In the grand halls of the House of the Hearth, where warmth never faded and the scent of baked bread lingered in the air, a rare occasion had arrived—Father Hearth had left for a short trip.
It was nothing drastic, just an errand that required his presence elsewhere. Before departing, he placed a firm hand on Mother Goose's shoulder and said in his usual stoic manner, "Keep the house standing."
Mother Goose scoffed. "Oh, please. You act like I've never taken care of a household before! These are children, not rampaging demons."
Father Hearth gave her a long, knowing look. Then, with a nod, he stepped beyond the threshold, leaving her alone with the children.
Mother Goose turned to them, hands on her hips. "Alright, my little ducklings, listen up! While Father Hearth is gone, I am in charge. That means rules will be followed, no setting things on fire, and for the love of all that is feathery, do NOT cause unnecessary chaos. Understood?"
A collective "Yes, Mother Goose!" rang through the halls.
She beamed. "See? This will be a perfectly normal day."
She should not have said that.
For just as she turned to prepare tea, a loud commotion erupted from outside. The sounds of excited chatter, the stamping of feet, and the unmistakable cry of a very distressed goose filled the air.
Mother Goose felt an immediate sense of dread.
She stormed out to the courtyard, where a group of children had gathered in a circle. In the center, tied to a ceremonial stick, was Gunther—her familiar, her beloved, her most loyal and grumpy companion.
"HONK!" Gunther cried, flapping his wings in sheer outrage.
"Betrayal!" Mother Goose shrieked. "Absolute betrayal!"
One of the children, a boy no older than ten, turned to her with wide, innocent eyes. "Mother Goose! We found this goose wandering the grounds! We figured it must be an offering sent by the spirits of the Hearth!"
Another child, holding a wooden spoon like a staff, added, "We were preparing a ritual to ensure Father Hearth's safe return!"
Mother Goose's left eye twitched. "Ritual? And pray tell, what exactly does this ritual entail?"
The smallest child, clutching a book far too ominous for their tiny hands, answered, "Sacrificing the goose."
"HONK! HONK! HONK!" Gunther flailed in horror.
A horrified gasp left her lips. "Sacrifice—? SACRIFICE?! Do you have any idea WHO that is?!"
The children looked at one another, then back at the bound bird.
"Uh… A goose?"
Mother Goose clutched her chest as though physically wounded. "That is no mere goose! That is Gunther! My familiar! My lifelong companion! We have been through wars together!"
"HONK!" Gunther confirmed indignantly.
The children stared.
One of them whispered, "Mother Goose was in a war?"
Another shrugged. "She must've been a general or something."
A third nodded solemnly. "I heard she once fought the Duke of Swans in single combat."
Mother Goose threw her arms up. "Never mind that! Let my poor Gunther go this instant!"
Reluctantly, the children untied the poor bird, who immediately waddled to Mother Goose's feet and fluffed up indignantly.
"Honestly! A SACRIFICE?" Mother Goose scolded. "Father Hearth leaves for a few hours, and suddenly you've all become a cult?"
The smallest child looked up at her. "Are we… not a cult?"
She nearly fainted. "NO, YOU ARE NOT A CULT!"
"HONK!"
After an exhausting hour of lecturing the children on why sacrifices were NOT an acceptable form of devotion, Mother Goose sat at the kitchen table, utterly drained. Gunther rested beside her, still recovering from his near-death experience.
She groaned into her hands. "I don't understand how Father Hearth does this every day."
One of the older children grinned. "That's why we listen to him."
Mother Goose peeked at them from between her fingers. "So what? My authority means nothing?"
They all looked at each other, then at her.
Silence.
"HONK!"
She sighed, exhausted. "You're all lucky I love you."
At that moment, the front door creaked open. Father Hearth stepped in, his expression as unreadable as ever. He took one look at the disheveled scene before him—Mother Goose slumped over the table, the children gathered guiltily, and Gunther looking as if he had seen the afterlife.
After a long pause, he turned to Mother Goose. "...The house is still standing."
Mother Goose glared at him. "Barely."
"HONK."
Father Hearth simply nodded and made his way to the hearth.
The children, seeing their chance to escape further scolding, scattered like mice.
Mother Goose groaned. "Next time, you're not leaving me alone with them."
Father Hearth, ever composed, simply poured himself a cup of tea. "Noted."
"HONK." Gunther added, just to make sure everyone understood his suffering.