by Pete Prown
* * *
“Flour? Check. Oats. Check? Milled corn? Check.”
The Halfling bustled about the storeroom to check on the inventory. It was part of the kitchen area at Fog Vale, but he thought the term was used loosely—a kitchen, he knew, was where one made edible food, but this facility simply churned out sustenance, the material that kept them from starving to death.
Mr. Dorro, however, was not entirely discontent.
In the past week, he’d revealed a knowledge of culinary adroitness, one that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the bosses—and all by making a simple comment to the cook, a thin, timid Halfling named Toby.
Noting that a little salt pork would bring out the flavor of his crude stews, perhaps with some added dashes of pepper and dark mustard, Dorro had inadvertently caused a sensation and Bill Thistle demanded to know how the typically rotten cook had improved himself in just one day.
Torn between making an outright lie or being replaced, Toby wisely took the high road and said the Thimble Downer had offer an idea or two. As it turned out, a prisoner who could truly craft edible food was worth his weight in gold and in a blink, the bookmaster had been promoted from mucking out stables to preparing food, which was precisely in his area of expertise.
“Salt? Check. Dried beef? Check ….”
“Hey you—fancy boy!” One of the bosses stepped into the storeroom, followed by Amos Pinchbottle. “The Overseer wants to know what’s for his vittles tonight.”
Dorro looked pensive for a moment. “I’m going to endeavor to make a few pork pies, but I will need some milk and butter. Make sure I have some from the barn, will you, Peasley?”
“Hey, I’m a boss! You don’t order me ‘round,” snarled the gruff guard. “I oughta cuff you for talkin’ to me like that.”
The bookmaster would brook none of it—he was well aware of the shift in power and the supreme might of the spoon.
“If you want to have some pie tonight, Mr. Peasley, you will get my milk and butter. Cream is even better. Or should I tell Bill Thistle that you didn’t want to help make his dinner tasty and creamy?”
The moronic henchman glowered. “Fine! Pinchbottle, you go fetch vittles for this swine and be fast about it. In fact, you can be his lackey for the entire day—I’ve got other prisoners to beat.”
As Peasley stomped off, the bookmaster also realized that his year in Fog Vale might go better than expected. As a fellow who was quickly becoming the head cook, he could while away his sentence doing something he enjoyed. Of course, being the shrewd chap he was, Dorro also wanted to make sure they’d let him leave at the end of the year—he would be a very fine cook; just not too good of one.
“Well Amos, things do seem to be looking up here. Maybe you were right after all.”
“Y’see, me bucko, Fog Vale is a gift in its way, a place for a feller to reinvent hisself into something new and thrillin’.”
“Let’s hope so ….”
Thump!
Dorro flinched and looked about him. Something fell onto the floor behind him.
“Damn rats! They’re the size of dogs around here, Amos,” huffed Dorro, revolted by the thought a large rodents in his larder.
Fwump!
“Get out, you filthy creatures! Accursed rats.”
“’ooo you callin’ a rat?”
The bookmaster spun around to see who had spoken those words—but there was no one in the room aside from Amos. Panic was beginning to envelope him, though Pinchbottle just looked at his nails, having spent much of his life around rats, large and small.
“Who said that? Show yourself!”
“Why, I did ….”
Dorro turned back around and felt his knees buckle. For there in front of him was a form knew all too well—that of an Eastern mountain goblin. In seconds, two more orkuses emerged from behind the crates and started circling around the Halflings. Dorro knew they were in deep trouble and wished Peasley would return with his milk and butter at that very moment.
“What do you want? Food? Just take it!” he sputtered.
He took a deeper look at the three. They were certainly very similar to Grimble and Braâch in terms of size and coloring (whose tale was recounted in Devils & Demons), not to mention the wicked goblins that had raided Thimble Down the previous Fall. Clearly, these fellows were not to be trifled with.
“So yer the cooks here, eh?” croaked the first orkus, leering.
“I ain’t no cook,” said a terrified Amos Pinchbottole, pointing to the bookmaster. “He is!”
“Can you bake something tasty for us?”
“Certainly not!” sneered Dorro. “I work here. Why don’t you boys take some food and go back to your own caves? I won’t tell anyone. Help yourself.”
A different goblin said, “Oh we can eat any ol’ time. But we ain’t too handy with yummy food—most of the time, it’s raw meat. We wants something delectable, like you Halflings make. We’ve had it before.”
“You’ve had our food? How?” Dorro was stalling for time, hoping some other prisoners or bosses would show up and distract the beasts while he escaped. “Tell me about it.”
“We’ve caught some of yer chums and made ‘em cook for us. Some of them was very good—others not so good. Them we turned into slaves … or turned them into suppers themselves!”
At that, the goblins began to jump up and down in joy at the thought of eating Halfling flesh. It was repellent.
“Well, I don’t have time to cook your dinner—but help yourself to some food and I will give you a few recipes. How does that sound?”
Dorro was growing desperate.
“Green slime cookies,” lisped the third goblin.
“Pardon me?”
“Green slime cookies—them’s me fav’rite.”
“Ummm, I don’t know that recipe—I’m sure it’s delicious—but if you come back next week, I will bake you some.”
This is getting absurd, thought the Thimble Downer and the conversation was certainly not trending in the right direction. The goblins were now leaping about higher and higher, saying whatever came into their minds.
“Blood ‘n’ Heart pudding!”
“Bear Tongue Soup!”
“Candied Eyeballs!”
“Yum, yum, yum!”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m all out of bear tongues and candied eyeballs,” said Dorro, inching towards the door. “Sadly, I’m late for an appointment—can we converse later? I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun ….”
The bookmaster grabbed Amos’ sleeve took a quick step, but not before the biggest goblin leapt to block their path.
“You ain’t going anywhere!”
Amos yelped again, “I ain’t the cook—that one is! Lemme go, mates.”
Annoyed by his confederate, Dorro blurted out, “We’re late for an important meeting, my good fellow and—.”
It was at that moment when one of the beasties banged Dorro on the head, followed a heartbeat later by Amos and rendering both unconscious.
The three goblins swooped up their prizes and snuck out the hole in the back of the storeroom, heading to the woods and thence to their caves in the mountains.
As they ran, they sang and whistled with delight.
We got a fresh cook!
We got a new cook!
He’ll make us green slime cookies.
And sweeties filled with gook!”
“We got a new feller
Who’s blood runs red ‘n’ yeller!
He’ll make us cakes ‘n’ pies,
… or he we cuts him ‘til he dies!
Seizure
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shoe, but we are assuming control of the library—by rights of forfeiture.”
Hamment Shugfoot stood haughtily in the library, looking smug and confident, while Bedminster Shoe tried to fathom what was happening.
“That’s illegal seizure, Mr. Shugfoot! How dare you? The village of Thimble Down has no right to this property—it’s owned by Mr. Dorro
and run by myself per his explicit instructions.”
“I have a writ signed by the Mayor himself declaring the library as part of Dorro’s criminal liability for murder.”
Hamment smiled in that oily way he was so good at.
“You will vacate the premises until further notice. And, by the way, the Mayor has decreed that your little school will close, as well. It’s not profitable for the good folk of the village.”
Bedminster’s eyes nearly leapt out of his head. He espied Will and Cheeryup in the gallery, peering over the rail at the tense standoff and beckoned them. He grabbed a piece of foolscap and scrawled a quick note, writing a single name on the outside.
“Deliver this immediately, children. This is a crisis!”
“You can call in whatever troops you like, Mr. Shoe, but as of this moment the library will be remanded to the custody of the village of Thimble Down, under the auspices of the Mayor and, as the official attorney thereof, me.”
He again smiled in that smarmy way of his.
“Now—get out.”