No Country for Old Gnomes

by Kevin Hearne

  The toad, again, said only, “Groggit,” and then he bounded away, but in the sort of way that suggested perhaps he’d learned something wise. Båggi looked down at the half-finished toad hat on his needles and made a little humming noise before spying a robin pecking at a worm nearby. He bum-scooted over, tossed her a few crackers, and when she was near enough to hear him without his having to yell, he continued his knitting, although now, he’d decided, it was a robin hat.

  “As I was telling Mr. Toadly Groggit, my brother Såggi was the only one of my siblings to never come back from his Meadschpringå. The well of violence within him was bottomless, as it turned out, so he remained abroad in the world and took employment as a guard in Malefic Beach, slaying trolls and the like at the behest of a witch. A witch! Can you imagine? His letters say she’s quite generous, though, and does great good in the community.”

  The robin had run out of crackers and chirped querulously, wondering why there wasn’t any more, so Båggi tossed down yet more morsels. “You’re right. It was disappointing, but at least my dear brother didn’t bring shame to the family by going down into the mines for a worldly fortune, chipping away at his own goodness with every swing of the pickaxe and giving all dwarvelish people a reputation for avarice. That’s only for outcasts, you know, ha ha! I still miss my brother, and also his cat, Dåggi, who went with him and must’ve likewise discovered untold depths of violence in his heart. Do you think, perhaps, I should go visit Såggi while on Meadschpringå?”

  The bird gave him a quizzical look, cocking her head and fluttering her feathers.

  “Sweet unbuttered biscuits, you’re right! I do wish to avoid the south. So the north it is, I suppose. I thank you for your wise counsel.”

  And with that, Båggi snipped and tied off the last bit of yarn and attempted to put the hat on the bird, which she took as a personal affront and flew away. He wrote a tiny note, stating, “This Hatte is for Anyone who might have a great Yearning for such a Hatte,” and left them both on a rock. Then, carrying his cask and picnic basket and Telling Cudgel, his mind much clearer after these edifying discussions, he stood and turned to the north.

  The first town he had visited in Borix, aptly named Dower, was a spiritless place full of mostly pale humans and some other folk, including a goodly number of halflings and a few gnomes. People noted his cask and cudgel and were extraordinarily polite. He did not know if they were customarily so or if they were making a special effort for him, attempting to keep his incipient violence at bay. Everyone respected a Telling Cudgel, the old dwarves said. Regardless, it became abundantly clear after a couple of days that Dower would give him no honorable way to expunge his violence, but he heard that Lord Ergot in the north was a disagreeable sort and all manner of trouble might be found in Bruding.

  That suited him fine: He had wished to explore the Misree Hills anyway for the herbs and wildlife rumored to live there. Some rare ingredients for medicines and tonics were said to thrive in its crags and valleys—some so rare that a single bulb would provide a year’s comfort in room and board and mead. Båggi would settle for a collection of prongroots, a vital ingredient in the popular dwarvelish tonic for men, Ol’ Chub’s Tubby Nub Elixir for Potent Virility.

  Båggi did not walk the lonesome road winding north from Dower to Bruding, but he did keep it in sight. People on lonesome roads tended to get robbed by highwaymen. Such a confrontation might force him to defend himself, and then he’d be no different from his sister, Tåffi, who had provoked the centaurs. And the herbs and roots he sought weren’t going to be on the road anyway.

  After a breakfast of foraged berries and his last baked doughballs of assorted nutmeats carried from his home, Båggi reached the summit of a slope he’d spent most of the previous day climbing. He anticipated seeing more of the same—a wooded valley in between the hills—and he was mostly right. But nestled in the valley below was a winsome farm astraddle a river. It had a waterwheel, a tidy barnyard, hayfields and cornfields for the livestock, and a more-than-ample garden for the farmer. Båggi even saw rows of herbs, both culinary and medicinal, and it made his heart happy and his belly hungry. Such a farmer would know the value of what Båggi had collected in his travels. Perhaps he could trade for some fresh provisions—dried legumes and root vegetables, the sorts of things that would travel well.

  Something didn’t seem right to Båggi, however, so he did not immediately descend. Instead, he took a knee, leaning on his cudgel, and watched the farm until his conscious mind could latch on to the disturbing but elusive element his subconscious had identified.

  The problem, Båggi realized, was a surfeit of lettuces.

  Beyond the farmyard and garden was a troublingly vast tract of what appeared to be lettuce. The farmer must really be into salad. And what was worse was that no one was tending to the lettuce patch—or to anything. That was what bothered him: ideal working conditions at a beautiful time of day, and not a single person working on a significant operation like this.

  Perhaps they were inside the blue-trimmed white farmhouse, having breakfast; Båggi had only recently finished his own. His best hope for trade, then, would be to approach the farmhouse and give the farmer no cause to think he intended to steal anything.

  Rising to his feet, he sang a traditional dwarvelish tune for luck as he began to pick his way downhill.

  “My boots have brought me to a merry meeting;

  I clasp my hands before you in greeting.

  Sing bee-bum, pond scum, biddly-o!

  Let us have biscuits with our cups of tea,

  And trade stories of you for stories of me.

  Sing mouse nose, squirrel toes, biddly-o!

  Let us speak of our troubles and our joy

  And the motley crafts we are wont to employ.

  Sing puppy paw, bunny jaw, biddly-o!

  But if I do disturb I will make amends;

  I’ll take to my boots and we’ll part as friends.

  Sing fawn fur, kitten purr, biddly-o!”

  Båggi called out to the farmhouse as soon as he thought he might be heard. “Hello, good neighbors! Hello! May I trade with you today? Might we have a cup of tea together in peace?” He did not receive an answer or any indication that anyone was home until after he had climbed the steps to the front porch and rapped upon the door, calling out a friendly greeting again. At that, a voice bellowed in return.

  “Stay awhile!” a man’s high tenor said, and Båggi replied that he would and backed up from the door to pose no threat. He placed his cudgel in the crook of his arm and clasped his hands together in front of his chest.

  There was some crashing and stomping around inside, and then the door whipped open to reveal a rather surprising farmer.

  Like dwarves and gnomes and halflings, humans tended to walk the world in many kinds of skin, but Borix was primarily populated by the pale variety. This human, like Båggi’s family, had warm reddish-brown skin. That was only a mild confounding of expectations; of much greater significance was the human’s clothing. It was not that of a farmer. It was clearly some sort of ecclesiastical gear, somber black except for a couple of pinpoints of color. A bright-green enamel pin was affixed to a white kerchief wrapped around the man’s neck, with a matching one in the middle of a truly bizarre hat. The pins and the hat were both shaped like a head of lettuce, and Båggi wondered if the field he’d spied earlier might not have some significance to this man—this pastor?—other than mere food. It must have, because he could conceive of no reason why one would otherwise voluntarily wear such a strange hat—not that he would ever say so, as Båggi firmly believed that everyone had a right to enjoy their headgear of choice, no matter how peculiar.

  “Yes, hello?” the man said. He had grown out his dark beard on both his face and neck, Båggi noticed, except for a narrow, shaved strip directly under his nose, down his chin, and extending down
the middle of his throat. Båggi guessed it must have some significance, like the hat, but he couldn’t imagine what. A dwarf would never disfigure their beard so.

  “Good morning, good sir! I am Båggi Biins from the mountain homes, traveling north to Bruding. I wondered if perhaps I might trade for provisions, since you seem amply supplied.”

  “Trade?” The man cocked his head to one side, nearly toppling the hat off his head, which he threw up a hand to steady. “It would depend on what you have.”

  “I’ve been collecting herbs in the hills.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Have you any pink-petaled dewlaps?”

  “I do, and much more besides.”

  The man smiled, displaying a sizable gap between his upper front teeth. “Then I would be happy to trade. Welcome, Båggi. I am Brother Bo Boffing. Please call me Bo.” He clasped his hands, mirroring Båggi’s traditional dwarvelish greeting, and the herbalist was so grateful for the familiar gesture he almost gave Bo his pink-petaled dewlaps for free.

  Bo stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him, and hooked a thumb to the left. “Let’s go to the barn. I have a worktable there where we can spread your flowers and enjoy a casual dicker.”

  “Your farm is quite impressive,” Båggi said on the way there. “Bless my bees, I’ve rarely seen one more attractive.”

  “Thank you. We think the ideal farm is aesthetically pleasing as much as it is fruitful. It pleases the cabbage.”

  Båggi began, “The ca—” but shut his mouth firmly, realizing that he had nearly walked into a dangerous trap.

  Now it all made sense. The field wasn’t lettuce at all, and neither were the hat and pins. It was cabbage, and that wasn’t good. Båggi knew instinctively that he should leave as soon as possible, before the subject could be raised again. Had he possessed sufficient victuals for the days ahead, he would have simply run away. But since he had a mighty appetite and still needed to trade, he tried a different gambit to keep the conversation friendly.

  “When you say ‘we,’ do you mean your family, Brother Bo?”

  “Oh, no, I mean my brothers and sisters.”

  “But…are not your brothers and sisters your family?”

  “Only metaphorically speaking. They are my brothers and sisters in cabbage.”

  “I see,” Båggi replied, though he didn’t, once again refusing to inquire about the cruciferous death field. “Are they off somewhere else today?”

  “Yes, there’s an ongoing brouhaha in Bruding betwixt the gnomes and humans. My brothers and sisters have gone to render what aid they can. In the form of cabbage.”

  Båggi again steered the conversation elsewhere. “Gnomes? That’s truly surprising. I never thought they were warlike.”

  “Oh, they’re not. They are refugees, running away from halflings in the Skyr. Apparently it’s the halflings causing the trouble, firebombing their gnomehomes up and down the earldom. But Lord Ergot doesn’t want the gnomes coming in such numbers to Bruding. They’re fixing things, and that’s annoying.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, the gnomes are terribly clever, you know. They can’t sit still but must improve upon whatever they find.”

  “Yes, I do know that. We learned such in dwarfery school. But why is it annoying if they fix things?”

  Bo sighed deeply. “It lets the people there know that there is a better way to live and that Lord Ergot is a rather terrible shepherd of his metaphorical flock. Understandably, he’d prefer the people to believe his stewardship is the best they can hope for. But it turns out they’re realizing they preferred the earl who slept for several years.”

  “An earl slept for several years?”

  The human shot the dwarf an aggrieved look. “How did you not know this? It was shouted from the throats of all the heralds.”

  Båggi spread his hands. “I just came down from the mountains for the first time. I heard in Dower that there’s a new king in Songlen, the Goode King Gustave, but I heard nothing about the Earl of Borix having a longish snooze.”

  Brother Bo shrugged. “It was a strange curse on his castle, but it’s been lifted and he’s awake now. A bit of tension has grown between the earl and Lord Ergot, though. Honestly, they’re both rubbish. It’s why we like to live out here. Now, let’s see what you have.” They were in the large red barn now, and while it was spotlessly tidy, everything else about it was disturbing. Large, crude paintings of cabbages adorned the walls, and, in addition to the usual bins of foodstuffs, the shelves ranging around the walls held the wrong sorts of items: bricks, jars of viscous red fluid, and far too many scythes to keep a body comforted. Still, Båggi needed supplies, and here he was.

  The trade was soon accomplished, and Båggi tried to hide how anxious he was to leave that horrible barn. He could find his own fresh greens, but a dwarf used up a lot of food, and he needed those dried beans, spices, and some flour for flatbreads.

  “Want a cabbage to go?” Bo asked as the dwarf stuffed his pack full and fastened it closed. “Totally free.”

  “Oh, no,” Båggi begged off, trying to contain an involuntary shudder. “I’m not fond of cabbage because it disagrees with me, but thank you.”

  Brother Bo grinned. “Nonsense. You just haven’t had our cabbage yet. Best in the world.”

  “I don’t doubt it. All your produce is high quality. But it is still cabbage and it will destroy my digestive system.”

  “Oh, I assure you, our cabbage would never do that. It told me so.”

  Båggi knew well his blush turned his cheeks apple red. “All cabbage would do that, Bo. I am not sure how much clearer I can be without lapsing into crude language. It is a vegetable that detonates dwarvelish bowels. We cannot coexist. We avoid eating it because we want to live.”

  Brother Bo frowned. “You’re speaking literally? You will die if you eat it? I have never heard that before.”

  “How many dwarves have you had visit your farm?”

  “You’re the first,” Bo admitted.

  “Please believe me, then. Dwarves do not eat cabbage. We cannot stomach it.”

  “Okay, I believe you, but come on,” Bo said, picking up a short chopping blade. “You don’t need to eat one of our cabbages to appreciate how remarkable they are.”

  Båggi remained still as Brother Bo Boffing began walking toward the field. He turned around after a few steps and beckoned with the blade. “Come on. I promise you’ll be interested. These are special.” When Båggi did not move or respond, he added, “Please. Indulge me.”

  The dwarf sighed and trudged unwillingly after the human. Bo smiled that gap-toothed grin. “Thanks,” he said. “These really aren’t your normal cabbages.”

  “How are they abnormal?”

  “They are vessels of prophecy, Båggi. Futures soaked up and coiled, wrapped tightly and evergreen until we harvest them.”

  “Evergreen? You mean they remain fresh throughout the winter?”

  “Indeed they do. They remain fresh for years. There’s a healthy cabbage out there that sprouted before I was born.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Brother Bo smirked. “It is not mere soil and sun and water, I can tell you that.”

  Båggi felt that he should probably take his leave now, but he was intrigued, for something arcane must be happening if Bo spoke the truth.

  “Are you…cabbage wizards?”

  Bo laughed. “Oh, no! But that’s delightful. No, we’re seers of a holy order. Our formal name is the Serene Prophets of Revealed Death in Cabbage.”

  “That…doesn’t sound all that serene, if you don’t mind me saying. I mean, it begins serene, I’ll grant you, but I think it rapidly degenerates from there, ha ha!”

  Brother Bo chuckled. “I understand, believe me. But the serenity is found in our meditations and prayers.
”

  “And, uh…to whom do you pray?”

  “We worship the perfect cohesion of space and time and nonlinear probabilities represented by cabbage.”

  “Wow, that’s…yeah.”

  They arrived at the edge of the cabbage field and Brother Bo squatted down next to the nearest one, which looked quite healthy and eminently capable of exploding Båggi’s intestines. “I will show you their peculiar qualities. Will you place your boot against the side of this cabbage, stepping on this leaf on the periphery here?” Bo pushed down a leaf and Båggi shrugged, not seeing what harm it could do. He stepped on the leaf, his ankle resting against the green sphere in the middle, and Bo made encouraging noises.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it, just remain there while I consult.” And then he rested his hand on top of the cabbage, closed his eyes, and spoke a stream of mystical gibberish. Båggi wondered how he could politely extricate himself from this nonsense and take his leave.

  “Interesting,” the pastor said, eventually returning to intelligible speech. His eyes flicked up to Båggi’s accoutrements. “I see you are carrying a cask and a Telling Cudgel. Does this mean you are on your Meadschpringå?”

  “That’s correct. You’ve heard of it before?”

  “No, the cabbage just told me. And it also told me you have quite a bit of violence to exorcise.”

  Båggi scoffed. “Why, that’s a load of backroom boom-boom! I enjoy long walks on the cliff face, brewing elderberry mead, crafting homemade poultices, and butterfly kisses.”

  “I have no doubt that is all true. But it is also true you will employ that Telling Cudgel soon and end many lives.” The seer’s hand shot out, pointing across the field. “There, you see? Six rows across and ten down.”

  “See what? A cabbage?”

  Brother Bo leapt up and high-stepped over the rows, then scooted down one until he had found a particular specimen. “Yes, but not just any cabbage! Do you see? It quivers and shakes! It longs to tell us something!”