by Pete Prown
* * *
At almost the precise same moment, Orli the Dwarf had a very similar argument with his father. Crumble accused him of being a thief and liar, a notion that drove Orli into a rage. Like Wyll, he lashed back at his father and stormed from the Dwarves’ dank burrow, just looking for fresh air and an escape from his family.
It was only too ironic when the two boys ran into each other—quite literally—in one of Thimble Down’s quieter lanes.
“Ow!”
“Hey, watch it!”
“Orli?”
“Wyll? What are you doing here?”
“I ran away from home,” snarled the Halfling boy. “My dear uncle thinks I’m an embarrassment to his snooty ancestors!”
“Me, too!” said Orli. “My pa wants me to go back to the Northern Kingdom and learn how to be a respectable Dwarf again. Phooey!”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Run away,” uttered Orli with complete solemnity. “I shall never see my family again.”
“Same here—I’m running away” declared Wyll. “Hey, let’s run away together! There are caves by the river that are snug, and we can hunt and fish. And before we go, we can go to the library and get heavy jackets, boots, fishing rods, and blankets to keep us warm. Uncle Dorro keeps extras in a closet there.”
“But isn’t that stealing?” wondered Orli aloud.
“Both Uncle Dorro and your Pa already think we’re thieves,” said Wyll. “So let’s prove ’em right! We’ll go live by the river as outlaws, and steal and plunder as we please!”
“Yeah!” glowed the Dwarf boy. “Since they say we’re rotten, let’s be rotten!”
At that, Wyll Underfoot and Orli the Dwarf shook hands and sped off into the cold October night, the thrill of the unknown driving their every step.
Battle Dwarves
Dorro knocked on the door of the Tunbridge burrow the next morning. It was crisply cold, and there was even a little frost on the burrow’s nameplate, which read Little Stitch—a small joke about Mrs. Tunbridge’s position as the village seamstress. The door finally creaked open, and the bookmaster was welcomed inside.
“How is she?” he inquired hopefully, but not expecting much good news.
“The same.” Cheeryup looked mournful. “The Bluebells were here not twenty minutes ago and tended mother, but she hasn’t changed. Mrs. Bluebell particularly noted that her breathing was steady—weak, but the same as yesterday. I suppose that it good news.”
Dorro observed the emotion she was holding back. “I’ll take that bit of cheer with me today. Forgo isn’t better either, but I’ve heard that Belinda Weakes has died of the Grippe. You probably don’t remember her, but she worked as a cheesemonger until around when you were born. A nice lady who smelled of Stilton, even long after she left the cheese shop.”
Dorro regretted delivering that news as he noticed more tears welling up.
“Did Wyll come home last night?”
“Ermmm, no, but I didn’t expect him to.”
“You were rather hard on him, Mr. Dorro,” said Cheeryup. “It really was my fault—I made us do it, not Wyll or Orli. Truly, Mr. Dorro.”
“I know I was hard on him, but he’ll be a better Halfling for it. My father was hard on me, and you know, I ran away once or twice me’self! Does a boy good to have a bit of a ramble.”
“I hope you’re right,” worried the yellow-haired lass. “Wyll has a hard head and might take it further. He might not come back!”
“Give him a day or two shivering and starvin’ in the woods; he’ll be back at the Perch before you can say, ‘Bowl of hot pepperpot!’”
Dorro laughed weakly and bid Cheeryup goodbye. He hoped he was right and the lad would return. He knew he’d been harsh with Wyll and regretted it, but there was nothing to be done at the moment.
Dorro proceeded towards the center of the village, first to check in at the library where he hoped Bedminster Shoe would be deftly running things as usual. Thence he’d finish his jaunt at the gaol, where he’d inquire as to the condition of Sheriff Forgo and—finally!—get some work done on Wump’s case. A little quiet time was all he needed.
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” It was Deputy Pinkle, running down the lane as quickly as possible. “Thar be trouble at the gaol, sir. Come quick!”
“What is it, Gadget?” Dorro tried to ask, but the boy had already shot back in the other direction. The bookmaster merely rolled his eyes and kept moving apace, realizing that his quiet morning was already history. Upon entering the small, round building, he was assailed immediately.
“Sheriff, thank goodness you’re here!” A very small Halfling ran up to him and gave him a panicky hug. “I was attacked! By Dwarves!”
“Calm yourself, Minty, and tell me the whole story. Please! Now let’s put the tea on and have a reasoned talk.” The gaol had a small iron stove that sat on four legs and served both to warm the building and allow Sheriff Forgo to heat up his lunch, as needed. Fortunately, Gadget had lit a new fire an hour or two earlier, and the tea kettle began to whistle in no time. “Let’s have the whole story now.”
Minty Pinter was a small, wrinkly Thimble Downer and made his living as a traveling tinker, driving his rickety cart between villages. He sold all sorts of pots ‘n’ pans, tools, and in fact anything for the home and beyond. He was also a wizard at fixing things, which helped put a few more pennies in his pocket. Minty wasn’t wealthy, but well liked, and folks liked to keep him busy and happy.
“So I was traveling down the road, going between Upper-Down and West Upper-Down, when all of sudden some queer folk stepped out from under the tree line and stopped my wagon. They weren’t Halflings—more like them Dwarves who been workin’ at the smeltery. But these ones were fiercer looking and made me get down from my cart.”
“I says, ‘Who be you to make me stop my wagon?’ cried the little Halfling. “At which point the leader shoved me to the ground and started all sorts of nasty questions. ‘Do know Wump?’ or ‘Did you know who killed the Dwarf’, and even ‘Mebbe you did it yerself!’ I was scared for me life, I wuz!”
“Then what happened?”
“What happened? I’ll tells ya wot! The bleeding band of Dwarves rifled through me cart, took what they wanted—a few pots and my pony Timothy—and lit me wagon on fire! Burned it to the ground with oil and ruined all my remaining pots, skillets, tools, and wire. All smelted on the spot!”
“Why?” gagged Dorro, so agitated that he spilled some hot tea on his lap. “Ouch!”
“The head Dwarf—a truly odd looking thing—stuck his face into mine and said, ‘Tell your folk that the Battle Dwarves are here and we’re looking for the killer of Mr. Wump. And when we find ’im, we’re gonna do exactly what we did to your wagon. Understand, little flea?”
“I was fuming mad, but not about to take a swing at a northland Dwarf. So here’s I am and I ain’t happy about it. Who’s gonna pay me back for my wagon and for Timothy, I ask you?”
“I’ll talk to the Mayor about it, Minty—I’m sorry for your loss, truly,” lamented Dorro. “But tell me, where are these Dwarves headed?”
“Where they headed?” Minty laughed out loud. “Why here, Mr. Dorro—they’re coming right here! And now they’re yer problem!”
The little tinker threw back his head and kept laughing until he was hoarse.