Sometimes, when the lure was too strong, he would beg to be allowed to go into the park by himself, just for a little ways, just for a few tiny minutes. He would pinch his thumb and index finger close together to emphasize the smallness of his request. But his mother’s reply was always the same—his own backyard was park enough for him.
Things have a way of working out, though, and the summer before he entered second grade he ended up going into the park alone in spite of his parents. It all came about because of Pick. Jack was playing in the sandbox with his toy trucks on a hot July afternoon when he heard Sam whining and barking at something just beyond the bushes. Sam was the family dog, a sort of mongrel terrier with a barrel body. He was carrying on as if he had unearthed a mountain lion, and finally Jack lifted himself out of the maze of crisscrossing paths he was constructing and wandered down to the end of the yard to see what was happening. When he got there, he found that he still couldn’t see anything because Sam was behind a pine tree on the other side of the bushes. Jack called, but the dog wouldn’t come. After standing there for a few minutes, Jack glanced restlessly over his shoulder at the windows of his house. There was no sign of his mother. Biting his lower lip with stubborn determination, he stepped cautiously onto forbidden ground.
He was concentrating too hard on what lay behind him. As he passed through the bushes, he stumbled and struck his head sharply on a heavy limb. The blow stung, but Jack climbed back to his feet almost immediately and went on.
Sam was jumping around at the base of the pine, darting in and out playfully. There was a gathering of brambles growing there and a bit of cloth caught in them. When Jack got closer, he saw that the bit of cloth was actually a doll. When he got closer still, he saw that the doll was moving.
“Don’t just stand there!” the doll yelled at him in a very tiny but angry voice. “Call him off!”
Jack caught hold of Sam’s collar. Sam struggled, twisting about in Jack’s grip, trying to get back to his newfound discovery. Finally Jack gave the dog a sharp slap on its hind end and sent it scurrying away through the bushes. Then he crouched down beneath the pine, staring at the talking doll. It was a little man with a reddish beard, green shirt and pants, black boots and belt, and a cap made out of fresh pine needles woven together.
Jack giggled. “Why are you so little?” he asked.
“Why am I so little?” the other echoed. He was struggling mightily to free himself. “Why are you so big? Don’t you know anything?”
“Are you real?” Jack pressed.
“Of course I’m real! I’m an Elf!”
Jack cocked his head. “Like in the fairy tales?”
The Elf was flushed redder than his beard. “No, not like in the fairy tales! Since when do fairy tales tell the truth about Elves? I suppose you think Elves are just cute little woodfolk who spend their lives prancing about in the moonlight? Well, we don’t! We work!”
Jack bent close so he could see better. “What do you work at?”
“Everything!” The Elf was apoplectic.
“You’re funny,” Jack said, rocking back on his heels. “What’s your name?”
“Pick. My name is Pick,” muttered the Elf. He twisted some more and finally gave up. “What’s yours?”
“Jack. Jack Andrew McCall.”
“Well, look, Jack Andrew McCall. Do you think you could help me get out of these brambles? It’s your fault, after all, that I’m in them in the first place. That is your dog, isn’t it? Well, your dog was sneaking around where I was working and I didn’t hear him. He barked and frightened me so badly I got myself caught. Then he began sniffing and drooling all over me, and I got tangled up even worse!” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “So how about it? Will you help me?”
“Sure,” Jack agreed at once.
He started to reach down, and Pick cried out, “Be careful with those big fingers of yours! You could crush me! You’re not a clumsy boy, are you? You’re not one of those boys that goes around stepping on ants?”
Jack was always pretty good with his hands, and he managed to free the Elf in a matter of seconds with little or no damage to either from the brambles. He put Pick on the ground in front of him and sat back. Pick brushed at his clothes, muttering inaudibly.
“Do you live in the park?” Jack asked.
Pick glanced up, sour-faced once more. His pine needle cap was askew. “Of course I live in the park! How else could I do my work if I didn’t?” He jabbed out with one finger. “Do you know what I do, Jack Andrew? I look after this park! This whole park, all by myself! That is a terrible responsibility for a single Elf!”
Jack was impressed. “How do you look after it?”
Pick shoved the cap back into place. “Do you know what magic is?”