by Pete Prown
* * *
The Mayor—the former Mayor, actually—wasn’t done yet. Standing there in the Hanging Stoat, the Halfling felt humiliated. Most folks in the village had forgotten his name or his former profession, in truth, he had been a tailor earlier in his life and held the birth name of Tobias Grim. He left that all behind as he ascended in stature and became the Mayor, the most powerful Halfling for miles around.
At the moment, though, Mr. Grim was completely ignored by those around him. And he blamed it all on one fellow—Tiberius Grumbleoaf.
In retrospect, it was Grumbleoaf who had discovered all the archaic rules and laws from the Codex Borgonian that unraveled the Mayor’s career. For all his evil machinations, Tobias Grim had long ago proved himself a quick, self-serving thinker and instantly realized the most expedient method of revenge.
Spying the big Halfling across the room, sipping a victorious glass of mead with the new Mayor, Tobias edged closer to the table where he had been sitting earlier. Closer. Closer. He sidled down into the seat and opened the big leather book laying there.
As he leafed through page after page, a smile broke over Tobias Grim’s face, a crack in his face that made his mutton-chop sideburns go askew and his bushy eyebrows dance with sadistic joy. His moment of triumph was at hand.
“Friends! Hear me! Friends, listen!”
Everyone in the Hanging Stoat piped down and stared at the ex-Mayor, now standing on a bench with a strange leer on his face. They were perplexed why he hadn’t slunk off in defeat and, moreover, why he held a large volume in his hands. Across the way, Grumbleoaf had a look of pure terror on his face.
“First of all, I must concede the election to the esteemed Darwinna Thrashrack—you have my congratulations, my dear,” said Tobias. Most in the room were surprised the fellow was being magnanimous, but they also hoped he would leave Thimble Down soon and bring his backhanded ways to a community more used to sneaky fellows like him. (The port of Water-Down seemed a likely destination, many felt, a big town already full of con artists, liars, and crooks.)
“I would also like to congratulate the mastermind behind her victory, the formidable Tiberius Grumbleoaf. Can we have a round of applause for our brilliant legal scholar?
There was scattered clapping, though most had no idea why the former Mayor was wasting their time.
“I would like to make it known, however, that Tiberius’ true interest in Mayor Thrashrack goes far beyond the political realm. Luckily, I have chanced upon his famous book, the one he keeps locked at all times when it’s not in his hands. However, he seems to have forgotten tonight and I’ve found one or two fascinating passages within—.”
“No! Put it down!” shouted Grumbleoaf, but it was too late.
“What I find so fascinating,” continued Tobias Grim, “… is that our Mr. Grumbleoaf is a poet and a romantic one at that. Page after page of his leather-clad book is filled with freshly scrawled poems—love poems, apparently, and all dedicated to a certain lady barrister who just became our Mayor. They’re most amusing. Shall I read one?”
Poor Tiberius had by this time turned a bright plum-purple and could not look at Darwinna in the eyes. And Hamment Shugfoot, who had been skulking in the corner, was standing agog, his eyes bulging from his face. He could not believe what Tobias Grim was about to say:
Thy face has become my Sun
Like Stars upon my heart,
Your Smile sings like robins,
Piercing as a dart.
Brighter than the moon
A voice of sweetest sound,
Your words fill me like wine,
Darwinna, of faire Thimble Down ….
“Oh dear, and there’s so much more, folks! They’re immortal—the drivel of a lovesick oaf pining for Miss Thrip, our new Mayor!”
There was a snicker in the tavern. Then a chuckle. A guffaw in the back. Like a wildfire, the room erupted in laughter, a few even pointing at Tiberius and pulling faces at the big, burly barrister and his secret desires for the most beautiful lady in all the Halfling counties.
Grumbleoaf could brook no more—he dashed at the rat named Tobias Grim, pushing folks out of the way, and yanked the massive book his hands. On the verge of tears, Tiberius peered across the sea of giggling faces and noticed one that was not laughing; it was Darwinna, seeming sad and embarrassed. The solicitor shoved his way towards the door and disappeared into the brisk March night.
Tobias Grim was still standing on that bench, smiling most evilly; he may have lost the mayorship, but at least he served up a nice dish of vengeance.
Tobias would have enjoyed it more, however, if someone hadn’t thrown a pewter tankard at him, delivering a direct hit on his bony forehead. As it ended up, the malcontent was knocked clean out and had to be carried from the Hanging Stoat, blood dripping from his face.
No one saw who threw the mug, but some thought the perpetrator looked suspiciously like Hamment Shugfoot.
Letter to a Friend
Without any fanfare, a dogcart pulled into Thimble Down on a cool, misty morning. It first pulled up near Fell’s Corner; a Halfling hopped off and waved goodbye.
“Well, thank’ee much, Mr. Dorro and Sheriff Forgo. I hope we don’t have to see each other for a while!”
Amos Pinchbottle smiled weakly as he said it, knowing that they’d all been through enough misadventure for a lifetime.
“I’ll try to be a good lad, I promise.”
“If not, Amos, there’s always a bed for you in the gaol,” smirked Forgo, shaking the reins.
The dogcart rolled onward, heading west towards the river. Another pause and a passenger hopped out not far from the Meeting Tree, sharing a wink and departing into the scrub without a word.
Dalbo Dall returned to the Great Wood and, as he’d informed them many times on their journey from Fog Vale, he had many trees and creatures to visit and conversations to catch up on. (He was especially eager to see the silvery pike, Big Otto, who often had a bawdy limerick or two to share.)
Lastly, the wagon found its way to a burrow overlooking the River Thimble. Dorro didn’t share any words with the Sheriff, but simply reached out and shook the lawman’s hand before scrambling down. The bookmaster walked down his front path as if in a dream, taking in the early Spring garden.
It was unkempt, but there were faint signs of life emerging—a leaf here, a bud there. It would all be alright, Dorro figured, now that the heartwood was back.
The Halfling turned the brass handle on the brightly painted front door and stepped inside.
“Wyll? Wyll, lad! I’m home.”