This is more fairy tale than speculative fiction, but I’m pretty sure one fits within the other. You be the judge.
The duende slept in the hall closet.
It shared the highest shelf with mismatched winter gloves, a box of loose batteries and extra Swiffer pads. If we needed to wake the duende, we’d poke it with a purple umbrella—it was the longest and least used in the closet.
But we never woke the duende.
My daughters tiptoed past the closet, finished their vegetables and ended their questions with “please.” And the duende slept soundly.
“Why do you let it stay?” my three-year-old asks. Those brown eyes frantically dart between my own and the duende’s lair. She fumbles for my hand.
“It pays the electric bill,” I chuckle, patting her on the head. She doesn’t know what an electric bill is. “And helps Mommy when I’m away.”
“But I never see it.”
“Exactly. That means you’ve been good.” And I wink.
How did the duende come to live in our hall closet?
“A stowaway,” I say, shaking my head. “It must have snuck into my bags.” Then, in a voice full of mourning: “We should never have stopped in the Cañón del Duende. But those shrieks, the heat… It was our guide who wanted to investigate.”
It is a story I tell before every long trip—and increasingly, before every short one: A warning for two small girls of what the duende might do in my absence. I pack my backs, feigning interest in my sock drawer, secretly enjoying their squirming. The duende was a family failsafe.
“The Potosians had warned us not to stop, that the little girl was lost.” I always glance over, making sure my meaning isn’t missed. It never is. “She deserved it, too, they told us. She’d wandered right into the duende’s lair, hadn’t listened to her parents.” I wag my finger in recrimination.
“But you saved her, right, Daddy?”
I’m the hero, of course. “The duende put up a fight. It looks disheveled, that old gnome, but that’s how it gets you.” I turn, then, wrapping one arm around each daughters’ shoulders. “For such a little creature, its strong. Sharp claws, piercing eyes. Teeth like orange crystals. And it moves so fast.” This is the part where I shake my head, regret evident in my wrinkled brow. “I should’ve known that the duende wouldn’t let us leave with its prize. And the curse...” I trail off every time.
Curses are most useful when they’re vague and delivered with a cryptic wave of the hand.
“It got all the way from Bolivia to our hall closet in my carry-on luggage. Before you girls were born, I didn’t think anything of it. But now it’s lived here for so long, minding its own business. I’m afraid to disturb it.”
The girls don’t know what Bolivia is or how far away it might be. But they do know about carry-on luggage.
“You have to be careful, Daddy,” they squeal, eyes falling to my packed bag. They each squeeze me back, obligatory hugs.
“And you girls be good,” I say in response. “And the duende won’t cause any trouble.”
Why do I let the duende stay? To be honest, I’m not sure any home should be without one.
“That strange noise? The duende must be rummaging about.”
“That peculiar smell? I wonder what the duende ate for dinner.”
“That picture frame askew? I’ll remind the duende to keep to its own space.”
The only part of the story that really is a lie is this: The duende didn’t sneak into my luggage. It was invited. I brought it back knowing that one day I might have two little girls who whined and complained, didn’t finish their dinner and tracked mud through the house.
And I knew I’d grow tired of it all.
“Be good for Mommy.” A nod and a wink and a kiss on the head, and I’m on the road again, duende-sized carry-on bag on my shoulder.
And each time I return, I open the back door slowly, cautiously, a tentative, “Hello?” And two little girls come bounding around the corner, every time, curly hair bouncing, socked-feet slipping over cereal crumbs.
In that moment, I’m glad to see that the duende has left them alone, even if my wife won’t meet my eyes.
“You must have been good for Mommy,” I say, “since the duende hasn’t taken you away.” And they nod and share nervous laughter and ask if I’d like to play LEGO.
And then, one day, quite suddenly, the gig is up: “There is no duende,” the newly minted ten-year-old says, yanking open the hall closet. The purple umbrella clatters to the floor, a loose battery rolling across the hardwood. “See?”
“Huh,” is all I muster in reply. “It must have moved out. Or,” and I try to manufacture a sparkle in my eyes, “it moved to a different room.” I wave my hands again, like some has-been Jedi.
But the ten-year-old becomes a thirteen-year-old and then a seventeen-year-old and the eye roll is the only point of consistency. Her little sister follows suit.
The duende, unlike my wife, refuses to leave, no matter what my daughters think. It’s taken up residency in a different part of the house, grumbling about girls who stay out too late and dent the car and take up with an unsavory crowd.
But the duende has lost its power, its authority like sand slipping through gnarled, empty hands. I should’ve chased it out of the house years ago. “Stop terrorizing my children!” I should’ve yelled. I should’ve waved that purple umbrella in its sagging face, a knight vanquishing a rotting dragon.
Instead, the duende and I continue to live together, alone, quiet. I still blame those rogue noises on the duende. But, in truth, there are no noises—not a single sound in this great, big house. I blame the duende for that, too.
“That’s why no one comes around,” I mutter.
The duende shrugs. “The curse,” it says vaguely, and waves its hands.
And another thing…
Pokémon Spirituality: But do we gotta catch ‘em all? Like, really? Read my reflection here.
Fire Demons: My flash fiction story, “How I Discovered the Fire Demon in my Basement” is up over at Toil and Trouble lit mag. Check it out here.
Eric, I've just stumbled on your fiction writing and am loving it. (I was briefly horrified by this until I realized it wasn't a "Now Discern This" anecdote!) When I was little--an only child in a room with twin beds--my father (for fun, I'm sure) told me that the Jersey Devil lived under my "company bed." It disrupted my sleep patterns for years!