his face, arms, and the covering he used to keep warm at night. The muffled voices, the vibration of the ground around him and especially the huge leg that was protruding through the far end of his sleeping area space made him instantly alert. He could hear the voices of others of his kind. He could hear the sound of his sister Maco, her voice calling out in terror for his father and mother. He could hear the muffled yelling of voice that belonged to the one who must be with the owner of the leg. As he flattened himself against the side of his sleeping area room he could see the leg disappear abruptly through the opening that it had made. The single candle in his room barely casting enough light and waving shadows as its flame swayed back and forth amidst the falling dirt and swirling dust. Now, more screams and yells from his other family members. A yell that was punctuated by large, gruff sounding voices. He tried vainly to make his way to the main room area that led to an opening to the outside, but could not make it past the small opening to his sleeping area. His way was blocked by a wall of dirt. He was trapped in his own sleeping area. He felt helpless at the thought of it, but his mind could not dwell on. How could this be? He had gone to sleep in the peaceful assurance of what he thought would always be the same, as it had been, as they always had been.
His kind had always kept to themselves. Living in the forests without worries was who they were. Forest people. Some would even call them “Little people.”

The Last Passage
In the fading light of yet another day Aone of Nisse peered intently at the thick fog trying to make out some semblance of order in the tall rolling waves. He was not so intent on the waves themselves, but on the disappearing mirages of the outline of something more than the tall, steep waves. It was something that made the ocean waves crash against something solid, something unforgiving, and not another ocean wave.

For a moment the fog cleared. And there, there was the faint outline of a sharp, jagged shape with short, spindly trees silhouetted against the darkening gray sky. Maybe they would not have to spend another dark, cold damp night on the cramped boat. “Land, land ahead,” rang out a voice. The voice carried the most excitement it had shown in 3 weeks. The rough looking bearded men rose slowly, almost painfully from their slumped positions, turned and stared into the darkening fog as the man at the tiller yelled for them to see what he had seen, or at least what he thought he had seen.

Three weeks of being cold, seasick and scared, with nothing to do but try not to mourn the loss of his sister. After the fifth day, or rather night on the boat, the sky had turned dark and the seas had turned into a frothing mountain of white cold water coming over the sides of the boat even after the captain had ordered the sail taken down. His sister had been scared and frightened to the point of hysteria. She had flung herself off the boat hoping to swim to a point of land that she had thought she had seen amongst the towering waves. There had been no land, and Aone now no longer had a sister.

The captain of the ship made an attempt to rescue her by telling his men to man the oars and row in the direction she was being swept by the wind, but it had put the boat in such danger that he quickly abandoned the effort, instead having the men row and keeping the bow of the boat pointed into the cresting waves. The last thing of his sister that he remembered was his sister’s green hat bobbing on the ocean waves. Now she would never marry. Now there were only five of his kind on the boat.
At least this is the story that had been passed down to him in the yellowing pages of the journal……….

Gnome's knob
Before I proceed on with my story, the reader must understand some background information. The story you are about to discover took place starting around 1916 in the Redwood forest area of northern California and ending in the late 70’s. At the time there was only a small, growing community nearby which has now blossomed into a slightly larger small town. It has gone through several boom and bust periods that have left it with only a small reminder of its past. This story was put together based upon a journal that was passed on to me by a friend of a friend. Which led me to search for a second journal, which had been mentioned in the first journal. At the time of its discovery, the first journal was the center of attention in the local press, but as with all news its time passed and other news took its place. Every area has it own myths and legends, and many have their basis in fact, although sometimes they are told and retold to the point of disbelief and thereby are believed by only a loyal few. That is what this story is, a retelling of a historical event that has been an interest of mine since I ran across an old newspaper clipping documenting this story. Coupled with my discovery of the location of this story and the second journal, it led me to experience a little bit of what once was. I will try to take you back to a story many believe never happened. The final decision is up to you.