A Tale from Porchwood Hollow
Bringing You Yesterday’s News… Eventually.
There were many peculiar things about Porchwood Hollow.
The clocks in the village square never quite agreed. The Council of Opinionated Chickens held meetings nobody had requested. And the newspaper was always late.
Not occasionally late.
Not the delivery wagon broke a wheel late.
The Yesterday Gazette was so reliably late that villagers sometimes received invitations to parties they had already attended.
Its motto, printed proudly beneath the title, read:
Bringing You Yesterday’s News… Eventually.
This was largely the fault of three individuals.
Although one of them was a printing press.
The first was Gideon Dash, the Befuddled Editor, a gentleman of impeccable intentions who had spent much of his professional life searching for his spectacles, his red pencil, and the final copy of Thursday’s newspaper.
The second was Percival, the Chronically Late Correspondent.
Percival was an excellent investigator, provided nobody expected him to investigate the thing he had been sent to investigate.
And the third was Gutenberg.
Gutenberg, the First Cantankerous Printer.
Nobody knew precisely how old Gutenberg was, although he had been complaining about deadlines considerably longer than either gentleman had been alive.
He occupied the back corner of the newspaper office, surrounded by paper, ink, and the peculiar smell of machinery that had been asked to do entirely too much.
Gutenberg possessed three distinct moods.
Unwilling.
Uncooperative.
And completely unreasonable.
Occasionally, he printed something.
Gideon maintained that Gutenberg was a magnificent piece of machinery.
Percival suspected he was simply misunderstood.
This arrangement might have worked splendidly had any of the three possessed the slightest understanding of punctuality.
Unfortunately, none did.
It was presently Tuesday.
The newspaper awaiting publication was from last Friday.
Gideon was searching for his spectacles.
Percival was contemplating the origins of paperclips.
And Gutenberg had decided that printing in blue ink was beneath his dignity.
Then Miss Clover arrived.
“My apple pie has disappeared!” she announced, bursting through the office door.
Gideon looked up from beneath a mountain of papers.
“Good heavens!”
“It was cooling on my windowsill, and now it’s gone!”
“A robbery!” cried Percival, reaching for his notebook.
“Possibly,” said Miss Clover. “Although I’d prefer we didn’t accuse anyone just yet.”
“Quite right,” said Percival. “One must gather the facts.”
He sharpened his pencil, buttoned his coat, and hurried off to investigate.
For the first eleven minutes, everything went splendidly.
He inspected the windowsill.
He measured the empty pie plate.
He interviewed two sparrows, who had seen nothing but were delighted to be consulted.
Then he noticed a small dusting of cinnamon.
“Cinnamon,” Percival murmured.
He wrote the word in his notebook.
Then he underlined it.
Twice.
By lunchtime, he was at the Archive Mouse’s desk asking about ancient spice merchants.
By supper, he had located a map of the world’s cinnamon-growing regions.
By Wednesday morning, he was researching the history of maritime trade.
And by Friday afternoon, he returned triumphantly to the newspaper office carrying fourteen pages of notes.
“Finished!” he announced.
Gideon nearly fell out of his chair.
“Wonderful! Who stole Miss Clover’s pie?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“She found it in the pantry on Tuesday.”
Gideon stared.
“Then WHAT,” he asked very carefully, “have you been investigating for the past four days?”
Percival spread his papers across the desk.
“Cinnamon.”
There was a long silence.
“Cinnamon,” repeated Gideon.
“Yes! Did you know it comes from the inner bark of certain trees? Quite extraordinary, really. And historically—”
“PERCIVAL!”
Gideon stood.
His spectacles fell off.
He retrieved them, placed them on his nose, and discovered they were upside down.
“Percival,” he said, removing them again, “we are a newspaper. We report what happens in Porchwood Hollow. We do not require a complete history of everything associated with what happens in Porchwood Hollow!”
Percival considered this.
“Although,” he said, “if Miss Clover had used nutmeg instead—”
“NO!”
From the corner came a particularly disagreeable grinding noise.
Gutenberg had begun feeding Thursday’s weather report into himself sideways.
“GUTENBERG! NOT NOW!”
The printing press gave a tremendous shudder.
A single sheet emerged.
It was blank.
On the reverse side, however, someone had printed the word:
NO.
Gideon stared at it.
Percival examined it with interest.
“Well,” said Percival, “at least he’s communicating.”
Gideon disappeared behind his desk.
When he emerged, he was carrying a large piece of cardboard.
He wrote upon it in enormous letters:
PLEASE REPORT WHAT HAPPENED, NOT EVERYTHING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED.
He pinned it above Percival’s desk.
“There,” he said. “Perhaps that will help.”
Percival looked up.
He read the sign.
He tilted his head.
Then he read it again.
Gideon watched with cautious hope.
At last, Percival spoke.
“How fascinating.”
Gideon smiled.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
“Who invented signs?”
Gideon’s smile disappeared.
“What?”
“Signs,” Percival repeated. “Someone must have made the first one. But how did people give directions before signs? And who decided what shapes they should be?”
“Percival, the sign is an INSTRUCTION.”
“Of course,” said Percival. “But now that you mention instructions, I wonder how the earliest written instructions were recorded.”
Gideon shut his eyes.
“Please don’t.”
“Perhaps the Archive Mouse would know.”
“Percival.”
“I’ll only be a moment.”
“Percival!”
But the office door had already closed.
Gutenberg began rattling in the corner.
Gideon turned toward him.
“And don’t YOU start.”
The printing press promptly spat out another blank page.
Three days later, an eleven-page article appeared on Gideon’s desk.
Its title read:
FROM CAVE WALLS TO CROSSROADS: A SURPRISINGLY LONG HISTORY OF SIGNS
Gideon stared at the manuscript.
Then at the sign.
Then at the ceiling.
He removed the sign.
Percival, who had been watching closely, made a small note in his notebook.
“What are you writing now?” Gideon demanded.
“The history of removing signs.”
Gideon sat down.
He remained there for quite some time.
That afternoon, Dolores of the Council of Opinionated Chickens marched into the newspaper office.
“Where,” she demanded, “is the article about Miss Clover’s missing pie?”
“The pie was found,” said Gideon wearily.
“We know that,” said Dolores. “Everyone knows that. We knew it on Tuesday.”
“Then why do you need an article?”
Dolores puffed out her feathers.
“Because we should like to read about it!”
Gideon was about to reply when she noticed the enormous stack of papers on his desk.
“What’s all this?”
“The history of cinnamon.”
Dolores blinked.
“And this?”
“The history of signs.”
“And this?”
Gideon hesitated.
“The history of removing signs.”
Dolores regarded him for a very long moment.
Then she drew herself up.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose someone ought to be keeping track of these things.”
She turned toward Gutenberg.
“And when, precisely, will the newspaper be delivered?”
Gutenberg made a noise like a cupboard full of spoons falling down a staircase.
Dolores narrowed her eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
Gutenberg ejected a sheet of paper.
It landed at her feet.
On it were three crooked words:
WHEN I’M READY.
Dolores gasped.
“Well! I’ve never been spoken to in such a manner by office equipment!”
She marched out, promising to raise the matter at the next Council meeting.
Gideon sat down heavily.
For the first time that week, the office was quiet.
He looked at Percival’s manuscripts.
They were ridiculous.
Hopelessly unnecessary.
Entirely unrelated to the news.
But he began to read.
And somewhere between the ancient spice merchants and the first wooden signposts, he found himself smiling.
Percival had written about forgotten places, ordinary people, and curious little things the world had nearly stopped noticing.
They weren’t the stories Gideon had asked for.
But they were stories worth telling.
Gideon picked up his red pencil.
He straightened his spectacles.
And for once, he stopped worrying about Friday’s deadline.
He carried the manuscripts to Gutenberg.
“Now then, old fellow,” he said gently. “I think we have something rather special.”
Gutenberg gave a cautious click.
Gideon fed in the first page.
The press rattled.
It groaned.
It shook so violently that a jar of pencils fell from the desk.
And then, quite unexpectedly, it began to print.
Page after page emerged, neatly inked and perfectly aligned.
Gideon stared in amazement.
“Good heavens.”
Percival appeared at his shoulder.
“Perhaps he simply wanted something interesting to say.”
Gutenberg gave a satisfied little clank.
On the following Wednesday, the villagers of Porchwood Hollow received a particularly unusual edition of The Yesterday Gazette.
The front page read:
MISSING PIE FOUND
No crime committed. Miss Clover apologizes for the confusion.
Beneath it appeared a smaller headline:
DID YOU KNOW CINNAMON IS TREE BARK?
And on page three:
A BRIEF HISTORY OF SIGNS
Followed by a correction on page four:
The history of signs is not, in fact, brief.
Nobody in Porchwood Hollow could quite explain why, but it became one of the most popular editions the Gazette had ever published.
The Archive Mouse requested an extra copy.
Miss Clover framed the article about her pie.
Dolores complained that the newspaper was still late, then read every page twice.
And Gutenberg?
Gutenberg printed three extra copies without being asked.
Gideon considered this an unprecedented act of generosity.
Percival believed it suggested a profound appreciation for historical research.
Gutenberg declined to elaborate.
By the following morning, however, another crisis had developed.
The village clock had begun chiming thirteen times.
Percival was dispatched to investigate.
Three days later, he returned with a manuscript entitled:
THE EXTRAORDINARY HISTORY OF BELLS
Gideon sighed.
“Percival, I asked you why the clock was chiming thirteen times.”
“Oh, that,” said Percival cheerfully. “The clockmaker fixed it yesterday.”
“Then why have you written seventeen pages about bells?”
Percival looked genuinely surprised.
“Well, someone ought to.”
Behind them, Gutenberg gave a tremendous rattle.
Gideon turned.
“What now?”
The printing press slowly produced a single sheet.
It read:
I QUIT.
Gideon stared at it.
Percival studied the page thoughtfully.
“How interesting,” he murmured. “I wonder when printing presses first began expressing dissatisfaction with their working conditions.”
Gideon sank into his chair.
“Please don’t.”
But Percival was already reaching for his notebook.
And so it was that The Yesterday Gazette continued to bring Porchwood Hollow the news.
Not particularly quickly.
Not always in the correct order.
And almost never on the day it happened.
But somehow, between the missing deadlines, the misplaced spectacles, and a printing press with strong opinions about its working conditions, the villagers discovered something rather lovely.
The world was full of stories that might never make the front page.
And sometimes, those were the stories most worth keeping.
Somewhere nearby, a story has begun.
The Yesterday Gazette — Bringing You Yesterday’s News… Eventually.
Whisper back to the Hollow