by Pete Prown
* * *
As they had several times before, Dorro and Saoirse bade their farewells, though this time was the most painful. Other giants from the Grey Mountains carefully bound the boy’s corpus in cloths for the long journey to the East; there, she would bury him in a distant pass.
Saoirse had many lonely months ahead of her, he knew—Dorro wished he could have come and kept her company, but he was needed in the West, where a certain nephew was waiting. They spoke just a few words, both knowing they both possessed a depth of feeling that transcended the fact she was a giant and he, a wee Halfling, but they knew it was for naught.
“You go take care of that boy of yours, Dorro—he needs you more than I do,” said the lady. “Let us part as friends and each much better for having known the other.”
The bookmaster was transfixed by her wisdom and gave her another hug before she departed. The army of giants disappeared into the woods beyond the river, pulling a creaky wagon built of old, weathered wood that bore Truckulus to his final rest. It was an image Dorro would remember for the remainder of his days.
The giants also promised to secure the goblins’ horrible caverns, in case they found any Halfling slaves left behind; Dorro hoped Otis Jones and the others had escaped and found their way home. The caves would then be destroyed, so no other fell beasts could occupy their dark, evil environs.
In short order, he and Sheriff Forgo made plans to leave and many of the former prisoners had already departed westward, clutching their pardons and hoping for new lease on life. The Woodland elves promised them safe passage for half the journey, before heading south for better hunting and foraging as Spring beckoned. Yet it was still cold, snowy Winter for a few more days and as they departed Fog Vale, a freezing drizzle began to fall.
Dorro and Forgo also said goodbye to their friends from the Northern Realm. Crumble promised to visit Thimble Down again and bring his son Orli, who had become fast friends with Wyll a few months earlier (the lad was still in Gildenhall; he had taken an apprenticeship to learn the arcane digging secrets of his kind. Crumble was very proud of him, as were his uncles and new stepmother).
With Dorro, Forgo, and Amos in a dogcart pulled by a stout bog pony, and the elves on foot, the troupe followed the twisting paths out of the Vale and into the wooded lands heading towards Thimble Down. Inexplicably, Toldir disappeared into the forest, promising to rejoin them in but a few hours.
The journey would take the better part of a week and Dorro and Forgo had plenty of time to talk. As Amos spent much of his time snoozing in the back, the bookmaster caught up on the legal circus that followed his departure.
As he learned, Dorro owed many friends his deepest gratitude—especially Bedminster Shoe, Darwinna, and his old chum Timmo—while Forgo had much to get off his conscience. He carried an enormous burden of guilt for not helping his friend sooner and apologized profusely, something one would not expect from the famously grumpy lawman. Dorro accepted his words and promised they would never speak of it again.
At last, Toldir appeared out of the treeline and bade the convoy to stop.
“Hold up, little friends!”
“What is it—more goblins?”
The elf laughed. “We needn’t fear seeing orkus anytime soon—their kind has been banished from his world, aside from from a handful who are hiding deep in the mountains by now. Yet I met a fellow I think you should meet. He seems to know you.”
“Out here in the wild? We’re eighty or ninety miles from Thimble Down.”
Something leapt up onto the cart behind them and both Thimble Downers whipped around.
“Wha! ….”
Dorro was at a pure loss for words.
“Now—who’s been makin’ up all this muck that I be dead? I’m as alive as ever, ye numpty-heads!”
Both Forgo and Dorro stared at a tiny figure standing in the back of their dogcart, hands on his hips and looking distinctly irritated.
It was Dalbo Dall.
The Twelfth Law
The Hanging Stoat was a beehive of gossip and angst on this night, a Thursday on the 20th of March—the very first full day of Spring.
Thimble Downers left and right were shouting, cussing, and laughing, as they are wont to do, but on this occasion, much of the conversation focused on the Great Wood and the problems therein.
“Where are the purple hellebores? Where are me yellow witchhazels?” sniped Mrs. Fowl. “I should have an ocean of white snowdrops in me garden, but it’s barren and forlorn.”
“Something is afoul in the Great Wood,” fretted Minty Pinter, procuring another honeygrass whiskey from Mr. Mungo as solace. “I knows it in me bones”
“The Meeting Tree is dead,” moaned the gloomy Bog the Blacksmith. “There ain’t no buds on any of ta’ branches. Dead, I tells ya!”
Some folks swore that some of the trees in the Great Wood had departed during the past few weeks, just uprooted and walked away, but they were hooted at and mocked. Still, something was afoot in the woods and wilds surrounding Thimble Down. Springtime was late this year and the woods were still silent.
At a table in one corner, the Mayor and Osgood Thrip were discussing nefarious plans and schemes, while their one-time solicitor Hamment Shugfoot sat alone on a barstool, drinking too many cups of whiskey and looking somewhat wobbly—he was certainly looking less than his usual dapper, effete self.
Elsewhere in the tavern, a few notable others had gathered to discuss the latest developments in their fair village, among them, Mr. Timmo, Mr. Shoe, and the impeccably adorned Darwinna Thrashrack, who was sporting a boffo light-green ensemble to mark this Vernal day of the calendar. Also present was Tiberius Grumbleoaf who was jotting notes in his well-worn leather volume as usual.
“Is it legal, Darwinna?” fretted Bedminster. “We’re taking quite a risk.”
“I’ll defer to Tiberius on the matter, but yes, I think it is quite legitimate.”
“I think it’s a splendid and naughty idea, if anyone cares,” said Timmo with a restrained, conspiratorial smile. “I vote Yes.”
Grumbleoaf snorted in his usual way and pushed a pair of reading specs higher on his nose, indicating he was about to speak. The Halfling shifted his considerable girth in the chair and closed his book.
“Indeed, I think we are on firm legal ground. It’s clearly documented in the Codex Borgonian as the Twelfth Law. Natural-born citizens of a village may call a special election in a time of crisis and, indeed, we are in crisis. We don’t have scientific proof, at least as far as the natural philosophies go, but Winter is lingering too long. Secondly, we are having a crisis of faith in our Mayor—his actions regarding Mr. Winderiver have been underhanded, malicious, and self-serving. I advise that we press our case forward.”
“Hear, hear,” added Timmo, barely audible as he took a small sip of sherry.
“I’m afraid for the library—if we fail, the Mayor and Osgood will do everything in their power to undermine our school and more,” moaned Bedminster. “The younglings will suffer!”
“We must be brave, Mr. Shoe.” Darwinna looked at the scribe imploringly, causing the learned fellow to wilt inwardly. “This is our moment, friends—we must act!”
“It’s up to you, Barrister Thrashrack,” murmured Grumbleoaf. “It all comes down to you, my dear.”
The beautiful lawyer looked unsure of herself, but just for a moment. Then she stood.
“Friends! Friends!”
The gaggle of Halflings in the Hanging Stoat suddenly quieted, wanting to know who was intruding on their grousing and drinking. Upon seeing Darwinna Thrashrack, most of the fellows stopped talking immediately and got wistful looks on their faces, much to the ire of their wives and sweethearts.
“Friends, we must talk. I hope you will listen,” she began. “These are troubled days in Thimble Down and it is time for us to make a change.”
Many heads nodded around the room. “According to law, we have cause—in fact, a natural right—to make changes in our
leadership … and that’s why I’m calling for a special election to elect a new Mayor for our village!”
The room was silent, but just for a second or two. The villagers looked at one another in disbelief. Many wondered if they had heard that correctly, or if Darwinna had suddenly lost her beans.
Then one smiled, and then another. A giggle, a chuckle, a clap—and then the whole room exploded in noise, cheering and yelling and banging their mugs on the table.
“Stop! Stop right now!
It was the ferocious bellow of Osgood Thrip, his face a ferocious glower and his bald pate glistening with sweat that flickered lamplight of the tavern.
“This is completely illegal. You can’t just call an election when you feel like it! Our Mayor was duly elected by the citizens of Thimble Down not quite five months ago and his term doesn’t end for another three years. You have outstepped your bounds, Barrister Thrashrack.”
Darwinna looked chastened and embarrassed. She glanced at Grumbleoaf, who nodded his head firmly, urging her to go on.
“Actually, Osgood, I think we’re on solid legal ground here. Let me quote you the Twelfth Law of the Borgonian Code ….,” upon which she regaled him with the intricacies of Halfling legal philosophy.
Thrip look mystified, while the Mayor, seated next to him, just frowned and knitted his famously bushy eyebrows. Finally, Osgood spoke.
“This is nonsense, counselor. You can’t just make this stuff up and hope that the wise folk of Thimble Down will believe you?”
(Naturally, Thrip was pandering to the patrons of the Hanging Stoat, knowing they were dumber than sheep, but as a savvy businessman, this was how one did things.)
There was an awkward cough on the other side of the Hanging Stoat and heads craned to see who would dare challenge Osgood Thrip. It was, surprisingly enough, Hamment Shugfoot, who had discovered he had enough balance to actually stand on his own two feet, despite the steady supply of whiskey.
“I’m afraid, Osgood, thazz Miss Thrashrack is correct. The Twelfth Law of the Borgonian Code is im – im – immutable. With a simple hand vote of a hunnerd citizens, the populace of this hamlet can indeed demand a special ’lection for the mayorship. And there’s nothing you can do about, ol’ Thrippy!”
Leaping to his feet, the Mayor looked like he was about to blow hot coals out his ears.
“How dare you, sir! I should have you removed from the premises!”
Darwinna Thrashrack jumped in again. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but I must remind you of the Fourth Law, which we discussed at our last hearing. And attempts by yourself to circumvent the Borgonian Code could result in you receiving time in gaol. The law is the law.”
“She’zz quite right, Mayor—I have no vested interest in the outcome of this procedure, but I am bound by the laws o’ our realm,” burped Hamment, wobbling onto his stool again.
The Mayor fumed. “So be it!
Hamment continued his oratory, now seated. “Can we have a vote?”
Dozens and dozens of hands shot up around the tavern. Even Mr. Mungo, Farmer Edythe, and their barmaid Freda raised their hands. Bedminster Shoe jumped up and began counting. “Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three …. One hundred!”
The Hanging Stoat erupted into pure pandemonium. Thimble Downers of all ages and sizes were leaping and laughing and dancing like fools. But they stopped at the sound of the Mayor banging his pewter beer mug on the table, just like his magistrate’s gavel.
“Fine, have your damned election! But tell me, which country bumpkin are you going to nominate to challenge me? I dare you to find a worthy candidate. I dare you.”
The room descended into silence again. Once more, Hamment Shugfoot wobbled to his feet. “I hereby nim – nerm – nominate [burp!] Darwinna Thrashrack for Mayor!”
Before anyone could react, a slender, reserved villager who rarely spoke up vaulted to his feet. “I second the motion!” he cried.
Tiberius Grumbleoaf hoisted himself to his feet.
“So the motion is carried; thank you, Mr. Timmo. We shall have the special election for the Mayorship of this village in three days’ time, at noon in this very location. I suggest you tell everyone you know. That is all.”
Fortunately, the Hanging Stoat was built very soundly, one of the few freestanding structures in the area. Made of sturdy oak and pine boards and planks with strong iron nails and pegs holding it together, it could withstand anything short of an earthquake.
As the villagers descended into joyous celebration on this night—screaming, dancing, laughing, hugging, and throwing the occasional pint of ale against the wall—the Stoat proved worthy of every last nail, for any other building would have collapsed instantly.
Surely, it was one of the most hopeful evenings in Thimble Down anyone could remember.
Tobias Grim
What transpired in the following three days was nothing short of a revolution in Thimble Down.
With the Mayor and Darwinna stumping every day, excitement was palpable, running up and down the village’s twisting lanes and alleys. The Mayor made an outlandish number of promises: new sewers, safer lanes, cleaner water and, really, any far-fetched lie he could think of.
Beyond that, Osgood Thrip was paying off every merchant and tradesman in Thimble Down, buying votes by the dozen. It was a time-honored method that had always worked for the Mayor before.
The barrister, meanwhile, ran on one premise—honesty. She made no wild promises, other than the fact that she’d show up for work every day, do her best, and always act in the villagers’ interests. Folks who listened her speeches didn’t walk away cheering, but often lost in thought.
Some thought Darwinna was too genteel and pleasant to be an effective leader, while others were confused by her lack of absurd lies and schemes. They thought those were the things a Mayor was supposed to say—this honesty business was all too confusing to them.
Election Day came at last and, to the surprise of all, the turnout was enormous. The Mayor knew this was a good sign, as his payoffs had always generated large blocks of votes in the past. Darwinna, meanwhile, put on a pure white outfit with brocaded accents and a simple hat to accentuate her eyes. She did not expect a victory, but want to wear white as a symbol of her good intentions.
The vote-counting lasted well into the night, with both the Mayor and the lawyer pacing the floor of the Hanging Stoat as a committee of representatives worked in the back room.
Finally, at half past eleven, Dowdy Cray emerged and summoned Osgood Thrip and Tiberius Grumbleoaf, each serving as official representatives of the candidates. They shut the door, much to the dismay of the Thimble Downers who were waiting anxiously for the results. At exactly three minutes after midnight, the three Halflings came forth and Dowdy began reading from a scroll he held high.
“Friends and villagers! I have the official results of the election for Mayor. The committee has counted every vote twice and we have signatures here from Mr. Thrip and Mr. Grumbleoaf verifying the results.”
“Oh, get on with it, you dunderhead!” shouted a voice in the crowd, something echoed by others around him. The speaker looked suspiciously like Bog the Blacksmith, but no one owned up to it.
“Fine!” huffed Dowdy who himself would have been happier at home in bed. “The winner of the special election is—by a margin of three to one—Miss Darwinna Thrashrack!”
The Mayor froze where he stood and stared at his closest advisor, Osgood Thrip. But the business magnate just glared back and slowly shook his head. It was over and done with.
Slowly, the noise grew and grew until the windows were nearly blasted out of the tavern’s.
First the first time in twenty years, Thimble Down had a new Mayor—and its very first who knew how to dress fashionably, as well as appropriately for the season and occasion.