She held her mother’s hand in a crowd of people. The entire village was there, craning their necks and whispering excitedly at the appearance of hole in the side of a cliff that overlooked the riverbed.
What had once been an long abandoned, collapsed creature’s burrow now was a deep, nearly perfectly circular hole, decorated with a flourish of twigs that made it look like a bottomless bird nest.
Interwoven into the twigs were dapples of old silverware: a garish old gold spoon, a honey stirring rod, a set of scuffed silver butter knives...The pieces glimmered in early morning light that fell through the trees.
Eager wives stood at the front of the crowd holding hot dishes of food. Clara’s elder brother held the hot pot of carrot stew her mother had made in a rush that morning after news of the unexpected neighbor reached their cottage. Her mother and father had combed the garden and cupboards for the finest ingredients they had on hand.
There was no question about it: a Moogle had arrived.