The trap in Mac's hand was like no other that Fifi had seen before. His entire hand was a blur of black and white static. It hissed and sparkled like an old TV tuned to a channel with no station. Little whips of static reached toward her.
"Go away!" She shrieked and retreated to the end of the counter closest to the oven.
"I thought you wanted your hair brushed," said Mac. There was no malice in his voice, but that was little comfort.
"Not with that!" Fifi flung a frying pan at his face. It fell to the floor nowhere near Mac and bounced away like the world's worst frizbee.
"Whats wrong?" Mac was either genuinely confused or was a good actor.
"Drop it!" shouted Fifi. She wielded a meat tenderizer like a war-hammer.
"OK, putting down the hairbrush now." he said. Mac knelt down and placed the hairbrush on the floor. He slowly rose again with palms facing Fifi.
The static faded away until the only indication of the trap was a faint hiss. The aura around Mac's hand flickered and faded to its normal faint orange. Fifi lowered the tenderizer.
"I thought you were going to trap me," said Fifi.
"With a hairbrush? You went nuts just then."
"Is not only hairbrush. Is the strongest trap I ever saw."
"How is that a trap?" asked Mac.
"Bad makers use to trap people. Make them change and not let them out." Fifi knew enough about traps to stay away from them.
"Slow down. What exactly is a bad maker, and how to they trap people with hair brushes?" said Mac.
"A bad maker is a maker who uses their magic to make traps to hurt people. When they catch them they put bad magic on them." Fifi explained.
"What is a maker?"
"You," said Fifi.
"So a human, then".
"No"
"A man?"
"No"
"Then what is a maker?" Mac looked confused. How could he be so stupid? He had to feel the magic when he held the trap. Fifi stomped, making the coiled burners in the stove top rattle.
"Do I have to explain it to potato?" Fifi asked, exasperated.
"Did you call me a potato?"
"You are potato! Under the ground and not know."
"Right. I don't know."
"Fine. I will teach you. First put the trap back where you got it." said Fifi
Mac reached down to pick up the brush.
"No touch!" screamed Fifi. Then in a volume more appropriate for inside, said "Use leather or wood to pick it up. It turns on when you touch it. Where is my apron? It is thick enough to work."
"I'll get it." Mac departed to the living room.
Fifi shivered. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her cold and wet. Though the sun was up, the room was still cold.
---
Mac couldn't find the apron. It was not beside the radio where he left it. It was also not under the couch or hung on the coat hook. He finally returned to the kitchen empty handed.
"Did you get your apron this morning? I left it by the radio."
"I saw it, but didn't get it."
"Its gone."
Fifi's apron couldn't be gone. It was not a magic invisible apron with built-in forget where you put it potion dispensers. It was just a basic leather work apron with five tool pockets and zero cup holders. It and the five gremlin made tools were the only six things in the world that Fifi could call her own. Fifi swung down on the oven door handle and ran into the living room.
"It has to be here." Fifi was worried.
Mac sat down on his cot and unzipped his sleeping bag, making sure the apron hadn't gotten in. Fifi looked one last time at the place where her apron had been. There was a short, thin line of dirt on the floor. It was like somebody had recently used a tiny dustpan.
"Look at this." Fifi pointed it out to Mac.
"Looks like our tiny housekeeper has been busy. Do you think she stole your apron?"
"If she stole it, she probably doesn't have it. Most brownies don't like gremlins. If she took it then she got rid of it fast" said Fifi.
"Then it is probably outside," reasoned Mac. "Also, why don't you get along?"
"Brownies are too fussy and old fashioned. They like to pretend they are the bosses of human houses and make the other people do what they say."
"She was a bit bossy with me when I talked to her last night. Now that I think of it, she was eager to get your things out of the house," said Mac.
---
Mac stood at the porch railing and looked out into the overgrown front lawn. It was on its way to becoming forest. Blackberry bushes and cedar trees were slowly taking over the grass. Pine saplings and bushy oaks poked up through the thorns. If the wooden brownie had any malice she could have thrown each tool into the grass separately and left Mac and Fifinella to search all week.
The gremlin could search the underbrush well enough, but Mac would crash through, burying everything under stomped grass and broken thorns. Fifinella climbed the baluster and stood beside his hand.
"This might be a lost cause. I can look through my tool box and see if there are a few that are small enough for you to use," said Mac.
"No factory tools. I want my real tools!"
If the rest of Fifi's tools were as shabby as the little screwdriver then they must be more than tools to her.
"Are they special tools?"
"Very special. Gremlin made and my daddy gave them to me," said Fifinella.
"I guess it would be impossible to find replacements around here, then." said Mac.
"Don't know. If there are elves and brownies here then there might be gremlins in the closest town."
"Any particular reason? I would think relations are a bit strained." Mac asked.
"The elves are picky about their forests and the brownies are picky about houses. But they need a gremlin every time for machines."
"Will the elves be picky about this field?"
"No, they stay in the big tree forests. There might be a few rubettes here."
"Ru-whats?" Mac asked.
