Eye contact! We’re nodding because she’s nodding. Her head. In the face, this center of their attention was undistinguished: red-cheeked from smiling and the constant weather. Boob magnetism wins again.

Entirely a gestalt attraction, there: who could watch all but the last ten minutes of a movie? Turn all but the last four pages of a potboiler? Jog all but that last hundred yards of a marathon, finish line so clearly in sight? They weren’t either large nor particularly well-formed. They presented such near-perfect impressions of themselves, so teasingly! Ms. Dixon gave her hands a sudden clap and hollered. The men scrambled into place and made ready to follow her direction. Four million other men felt the same effect, amazingly earning this gardening show a prime-time slot on the BBC.

"Five! Four! Three-!" Ms. Dixon called out herself. The rough men obeyed. In all the better homes and gardens, her first name alone was a household word. But on site, to keep familiarity and breeding in their place, she was invariable Ms. Dixon. Right on cue, the red light beamed to life. "Good Afternoon! A blustery, chilly afternoon here for the Garden Gnomes- but what else could we expect from the home of Mr. And Mrs. Hugh O’Neill in County Dublin, Ireland? That’s right, the leprechauns have greeted us with a bout of traditional Irish weather on our first visit across the Irish Sea! Ooh!" A sudden bluster of rain pelted her, as if that had awaited cue, too. She smiled her familiar smile, though the gust cut right through her trademark green tee. "Over the past four glorious Gnome years, we’ve received hundreds of post cards from fans throughout muddy Eire, enclosing pictures of their troublesome foliage and cries for help! Well, the Garden Gnome van has answered this invitation and- gol, Hugh, we’ve sure got our work cut out for us over the next two days here, don’t we?"

Old Hugh, camera shy, mumbled some frail banality. She tittered supportively, freezing cloth clinging to her bare skin: "Briars, thistle- were those roses?" The camera followed her gesture, thank God, toward the backyard jungle. "Looks like a tangle of thorns, there, stunting the growth of those dwarf oaks! They’ve grown all crooked, all contorted and grasping. Now it may look like an impossible mission, but this garden has one feature that is worth all of the effort that we’ll be putting into it!"

Brigid O’Neill spoke far more forcefully than her husband. "It’s that Celtic Tiger the news is so keen on talking about," she piped right up, explaining, in her pleasant country lilt. "With the economy doing so well, there’s hundreds and thousands who’ve gotten together money enough to buy land for the first time in their lives. Our son bought us this new house, two year ago, right here in Dublin so that we could be near him."

"That’s wonderful!" exuded Ms. Dixon as the camera panned back.

"’Tis, so. They’re just lamming the houses up now, they are. Two year ago, this was all cattle field, as it’d been for a thousand year or more. And now it’s a dream come true for Hugh and I, in our old age. I’m so glad my son wrote to you to come see!"

Ms. Dixon smiled; Brigid was a wonderful character, a real Hannah Hauxhall. "Well, this one marvelous feature is at least a thousand year or more, idn’t it, Brigid?"

Brigid nodded. The weather was whipping up into a right gale, but her eyes remained wide, her proud gray head undeterred. "The fairy fort!" she declared.

Gerry at the camera gave the thumbs up, signaling he’d timed his pan perfectly. Ms Dixon smiled, gesturing to the foot-high overgrown circle of earth they stood upon. "These ancient mounds, some up to twenty feet across, are rumored to have been built by the leprechauns to magically protect their treasures. Woe be to any mortal who dared step across a fort built by fairies! Throughout the years, that mystic belief kept the circle unbroken- at least once, actually achieving their aim! In 1868, a boy in Ardagh, County Limerick went digging potatoes in an old fairy fort and unearthed the Ardagh Chalice- the finest example of Celtic goldsmithery ever discovered!"

"It lay there protected for thousands of year," agreed Brigid.

"Well, through superstition or whim of the housing estate planners’ grid, the fences marking your plot of garden here today give either side of the fort a wide berth!" Damn, this wind was rising! Shivers skittered across her shoulderblades. With a grin far removed from her mood, she enthused: "Let’s see what we can’t do, over these next few days, to landscape some backyard treasure of your own, a garden that even the fairies would be proud to call home!"

* * *

From deep beneath shrubbery’s shadow, hidden where decay flames life from lost leaves, there glared two pairs of groggy, bright eyes.

* * *

"Well, Turtle Head (Chelone obliqua) is a hardy little plant, especially useful for gardens with heavy clay soils. Of course, it’ll grow happily in normal garden soil, too. The pink flowers, shaped like a wee little tortoise head, cluster at the tip of the upright stems and are extremely weather-resistant! Tolerating partial shade, this fellow will thrive even in boggy, Irish conditions and delight the gardener with a bright flower late in the- shit! Humbert, look out!"

The cameraman leapt aside, eluding the collision but showered by bright blue sparks.

"I dohne unnerstan-" the Frenchman prefaced, then demonstrated a circus juggler’s skill, cursing while gesturing a rank cigarette to light. "Tha tri-pod was well groun-daed," his protest concluded.

The presenter raked handfuls of wet hair out of peeved eyes. Five thousand pounds’ worth of equipment, lying battered in mud! "It’s the soil," she announced. "This loamy turf idn’t as sturdy a base as it appears! The legs just slipped right out from under the heavy lights, in the wind."

The uproar recommenced even as she motioned for the technician to kill the power. She pounded her hands together for order. "Peo-ple!" she hollered. True, the bright bubbly hostess loved by millions was a part of her personality. But- dammit, this crap was the limpwrist producer’s job!- the hard-nosed Ms. Dixon side of her was an honest part, as well. Within minutes the second unit was in place by the Fatsia japonica and a definitive Five-! Four! Three-! had restored silence. Damn, was she good! Despite men, muck, manure- Ms. Dixon bloody got things done. She turned on the charm and immediately bubbled over. So they had to get the shot from just the one angle. Coals to Newcastle. With proper editing, the mishap would have no effect for the end-viewer.

She had learned to be a hell of an actress, these last four years. Even as she lauded the merits of Chelone obliqua and the japonica family, Ms. Dixon worried. This Irish sod was twined tough as leather. Humbert hadn’t far dodged the Union intervention that she’d nipped in the bud. Sure, these Irish squalls were relentless, but the crew had cultivated great footage in worse conditions before- ones that had actually constituted unsafe working environments.

Why had that tripod folded?

* * *

"Chun tosaigh ag dlíodóirí na saighdiúirí," motioned one missed whisper.

"Ní hea, na saighdiúirí," conceded its darker twin. The woman, she was their leader. See how her every motion held the men’s rapt attention! See how they deferred to her thunder.

Through trampled turf they slowly slipped, and deeper, darker hid, hissed cold council.

* * *

Old Hugh nodded approval, his eyes shyly lowered. Ms. Dixon had reservations about gaining the property owner’s permission in this manner- Brigid out for the evening, Hugh too overawed by her celebrity status to disagree- but, deadlines were deadlines and the Gnomes were way behind schedule. Between equipment mishaps and weather, they had accomplished damn little today.

"I’m glad you understand," she soothed, patting his folded hands. "Digger Dan knows his earthworks! You won’t even miss those three feet he’ll trim off the back edges- he’ll make the circle look as old and natural as ever!"

Hugh, face crimsoned, mumbled that she knew best. She hoped she did, and hoped that there was daylight enough left for Dan to make a good start on shaping a smaller feature. They could truck in some ready-planted Carex siderosticha and Salvia ugilinosa overnight, turn the long shady patch beside the fence into a pond, maybe be back on schedule by ten AM.

"Besides, who knows?" she capped it, blooming the bright on-camera smile. "We may just uncover a fresh chalice for your Brigid, wot?"

* * *

"Was it worse that the mad weasel?" she asked.

Vehement, the Scotsman hopped in circles, left heel cradled in both hands. Time wasted.

Damn, he knows his curses-! Ms. Dixon gave recognition where it was due. But she recognized as well, Digger Dan had dodged giving an answer. He was an honest feller. If it had been worse than the Mad Weasel of Leeds, he would have howled so. She’d sussed his vulnerable spot.

The pure midmorning sun haloed her loose flaxen locks. Adorning her face of honest concern with batting eyelashes, she touched Dan tenderly on the shoulder and poo-pooed his injured foot. Dan was six foot five, two-hundred and sixty pounds of post-throwing, stump-shifting oxpower. But, he was a man. Like all men, he fell for mothering like a maple in a windstorm.

"Now, Danny," she implored, when he had calmed, eyelashes working overtime. "Tell me the truth: is it really worse than Leeds? That hailstorm you unearthed the weasel den, just two hours before Mrs. Eldrige was due home? Is the bite worse than that?"

Dan, shamefacedly remembering how the Gnomes met that deadline with a whole ten minutes to spare, lowered his willow head and mumbled "No mum." She gave her big strong Danny a motherly hug and hobbled him back to work. Ms. Dixon huffed, smacked her hands once, and hollered the rest of the bad lot back to task.

Can’t let them think I’m going soft, she knew. Imperceptive and susceptible as they were, she’d always seen that this was a man’s world.

Or maybe, she cursed, five minutes later, it’s the devil’s! Her oaths quickly swept aside Tom and Alan’s. The two stood there in the narrow alley between houses like two dumb oafs. "The board just cracked!" Tom capitulated, stammering on. The heavy wheelbarrow had twisted from his grip, turning his load of concrete from prospective pool liner to impassable roadblock. On their only path of access to the garden! Alan, rushing his barrow directly behind at Garden Gnome speed, hadn’t been able to stop. He didn’t bother to face Ms. Dixon’s aphorism or her wrath, already legging it back to the truck for shovels.

"Gentlemen," she rallied. "Success requires no excuses- and failure allows none!" Glaring at her watch, she saved her breath. Damn this earth! she raged. She surveyed with camera’s eye: sure as hell not the Hibernian Paradise her producers had promised the O’Neills. Their garden looked like an excavation overgrown, an amateurish DIY project left to pot when enthusiasm and ability had been exhausted. Her pearly whites gritted: no one was getting any grounds to call the Gnomes amateurs!

"It’ll tame!" she raged. "We’re landscaping this muck if I have to burn the lot and truck in a whole forest!"

* * *

"He he he he," tossed the thistletops.

* * *

Ms. Dixon unscrewed the light bulb, out back, and forbade the couple to take a peek. "If you’re not surprised, wouldn’t that just ruin your son’s delight, tomorrow afternoon? Wouldn’t it just?" Brigid’s eventual acquiescence was the sole thing that went well for the Garden Gnomes all day. She took well the news of the fairy fort’s alterations and the announcement that the Gnomes would also be paving her side alley in sturdy concrete.

Damn soil, the gardener cursed, out back. One last contemplation before heading for the lemon-blossom freshness of her motel bed. A Botany degree, ten years up to her elbows at that garden center, then four putting a good face on the human weevils who infest state-supported television. She had pruned half an acre of Rubella in two hours, socked two teeth out of an overeager ‘fan’ at last year’s book signing, and once been stung three dozen times by enraged wasps. On camera, with a smile on my face. She was not about to be defeated by this heap of drippy, overgrown clods.

"Garden variety clods," she cursed. Olmstead, Brown and the great Victorian gardeners wouldn’t waste their genius among this thistle and clover. Nothing to call refined, here, nothing of value. Someday, she’d catch it. Oh yes. Nature. What grew wild, civilized so. Beauty alive.

Ms. Dixon turned and left before her eyes were fully adjusted to the garden’s darkness, before the seething motion around her ankles could catch her notice.

* * *

"Wait- rewind-"

Trev complied. The stop-motion tape rolled again: crouched figures wringing their ancient, daily toil from the earth, topsoil writhing in muddy upheavals. A profound futility struck Trev, from the way the sun rolled across the sky, abandoning all yesterday’s efforts to darkness within seconds. Breakfast roll still in hand, Ms. Dixon perceived something else.

"These last frames there, taken around three or four or five this morning by the flashbulb and timer-"

Quiet Trev flicked back, one frame at a time.

"Can you blow this one up?"

He could.

Ms. Dixon stared at the screen for a long time. She hooked the hated spectacles behind her ears, and even then squinted hard.

Eyes wide, she turned to Quiet Trev. "Can you tell me," she implored, digging at the lower corner of the screen with one finger, "what the hell that is?"

But of course, he couldn’t.

* * *

"It’s just a joke," Digger Dan explained to Old Hugh. He waved the statue nonchalantly. "We get it all the time."

Ms. Dixon appreciated the way the big Scotsman, unconsciously, imitated her authoritative style. Done, he tossed the ugly thing to her, nodded twice, and trotted to join the others in their labors. "Some neighbor spotted the big green van out on the street and played a joke on us, Mr. O’Neill," she soothed. With a smile, she presented the garden gnome to the Irishman as a memento. Though his eyes bulged at the intrusion, and the unwelcome mess seen in his back garden, he voiced no protest and was soon hustled on his way.

Though the sincerest flattery amused her, and placated Old Hugh, she was not appeased. This easy explanation may be good enough for men fighting Guinness hangovers, but it did not satisfy her. The cheap ceramic sprite was not the streak that the camera flash had captured. Schedule be damned, something bigger than the BBC was gestating here.

Ms. Dixon followed Old Hugh toward the house. Her gentle knock produced no response until she’d begun to taste disappointment, and then the form of Brigid appeared through the pebbled glass. Ms. Dixon gave the other woman her on-camera smile, and asked if there was a VHS in the house.

"A present from my son! Thank that Celtic Tiger, hmm?" Brigid revealed, guiding her into the front room. "Cup of tea?"

"Please."

The front room was kitted out in an old fashioned mode: heavy wood, rich cream paint, dried flowers. An ancient ornamental sword honored the wall, a simple, unique cross of woven reeds fastened to its scabbard chain. Intent though she was, Ms. Dixon’s eye traced the Celtic eternity-knot pattern of the weaving for a long moment.

When Brigid returned with two teas, the clamor of the day’s first mishap sounding distant, outside, the enigmatic image was frozen on the television. Though not as clear as on Quiet Trev’s editing equipment, back at Hotel Ibis, the unit was a good one. The glint of color was clear, the frozen image showing just the slightest flicker or rattle.

* * *

"It’s... lovely?" responded the obliged son. He looked to his father and mother for a hint.

"It’s a wholly different approach from what we’ve done before!" her on-camera persona bubbled. She flirtatiously elbowed the handsome man, and Old Hugh for good measure. "Don’t you think?"

"Why, yes!"

She giggled, gesturing enthusiastically around. "I’m glad you agree! This is simply such ancient land, idn’t it? So we Gnomes decided, ‘let’s see what we can do with the natural, time-honored foliage’! Let’s let its natural beauty thrive, altering as little as possible what’s risen out the mists each morning for hundreds of years!"

Digger Dan, Gerry, Humbert and the others cheered lustily. Joy this job was complete served for reason enough, even though the end-result looked nearly identical to the scene that had greeted them. Old Hugh and his son smiled for the camera as she slipped an arm around each. "The pond along the fence is nice," conceded the younger O’Neill.

Brigid hung in the background, a quieter, knowing smile beaming. Ms. Dixon smiled too, both thinking, beauty alive.

"It’s all very natural," younger O’Neill complimented.

"Well, I’m a girl who likes to go all natural, wot?" All the men laughed along, heads nodding.

"It’s a whole new departure for ye, Miss," beamed Brigid, approvingly.

Gerry flashed a signal.

"That’ll wrap it up for the Garden Gnomes, this week. From County Dublin, Ireland- keep growing!"

Corks popped, champagne poured. Before an errant camera could catch, with one deft boot, the clever woman wiped away a slight, serpentine track.