It's Still Life

Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a Saint
Six Sentence Story: Day 13

Dovedale & Fiddling Bob-the-Hob

Picture, if you will, a lush green valley, time-carved by the icy-clear River Dove; craggy-faced limestone cliffs; sweeping views from Thorpe Cloud hill (a reef knoll); Victorian stepping stones positioned for crossing the river; earthy scents—damp moss, but not quite petrichor—more like crushed wildflowers and wet beaver—and then, picture a stocky-built black dog, radiantly happy, chasing a fallen leaf as it’s drawn downstream—his name is Hünga.

Nick whistles; the dog stops, its tail ruddering and wagging as he joyously looks back over his broad shoulders at us—then, like a shot of water from an unkinked hose, he shoots off into the forest, barking.

“He’s caught the scent of a hob,” I say, and you have this fascinating eyebrow that queries, “Hobnob?” and I suppress a laugh into a smile. “No, Hobnobs are biscuits, which are cookies—not to be confused with scones which are not biscuits—hobs are little guys that aren’t fairies or dryads or oreads or naiads or spriggans (they protect standing stones) or knockers (they live in old mines); hobs are (on a good day) helpful little guys who love to mend broken things—shoes, tools, buckets, fences—just leave something they like in return, to thank them—they can turn tetchy… something shiny, or sweet, tasty, and they…”—I pause mid-sentence.

Hünga comes bouncing out of the forest, running straight for us with something in his mouth; he drops it at Nick’s feet—a hammer with a well-worn but highly polished iron head and a new leather-wrapped handle—then Hünga whips around and races back into the forest, a cloud of dust masking his direction; a few minutes later —as Nick admires the craftsmanship of the hammer— Hünga returns with a wee small man in his mouth—it’s a hob, whose mouth is foul enough to make a longshoreman blush—he introduces himself as Bob-the-Hob: “I live in Hob Thirst Cave, or, as the postman insists on reminding me, ‘Your correct postal address is Thirst House Cave because hobs don’t exist,’” and Bob-the-Hob spits on the ground to demonstrate his unwavering opinion of Royal Mail.

“Drop the hob,” instructs Nick, and Hünga does so without hesitation, then runs back into the river to find another duck (yes, Hünga thought Bob-the-Hob was a duck); while we watch Hünga’s playful antics, the hob vanishes—”He’s gone,” Nick mutters, looking all around—and after a spot of lunch (which we bought at Aldi), we all pile back into the car.

And from behind the driver’s seat, near where Drummond’s book is hidden in its satchel, comes a wee small voice: “Churn butter, churn, a hob is at your gate, waiting for his battercake—churn butter, churn.”

---

Previous Instalments – To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “Cloud”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.