by Pete Prown
* * *
After villagers had gone back to their respective tasks, Wyll, Cheeryup, and Orli decided to go for a walk in the Great Wood.
The two Halflings were gathering materials for terrariums, constructed in old ceramic bowls with sheets of glass carefully laid atop. They were going to instruct some of the smaller village lads and lasses how to make these miniature worlds under glass, so they needed lots of mosses and lichens, tiny plants, and an array of interesting rocks and bits of bark.
Orli had no idea what a terrarium was—indeed he couldn’t even pronounce the word (“Terbarium? Tumariam?” he announced to chuckles from Wyll and Cheeryup), but was eager to help anyway.
They were climbing a rocky scree when a big deer bolted from nearby undergrowth. It vaulted straight for the children and nearly ran them down when Orli leapt in front and waved his arms manically. The buck didn’t know what to make of this burly creature, but took a hard right at the last second and disappeared into the bush as if it had never been there.
“Are you alright?” yelled Wyll, grabbing Cheeryup by the arm. “I barely saw him coming!” The girl was visibly shaken, as was Wyll, though Orli didn’t think anything of it.
“It’s strange for a big beast like that to be lying about in the day hours—he should be foraging at this time of year,” announced the Dwarf boy. “Let’s track him.” Figuring that they’d already gathered enough materials for a terrarium, Wyll and Cheeryup agreed.
It didn’t take long for them to find the big buck, as he was lying on turf-laden ground about one hundred yards away. The beast was also quite dead, his once-glistening eyes now opaque and still.
“What happened to him?” squealed Cheeryup, running up to the felled beast, sadness in her voice. “He was such a majestic, strong creature. Did a hunter shoot him with an arrow?”
Wyll and Orli looked around the animal’s corpse for signs of a wound, but there was nothing.
“No, it wasn’t a hunter that took this fine animal,” said a queer little voice behind the trio. They all jumped, yet were not surprised to find Dalbo Dall lingering on the gorse. “Look closer at his mouth and nostrils. That will tell all ye need to know.”
The children moved closer and noticed black marks around the creatures eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. “Is that the Grippe, Mr. Dalbo?”
“Aye, it affects animals, too, Wyll. This chap was already dying when you startled it back yonder,” murmured the village wanderer. “In a sense you did him a kindness. He could have just lain there for days, dying a slow death, but when you frightened him, he ran his last race until his heart burst. We should be thankful the beautiful buck died quickly. I am grateful to you.”
“Oh, Mr. Dalbo, what are we to do?” said Cheeryup, her eyes tearing up. “So many folks in the village are ill with the Grippe, even Sheriff Forgo.”
“My Uncle is worried he might die,” fretted Wyll. “Yet the Dwarves don’t have it, have they Orli?”
“No, we’re immune, I guess. I wonder why, but perhaps because we’re around it our whole lives.”
“I’m not a Halfling of science, of course,” added Dalbo, “but I’d pin my suspicions on the smeltery and the minerals they’re breaking up and boiling in there. Say lad, do you know what kinds of rocks are being used to heat the furnaces there?”
“Those are our black stones, a’course,” said the boy flatly.
“What kind of black rocks, might I kindly ask?”
“They’re mined deep in the mountains of the North and have magical burning powers. We used them to fuel our forges and furnaces, and now Mr. Bindlestiff is importing them to Thimble Down. Otherwise, he’d have to cut down half your Great Wood to power a forge that large.”
“Black stones, eh?” Dalbo Dall scratched his left ear and thought for a moment. “’Tis clear this is part of our problem. Black stones, black smoke, black marks on the deer’s face—I think ye rocks are releasing something into our air that we can’t see, yet is making us sick.”
“But we can’t prove that, Mr. Dalbo,” said Cheeryup.
“You are right, young lady—without proof, we have nothing to go by. If only we could get inside the smeltery and have a look-see around ol’ Bindlestiff’s office. But we’d get caught in a heartbeat.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“Eh? What did you say, laddie?”
“I said, I wouldn’t get caught,” coughed Orli with a little pride. “I work a few hours there every day, and the folks are used to seeing me go up and down the stairs by Mr. Bindlestiff’s office. He likes to see everything, so they built his office well off the ground, using wooden posts and iron joists. I use the stairs to run errands for Mr. Fibbhook. And the door is usually open.”
A big, toothless grin spread over Dalbo Dall’s face. “Aye, young ones, I think ye have the beginnings of a plan. Maybe thy pie-snatcher won’t be the only thief in town.”
Wyll noticed that Cheeryup also broke into a big smile—the kind she wore when danger was afoot.
How to Bag a Thief
“C’mon Gadget, we have business to attend to.”
“What about the Sheriff?”
“I just checked on him, and he’s resting comfortably—at least as much as can be expected,” said the Sheriff Pro Tempore. Checking his silver pocket watch for the time, Dorro looked around the desk for a piece of parchment and a few pencils; they’d need these tools on their current mission more than clubs or handcuffs.
“Mrs. Bluebell and her daughter will be stopping by within the half hour, so Forgo will be well cared for. I’ve also told all the shop merchants around the gaol to keep an ear out for him. Now let’s be off!”
Dorro and Gadget were soon on their way to the Hanging Stoat, where the former thought he might dig up information on the thief. Along the way, he wondered about the thin, awkward lad next to him; really, he knew next to nothing about Gadget Pinkle. Did anyone, in fact?
“Gadget, how long have you been living in the village?”
“Oh, just a year or two. I came from Water-Down, looking for work.”
“Ah, that nefarious seaport. I don’t love the place, I’ll be honest with you—I have bad memories of it,” said Dorro ruefully, remembering his recent mission there with Sheriff Forgo. “I’d have thought there were plenty of opportunities for jobs and apprenticeships.”
Gadget flinched and seemed reluctant to talk about his earlier life, but soldiered on, “I just didn’t like it there. I don’t care for water, nor would I take a position on a ship. It’s a hard life, and I like my feet on dry land, I do. I just want steady work and a nice place to settle. Thimble Down seems like that place.”
“Do you have family?”
“My sister moved here a few years ago with her husband and wrote that she loved it, but she moved on since her man, Fletch, is a carpenter and goes where the work takes him. I was working odd jobs around the village and getting by, enough to pay the rent on the burrow. Sheriff Forgo took me on for a few hours a day and, well, here we are. It’s not an exciting story, sorry to say.”
Dorro laughed. “I’m afraid few of us lead exciting lives. My life in the library, amongst books and scrolls would seem dull to just about anyone. Of your odd jobs, which did you like best?”
“I was a fair chimney-sweep! It was a profession that was well suited to my skinny nature,” he laughed. “Dirty, sure, but there was no one to bother you, and I didn’t mind the soot. Only the baths—those, I had too many of!” He laughed again.
“I should hire you at the Perch; it’s been far too many years since I’ve had the chimney done. Now, here’s the Hanging Stoat—let’s get to work!”
They ventured into the dark tavern on the sunny day and let their eyes adjust for a few seconds. They spied Mr. Mungo, who was drying mugs at the bar. “Mr. Dorro, a treat to see you, especially since you’re our new Sheriff! Congratulations, sir.”
Waving off his compliment, the bookmaster whispered, “Mungo, have you heard anything about our Pie
Thief? Your patrons must be talking about him.”
“Oh indeed, sir. It’s a constant topic.”
“And …?” Dorro was hoping that Mungo would take the hint.
“Oh! The long ’n’ short of it is that no one has a clue. No one from the village, it seems. Maybe rogues in the forest or from Nob. Jonas Wyble says it’s a ghostly wight—some greedy beggar who’s risen from the dead to steal back all the things he lost or sold in life. And Minty Pinter says its them elves, come back to raze the village. Those are the two most popular theories, at least.”
Inwardly rolling his eyes, Dorro realized he was getting nowhere with Mr. Mungo, nor likely would he find anything of interest at the Hanging Stoat. To be polite, he ordered a cider for himself and Gadget, but otherwise, had nothing else to say. Suddenly he noticed a group at a back table in the shadows; he hadn’t noticed them at first.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be back in a second.” Grabbing his cider, Dorro ambled across the room to the dark recesses of the tavern. “Hullo, Crumble! Hello all!”
“Why, if it ain’t Mr. Dorro,” said the grizzled Dwarf, putting down his mug of ale, its froth still clinging to his big beard. “Come have a seat. Wump—move over, you great goat, and let our friend have a seat!”
Crumble’s brother Wump grudgingly got up and snorted, taking his tankard to the far side of the table. “Sorry about that, Mr. Dorro. Wump is in a bit of a snit today; didn’t get a good night’s rest, I suppose. What brings you to the Stoat? I must say, we’ve taken a shine to it—the dim light here reminds us of home. And the ale is first-rate, at least once we add a little belladonna.”
Crumble took another big draught, as did his comrades Flume, Two-Toes, and Magpie. Wump just glowered in the corner, not acknowledging anyone.
“Since we last met, Crumble, our poor Sheriff Forgo has been taken ill by the Grippe, and stranger yet, the Mayor appointed me his replacement. My first order of business is to catch this thief who’s been plaguing the village. You haven’t heard anything?”
Two-Toes chimed in, “We haven’t heard much else beside that and the Grippe—my, you have a troubled town, sir. Dark times have befallen your Thimble Down.”
“True, I’m afraid,” continued Dorro. “What do you do about thieves in your world, Crumble?”
“It’s not too common an occurrence, as we share our food and hospitality freely. But our gold and gems are another matter, and on occasion, jealously makes a Dwarf steal something that don’t rightfully belong to him.”
“So what do you do?”
“It depends, but if a Dwarf is caught in the act, he might be exiled from our lands. But all Dwarves become a little greedy at times—it’s our nature to revere stones and metals of the finest cut and forging—and well, I’m sure we’ve all pinched something at one time or another.”
At that, the other Dwarves snickered in agreement; even Wump cracked a knowing leer.
“But it must be illegal. What happens when you catch a thief?”
“We bag’ em!” said Flume with glee.
“Aye, we bag ’em up real good!” gloated Magpie, clapping his hands together. “I got bagged once—didn’t sit for a week!” More laughing and jocularity ensued. “Y’see, Mr. Dorro, when we Northlanders catch a thief, we actually put them into a large leather satchel, stitched together from animal hides.”
“And that’s it?” asked Dorro, which was met with more derisive laughs from the Dwarves.
“No, Mr. Dorro—next we kick the living life out of ’em!” roared Two-Toes, drawing the others into hysterics.
Crumble continued, “Y’see, we’re pretty tough, us Dwarves, so you can’t really hurt us too bad. But if you’re in a bag, you can’t run away like a coward—you gotta stay put and take your lumps like a Dwarf. And by lumps, I mean, we might hurl lumps of rock, clay, sticks, gold, or anything that’s hard at the fool in the bag.”
Added Flume, “We might toss in a few punches and kicks for good measure, too, and give him—and sometimes her—a good thrashin’, all to teach ’em not to steal again. After an hour or so, they’ve learned their lesson. Only a very few end up in the bag for a second time.”
“Only the very stupid ones!” roared Magpie.
At that, the five Dwarves were bursting into new fits of laughter, with Flume giggling so hard he actually fell off his chair. Dorro was horrified that this violent act could be the subject of such mirth, but he knew little of the Dwarves and their ways. Imagine, being stuffed into a leather sack, left in the dark, and brutally beaten by rocks, sticks, and fists.
The bookmaster shuddered at the thought. Yet another thought popped into his mind: could any of the Dwarves be his thief or, indeed, thieves. Indeed, they were crafty and agile and, moreover, had no threat of “the bag” hanging over their heads here in Thimble Down. They could steal with impunity. Also, he wondered why they were loafing here at the Hanging Stoat and not working at the smeltery on this day.
Dorro thanked Crumble and his brothers for their illuminating stories and took his leave. He had gained some information, but also left the Hanging Stoat more troubled than when he arrived.
Break-In
“I’m afraid, Wyll. This doesn’t feel right—we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“I’m with you there, Cheery. But you heard Mr. Dalbo: there might be something in ol’ Bindlestiff’s office, and we’ve got to nick it.” Wyll Underfoot had a worried look on his face as he crouched behind a big azalea bush near the smelting works. It was almost dusk and the light was fading fast.
“I know, but doesn’t it worry you that we’re being counseled by Dalbo Dall? He’s sweet and means well, but he’s also …”
“Nuttier than a nutcake? Yes, there is that,” noted Wyll. “But in my heart, I know he’s right. I just don’t feel good about breaking into this smelting place. Gives me the creeps! All dark and smoky and fiery.”
“Did you see that?” chirped the slight girl. “I think I saw Orli’s signal.”
“I didn’t see anything—wait! Yep, that’s it.” Wyll pointed at the edge of the cavernous opening to Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works, where he saw a glimmer of light. “That’s Orli with that shiny piece of metal he showed us. Caught the last glimmer of sunlight on it. Let’s go!”
Like squirrels, Wyll and Cheeryup stole from shrub to shrub, working their way down the lane towards the large Dwarf boy who was waiting for them. Five minutes later, the three hunkered down inside the entrance, behind a wall of large, smelly crates. Cheeryup figured they were full of the black stones that Orli had mentioned earlier.
“What’s the plan, mate?” asked Wyll with rising excitement.
“We must be careful,” cautioned Orli. “but still, it’s the best moment to strike. The second shift of workers are coming offline in a few minutes. There will be many Halflings coming and going from the premises, so they might not notice us, and many know me by sight. Can you see Bindlestiff’s office?”
He pointed about seventy yards into the cavern, where a small series of wooden huts had been erected. Above them, a small hut rested on raised posts with stairs leading to it. That was it.
“I’m going to walk out in the open towards the stairs. You two follow me along the edge of the burrow-hill, staying in the dark as much as possible. When you see me at the bottom step, come out to join me, and we’ll climb the stairs; I’ll pretend I’m giving you a tour. If all goes well, Bindlestiff and Fibbhook will have departed for the day, and the night foreman will have come on. He’s a lazy drunkard and shouldn’t trouble us.”
“I’m ready if you are,” piped Cheeryup, and the children sprang into action.
It all went very smoothly. Orli walked down the main thoroughfare of the cavern in plain view, nodding to various Halflings who were coming off shift, tired and dirty from hauling ore and smelting it into new metals and alloys for tools, wagon parts, bolts, and shafts. Clearly business was booming, as there were three shifts working the furnaces nearly
twenty-four hours a day.
Production was shut down only from two in the morning until dawn, a period in which a fourth shift of mechanics fixed, cleaned, and trouble-shot any problems with the forges and its many mechanisms. It was hard, brutal work, but provided a living for many.
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Orli looked about and gave his head a quick jerk, telling Wyll and Cheeryup to appear from behind a tool hut.
“… and this, my friends, is where the bosses work and manage our grand smeltery,” said Orli will surprising deftness. “Now, upstairs, I’ll show you where Mr. Bindlestiff works.”
“What’s going on here, you lot?” It was Fibbhook, who loomed up out of the darkness like a wraith. “I thought your shift ended this morning, boy?”
“Errrrr, yes that’s right, Mr. Fibbhook,” said Orli trying to maintain his composure. “But I asked my Pa, and he said it would be alright for me to give my town friends a tour of the smeltery. Part of building good relations with the neighbors—Mr. Bindlestiff told us Dwarves to always do that. I thought my mates would be interested to see what we do all day.”
“That’s a pretty thin story, young Dwarf master … but I’ll let it go this time,” hissed the foreman. “Be sure you make no trouble, and don’t stray off the path. I’ve been here for thirteen hours, and I’m tired and peevish. I want to go home, yet if I have to come back because of some mischief you’ve pulled, you’ll answer to me, not your Pa. Understand?”
“Of course, Mr. Fibbhook. I’ll make it a quick tour and get them out the door.” At that, the muscly foreman grimaced, turned on his heel, and left. Orli, Wyll, and Cheeryup collectively breathed a sigh of relief.
“Maybe we should go,” worried Wyll.
“We’re gone this far—we need to keep going,” said Cheeryup, ever the more actioned-oriented of the two. “We just need to get up these stairs.”
Wyll nodded, and the three padded up silently. There was an open walkway around Bindlestiff’s office, and a few windows they used to peek in. “It’s too dark to see anything.” Wyll was craning his neck to see inside, but couldn’t make out much. “We need to break in.”
“This is why it’s handy to have a Dwarf along.”
Orli withdrew a thin metal tool out of his boot and walked to the door. There was heavy padlock on the frame, but the young Dwarf set about fiddling with his device, and a few seconds later they were rewarded a “click!”
Once inside, Cheeryup produced a candle taper and some matches. The office’s interior was crude, but functional. There were a few wooden benches, stools, and tall desks, mostly covered in papers and binders. The pages, they noted, were covered in lines of numerical figures, tallies of expenses, and moneys earned. There were also lists of inventory—ore coming in and metals going out. It seemed extremely tedious to the children; they wondered if this is what being a grown-up was all about.
“How boring!” whispered Cheeryup.
“Wait—look.” Wyll pointed towards the wall behind the desk. There in the dark corner was a tall black rectangle: an iron safe! “Whatever we’re looking for,” said the wee girl, “It’s in there. But how shall we open the door? Orli, can you crack this lock, too?”
“My Uncle Wump could; he’s a master at opening locks. I can try with my tool. Might take a while, though.”
“We should go!” hissed Wyll in the darkness. “We’re wasting too much time up here, and it might take an hour for Orli to open the lock. Fibbhook might come back any moment!”
“Don’t be such a baby, Wyll. I thought you were a brave Halfling, but perhaps not,” chided Cheeryup in not her kindest voice. “C’mon Orli, do it.”
Stung from her words, Wyll fell silent and let the other two work on the lock. He stewed for a few minutes, but said, “I heard something.”
“Oh hush, Wyll, Orli almost has it open.” Flattered by her attention, the Dwarf boy smiled in the dark, but in reality, hadn’t made a dent in the gears.
“I heard it again! There’s a creak on the steps!”
“Wyll Underfoot, maybe you should go run home to the Perch and fluff up some pillows for Mr. Dorro. We’re spies on a mission! Leave if you want, but if you stay, shut up!” Cheeryup was downright rude this time, but she was dead intent on getting some evidence on the Grippe’s deadly powers.
Suddenly the door to Mr. Bindlestiff’s office flew open, blowing out the candle, and leaving the three children in the dark. They heard the rush of boots on the planked floors and rough hands grabbing them from behind. Their eyes were covered with gloved hands, while strong arms lifted them and began running down the stairs with cat-like silence. The children were terrified and began to weep, but their kidnappers said not a word.
The youngsters knew, however, they were in deep, deep trouble, which only made them cry all the more.
The Whip Comes Down
Many minutes later, the child-snatchers pulled up short and dropped their victims on the ground. It was pitch-black outside and the young ones were terrified; a match was struck, and the scene illuminated slowly. Wyll, Cheeryup, and Orli each looked up, expecting to find Fibbhook and his gang about to do them in, but found themselves wholly mistaken. It was Crumble and his Dwarf brothers, looking down on them with a mixture of anger, sadness, and pity.
Orli’s father spoke first, looking at his son with daggers in his eyes. “What have you done, boy? What were you thinking? You have shamed us!”
The Dwarf boy said nothing as his father continued ranting. “We are not wealthy and take pride in work when we can get it. If you had been caught by the Halflings, we would be sent from their village, probably without our due pay. Then what, you little fool? And why are these Halfling mice with you?”
“Let’s turn them over to Mr. Dorro, who’s now the Sheriff,” grinned Wump. “He’ll put them in gaol. Or better, let’s give them to Fibbhook—now he’s a chap who knows how to get folks to talk.”
“It’s tempting, Wump, I won’t deny it. Orli, will you not tell your father what you were doing in Mr. Bindlestiff’s office? And why you were trying to break into his iron safe?”
“I won’t,” said the boy, not looking at his father in the eyes.
“My son, a lowly thief. Back in the Northlands, we’d bag you in leather and beat you with sticks and rocks. You’d think twice about thieving again. Maybe you’re the thieves that are terrorizing the village, though that is hard to believe.”
“We’re not,” growled Orli. “And let my friends go—they did nothing!” Wyll and Cheeryup had been mostly silent to this time, weeping quietly on the ground.
“Agreed,” said Crumble. “We don’t know their role in this and we don’t want to draw the ire of the Halflings. Two-Toes, Flume, and Magpie—bring them to the edge of Thimble Down and let them run back to their soft, warm holes in the ground. But you, boy, you will stay here with your Uncle Wump and I. We may not be able to find out why you invaded the boss’ office, but we can make you remember it for a very long time.”
At that, Wump pulled a whip from behind his back and smiled maliciously at Orli. The other Dwarves grabbed Wyll and Cheeryup and began dragging them back to the village.
“Leave him alone!” screamed the girl. “It’s wasn’t him—it was all my fault! Whip me instead!”
But a flick of Crumble’s chin told the Dwarves to keep going. For his part, Wyll shot Cheeryup a look of contempt, reminding her that this really was her fault—she bade them remain when they should have left the smeltery. The girl dropped her head in shame and began crying, knowing it was all too true.
In the distance they heard the snap of a whip, again and again. And again.
Seeds of Doubt
The crowd at the new Hanging Stoat was in full gear. It was a Friday evening in October, and the brisk Autumn air was beginning to drive Thimble Downers indoors for cold-weather recreation and leisure—and ale! Mungo and Freda, the barmaid, were run off their feet, serving platefuls of slow-braised hog jowls with kale and herbed b
eef shanks, as well as endless pints of beers, ales, and wine.
Most precious of all, guests asked for small ceramic jiggers of honeygrass whiskey, a powerful drink sure to burn going down, but satisfy your innards, the locals thought. Add to that plumes of pipe smoke, gaggles of alternately laughing and arguing Halflings, and you had the Hanging Stoat rollicking as much as it before it burned.
The occasion was all the more festive as the Mayor and Farmer Edythe were scheduled to speak in an open forum. The Mayor and Osgood Thrip were sitting at a table with Mr. Hiram Bindlestiff, Fibbhook, and a few other business leaders. The pair was huddled in a most conspiratorial manner, exchanging heated ideas between sips of honeygrass whiskey. They had already conceded to having tonight’s event on Edythe’s home turf, with the next one to take place in front of the smeltery. It was fair—at least on the surface.
Farmer Edythe sat a few tables away with Sheriff Pro Tempore Mr. Dorro, Timmo, Farmer Duck, Minty Pinter, and Bog the Blacksmith, among others supporting her candidacy. They were discussing themes and ideas for Edythe to touch on, about balancing work and lifestyle, money and family, and most of all, preserving the natural state of Thimble Down, the Great Wood, and the River Thimble. Dorro, in particular, kept promoting this idea of balance, which appealed to the farmer.
At last, Dowdy Cray—who’d become the unofficial moderator for these speeches—called the crowd to order and noted it was time to proceed. Because the debate was being held in the tavern of Edythe’s husband, she would go first, whereas the Mayor would get the preferred second slot. “Now, let’s have a hand for Farmer Edythe!” roared Dowdy, whipping up the crowd as much as possible.
“Thank you, friends!” yowled Edythe, hopping up and down, showing her remarkable energy and enthusiasm. “Tonight, I want to talk about balance.” At that, she proceeded to regale the Hanging Stoat’s patrons with her views on quality of life and work in their beloved village. They seemed largely receptive to her progressive ideas, gently leavened by the idea to move into the future slowly and carefully.
Dowdy shouted out, “Now it’s time for yer questions, folks! Just raise a hand, and Farmer Edythe will call on you.”
A hand shot up and was recognized by the candidate. “Edythe—what will you do about the price of beer and whiskey,” giggled Minty Pinter, “It keeps going up and up!”
“Well Minty, if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more coins in yer pocket,” laughed Edythe. “Now sit down, you silly drunken fool!” The crowd burst out laughing and clapped at her barbed response.
“Edythe, I’m worried about the Grippe and my family.” It was Nutylla Parfinn, who ran the Bumbling Badger tavern with her husband Millin. “I have lots of babies and wee ones—I’d never get over it one of ’em got sick … or worse.”
“Aye, Nutella, you don’t have to tell us about your wee ones—we know what a terrifying Summer you had,” said Edythe [remembering the fierce saga recounted in The Lost Ones]. “And you’re in the right to be afraid of the Grippe—every Thimble Downer in this room is thinking about it every day and night, not just for themselves, but for friends and family. It is a horrible disease that is consuming our village.”
Somewhere in the Hanging Stoat, a patron coughed lightly, but it was enough to bring about a dead silence—the cough was a harbinger of infection.
“I have told you before, I am not a person of education or the sciences, but I truly believe that something is fouling our air, soil, and water. And by extension of that, the food that we eat.”
More than a few guests looked down into their bowls.
“Fear not Mungo’s food!” said Edythe quickly and with a smile. “The way he cooks his meat for hours would kill any germs—or any flavor!” The room erupted in laughter, at her husband’s expense, but the candidate waved to Mungo and blew him a kiss. “But seriously folks, wash your veggies and fruit before you eat it raw, wash your hands, and don’t hug everyone you meet for a while. We have to be careful, every last one of us!”
One more question rang out. An old feller raised his hand, Tobias McGee; he once made musical instruments, but hadn’t in many years on account of weak eyesight and arthritic fingers. Instead, he talked with his friends in the lanes all day and drank a pint or two each night—something he attributed to his longevity. “Farmer Edythe …,” Tobias said, slow as molasses, “I just wanna know one thing. Why the hell should we vote for you?”
The room broke out into laughter again, but Farmer Edythe waved her hands to simmer down the noisemakers. “Thank you, Tobias—you know, that’s a fair question,” she smiled. “Why the hell should you vote for me? I’m just a farmer. I’m not a politician. But then again, maybe that’s the answer there—I ain’t no politician. I won’t make secret deals you don’t know about. I won’t do things that aren’t in your best interests. And I won’t lie ever. You can count on that!”
The patrons erupted into cheers, while the Mayor and Osgood Thrip exchanged worried looks. “I can only say I’ll work hard for you every day and do the best that I can do for Thimble Down and its folk. Thank you and good night.” There was more clapping and whistling for Edythe as she left the podium and returned to her seat. Dowdy Cray announced it was time for the Mayor to say his piece.
“Folks, you know me,” began the Mayor with his customary leer. “I’ve been fighting for you every day as your mayor and magistrate for, oh, twenty years. And I’m ready to put in another twenty to keep our village the special place for families and friends it’s always been. I’ve created new jobs that put beer money in your pockets.”
“But as for my esteemed adversary, what do you know about her? She’s a farmer, and maybe even a good farmer. Yet does that make her a leader? And we already know her views on industry—she’s against it!”
“She wants to close the smeltery and take away jobs. And maybe other businesses, too! We don’t know what we’d get with a Mayor Edythe. Do you really want to take that chance?”
The room at the Hanging Stoat went silent, and folks started looking at each other. That Mayor is a devil! thought Dorro, flaming mad. He is intentionally discrediting her with lies. I thought I’d seen all his tricks before, but this was a new low.
Suddenly, little pockets of bickering broke out in the tavern. Some folks taking the Mayor’s side, others defending Farmer Edythe. Before Dorro could get a handle on what was going on, there was trouble—and it didn’t take long for the first punch to be thrown. His mission accomplished, the Mayor grinned and slyly slipped out the back door with Osgood Thrip.
Soon, the main room of the Stoat was a melee of swinging and shouting Thimble Downers. Edythe supporter Theo Spark landed a punch on the rather large beak of Grubchuck, one of the Mayor’s toadies, who responded with an excellent kick to Mr. Spark’s left knee. Abel Parsnip took a swing at Fibbhook, which was a big mistake; the big foreman grabbed Abel by the suspenders and threw him over a table.
Even Mr. Bedminster Shoe, the gentle village scribe, was drawn into the affair, though he had just been listening to the candidates. Someone cuffed him soundly on the noggin, and he went out like a light. Jenny Thistleback and Mrs. Poddle helped carry his unconscious body out of the scrum and onto a cot in the back room. He eventually came around, and clutching his sore head, bemoaned that violence like this should not occur in such a sweet village.
It took Dorro a few seconds to remember he was the acting Sheriff of Thimble Down. Yet he was no Sheriff Forgo, and accordingly, no one paid any heed to his shouts for peace and tolerance. Fortunately, the trio of Farmer Duck, wee Minty Pinter, and the humongous Bog the Blacksmith deputized themselves and fell like a fury on the savage brawlers. In a few minutes, the room was cleared out, thanks to Bog’s brute strength and the teeth of Minty, who bit more than a few Mayor supporters on their calves and ankles, sending them scurrying into the night.
Dorro tried to bring some final order, but realized he had no authority. “I’m sorry Mungo,” he said to the sad-faced barkeep, who�
�d seen too many fights in his day. “I’m no Sheriff Forgo, that’s for certain.” When Mungo didn’t respond, he knew he was correct, which made him even more depressed. At least he could help clean up, which is what he did for the next hour.
But it didn’t change his—or anyone else’s—mind that the bookmaster wasn’t much of a sheriff. Their minds quickly jumped to poor, ailing Forgo and prayed for his speedy recovery.
Dorro, perhaps, more than anyone.
The Missing One
The next morning, Dorro was at the gaol, checking on Forgo and licking his emotional bruises from the previous evening’s debacle at the Hanging Stoat. What a disaster! thought Dorro, wallowing in self-pity. I’m a terrible sheriff—Forgo would have knocked some heads together and settled that fight before it even began. I should go back to the library and re-shelve some books and scrolls.
Before he could continue roiling in black thoughts, the door banged open and in rushed in Mr. Bindlestiff and Crumble the Dwarf. “Sheriff, we have a problem!” cried the smelting boss.
“Me bruvver is missin’!” cried the Northlander through tears. “Wump never goes missin’, ever. Something bad has happened, I know it!”
“When did you last see him?” calmed Dorro.
“Just last night, after we … errr … well, it was a family matter.”
“There you go, Crumble, it’s been only a few hours. He’s probably under a tree, sleeping off a few beers or off exploring in the Great Wood.”
“My brother Wump would never go off without his favorite floppy hat!” Crumble held up the blue felt hat as evidence. “I know him—he’s a creature of habit. After our family business, I went for a long walk alone to sort things out. I came back to the burrow and fell asleep. When me and the other boys awoke, Wump was gone.”
Bindlestiff broke in, “I need this matter rectified, Winderiver! These Dwarves do important work at the smeltery, and I can’t have them distracted and worrying. Find Wump!”
Seeing through the fog, Dorro announced, “I shall form a search party immediately. Crumble, gather your brothers and son, for I will need their help. I’ll gather my deputies, and we will meet back here in half an hour. Agreed?”
The other two nodded in accord and Dorro bolted from the gaol to make ready.