Tales From a Second Hand Wand Shop- Book 1: They Were the Best of Gnomes. They Were the Worst of Gnomes.

by Robert P. Wills

(some of) Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wherein Grimbledung’s Body Arrives

  At Prost Garrison

  “Doc! Doc Marone!” Said the corpsman as he poked his head into the window, “We got a body out here!” He ducked back out for a moment, then stuck his head back through. “Looks like it’s a Gnome.”

  Doctor Marone looked up from his parchment- the Daily NEWS (that was the kind of doctor he was). An interested look crawled across his face. It did not remain there though- it merely started on one side and made its way to the other then went wherever interested looks went when they were through for the day. Boredom was back in place in no time. “Great Scott. A body. You don’t say. We don’t get a lot of those here.” He looked back down at the parchment, “In the morgue.”

  “But Doc, this one’s in one piece!” Insisted the corpsman. He disappeared for a moment then returned, “And he’s still warm!”

  Doc Marone exhaled as he rerolled the parchment. “Bring him in and I’ll take a look.” He stood and hobbled to the door to open it, peg leg thumping as he went. Doctor Marone had been working at the Prost Garrison for nearly a year and because of its hazardous location along the Anti-Ogre Wall, he tended to deal with ‘bits’ and sometimes ‘most of’ corpses. It was very rare that entire corpse actually made it to him. Once, a bucket of Ogre scat was brought to him “This was all we could find,” the soldier had explained, “What can you do for him?” Even with all the potions and herbs at his disposal, the prognosis for the digested trooper was not good. On the bright side, Doc Marone did win ‘Best Roses of Show’ that year at the annual Druid Convention. To his credit, when he accepted the award, he cryptically thanked ‘the West End Roving Sentry, Night Shift’ for his part in making the roses award-winners.

  The corpsman, a stout Human huffed and puffed as he carried in the body. “I don’t get it,” he grunted, “I guess Gnomes are like Dwarves.” He struggled to put the body on the combined examination/ operation/ embalming / zombification table (sometimes with the same patient), “They are sure heavier than they look.” He maneuvered the body around and then looked at it. “No holes anywhere,” he commented as he examined the drops of blood on the front of the body’s shirt. “Poison maybe?”

  Doc Marone shook his head. “His color’s too good for that.” He pressed on the Gnome’s chest. It crackled and popped. “Wow, I think a cart ran over this fellow.” He moved to the sides of the chest and began to probe there as well. “Maybe even a wagon.”

  “What do you think?” Asked the corpsman, “Can we use him?”

  “Maybe as a bearer, Gnomes aren’t the best fighters around.” He held his hands out, elbows tucked in close to his body, “Too short of a reach,” he said. “We can use him in the supply room, I suppose. Gnomes are good organizers. So I hear.”

  The corpsman moved to a shelf crowded with jars of assorted sizes and took a large stoneware jar that had a skull and crossbones painted on it. He held it at arm’s length as he placed it beside the body. He took out what appeared to be a butterfly cocoon, soaked in honey. “You think one of these is enough?”

  The doctor wiped his hand on his stained smock and then stuck his finger into the Gnome’s mouth. He looked at the ceiling for a moment. He pulled his finger out and examined it. “He’s still pretty warm. One should be plenty,” said the doctor, re-wiping his hand on the smock.

  The corpsman handed him the cocoon daintily so as to not rub off too much honey. The doctor took it and quickly shoved it into the Gnomes mouth. He clamped it shut with one hand as he held out his hand to the corpsman, “Poker.” He said as he assumed a professional tone.

  “Poker” said the corpsman as he slapped a sharpened stick into the doctor’s hand.

  The doctor slid the stick through his fingers into the Gnome’s mouth. He jabbed it around several times until he felt it puncture the cocoon. As he pulled it out, it trailed what looked like tar intermixed with honey. Without taking his eyes off the Gnome’s mouth, he handed the stick to the corpsman. “Plug” he commanded.

  The corpsman took a stained handkerchief from his back pocket, snapped it once to knock the dust (and other accoutrements) off and handed it to the doctor, “Plug” he said.

  The doctor took the cloth in his hand and glanced at it, “Prep the plug, what’s wrong with you?” He handed it back to the corpsman. “And quickly, man!”

  The corpsman laid the handkerchief on the table beside the Gnome’s leg and rolled it.

  ‘Plug,” said the doctor testily.

  “Plug,” the corpsman repeated as he placed the rolled cloth in his hand.

  Quickly, the doctor stuffed one end of the cloth in one of the Gnome’s nostrils, and the other end in the other one. “Clamp”

  The corpsman, already anticipating the doctor’s request had one in his hand. In hopes of making up for the failed rolling incident, which he was sure would be addressed later, he slapped a clothespin into the doctor’s hand, “Clamp.”

  The doctor quickly removed his hand and used the clothespin to pinch the Gnome’s lips shut. He backed away warily. “I think that’s got it,” he said.

  “What’s the prognosis, Doc?” Asked the corpsman, hoping to keep Doctor Marone’s mind off the impending scolding.

  “Time will tell,” he said solemnly, “time will tell.”

  “I’m going to see if anyone else comes in after him. Maybe there was a group of them that got run over,” said the corpsman as he quickly moved to the door. “Anything else, Doc?” He asked warily.

  The doctor, already in his seat, had begun to unroll the parchment, “That’s it corpsman.” Without looking up he continued, “And keep an eye on your prep- work. We’re not running some ramshackle aid station here.”

  Content with the mild reprimand, the corpsman quickly exited the building and ran into two lanky humans deep in conversation. “Drilling Peachey!” Said the first one, “that’s how you whip a bunch of savages into shape. A few longbows and a little drilling and we can take over the whole of the Great Unknown.”

  The other one shook his head as the corpsman stopped to listen, “Davie, why would we want to do that?” Peachey asked.

  “Because we can set ourselves up like kings afterwards. You and me Peachey! Kings!” Said Davie as he put his arm around his accomplice and led him away.

  The corpsman shook his head as he went the opposite way of the two scheming Humans. Many people came out to make their fortune in the Desert of the Great Unknown. They were usually the ones in the ‘bits’ category when they were discovered.

  The doctor had barely finished the second page of the parchment when the Gnome on the table began to thrash about. “Corpsman!” Bellowed the doctor as he rose to his feet. He held the chair in front of him as a shield. At times, the recently deceased were disoriented and continued to act as if they were still in the incident that resulted in their demise. If it were a duel, things could get hairy. “Calm down, Mister Gnome,” said the doctor firmly. “You’re safe here.”

  Grimbledung sat up and looked about the room, “Whhaffm?” He asked.

  The doctor pointed to his own lips. “Clamp.” He said flatly. The Gnome apparently was not involved in a traumatic incident, he mused. In some cases, the reawaken didn’t even realize they had died- if not that much time had passed.

  “Clamfmm?” Asked the Gnome again.

  The doctor shook his head. Definitely not a violent Gnome. He stepped forward and pulled the clothespin from the Gnome’s lips. It snapped shut as he pulled it off.

  “Owwa!!” Complained the Gnome. “Heyd. Wherd am I?”

  “Plug.” The doctor said pointing at his own nose. Maybe this Gnome could pass arrows and bolts. The stockroom might prove too taxing mentally. “Plug.” He said again.

  “Plugdb?” Asked the Gnome “Where’db Plugdb?”

  “Oh for the love of Sheba’s teats.” He said as he stepped forward again and yanked out the cloth. “Try now,” he snapped.

  “Say! Where am I?” Aske
d Grimbledung. “And how’d I get here?” He looked at the doctor, “And who are you?” He looked at his unfamiliar surroundings. “And how’d I get here?” He added angrily.

  Doctor Marone shook his head. “Here’s the sum of it. You were dead. You were Magicked here. Nothing was missing so I fixed you. Good so far?” The Gnome nodded, so he continued, “And since we fixed you, you are now a conscript in the army of the Great Anti-Ogre Wall.” He put his hands on the operating table. “So far so good?”

  Grimbledung swung his legs off the table. “No, actually, no. Not good, Doc.” He looked around the room again, “In fact, this is as far from good as you could get.” He prepared to hop off the table.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned the doctor.

  Ignoring him, Grimbledung hopped off the table. His legs immediately gave out under him and he fell in a heap. “What’s wrong with my legs?” He complained from the floor, “What’d you do to my legs?”

  “You’ve been dead for a little while. I’d say it’s going to take the rest of the day for all your limbs to work properly.”

  The corpsman had been at the window listening, finally he poked his head in, “Need a hand Doc?” Often disoriented recently-deceased patients could be talked down by one person- a second entering could set them off and end up with them being re-deceased. The doctor nodded without looking at him.

  The corpsman moved to the door and entered the room slowly. “Let me help you back on the table, Mister Gnome,” he said soothingly. He picked up Grimbledung and heaved him back on the table. “Sitting or lying?”

  “Sitting” said Grimbledung flatly. “Until I get enough strength to leave.”

  “Oh you’ll have plenty of strength by the time your conscription is done,” the doctor assured him, “plenty.”

  Grimbledung blinked at the doctor, “How long’s a regular conscription?” He asked warily.

  “Six months for a regular conscription.”

  Grimbledung considered this for a moment; six months to repay not being dead. It was, overall, not a bad deal. Once he sent word to Drimblerod and had his wand sent out, that would go by quickly. After all, a service had been rendered, so payment was due. “Six months is not too bad. I’ve been in the Army twice before already. Hate being a BOOT again, but I can do it if I need to.”

  “Well,” began the corpsman hesitantly, “that’s a regular conscription. That’s people who just show up or are sent here ready to serve.

  “How long is my conscription?”

  “We had to provide you with extensive treatments and procedures. That’s expensive, you know.”

  “How long?” Grimbledung asked warily.

  “And supplies were used. Both magical and non-magical. Those will have to be replenished. These are hard times...”

  “How long?” More testily than warily now.

  “Above and beyond the six months?” Asked the corpsman. He had begun to move towards the door.

  “Total,” demanded Grimbledung. “In total, how many months am I going to have to be here?”

  “Eight,” said the corpsman hesitantly. He was now at the door and he reached behind him to the latch.

  “Eight months?” Said Grimbledung. “That’s only two more months for life- returning services. That’s not so bad.” He nodded at the man. “Sounds good to me.”

  The corpsman opened the door and as he backed out of it, he corrected Grimbledung: “Years.” He quickly closed the door.

  “Years? EIGHT YEARS?”

  The doctor had picked up the chair and was once again holding it in front of him. “Settle down, Mister Gnome. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  Grimbledung glowered at the doctor. “Not bad?” He said. “You don’t know what bad is!” He scooted along the table towards the doctor, “You people haven’t experienced bad!”

  Doctor Marone moved out of reach of the rabid Gnome, “We deal with Ogres and worse up here,” he said nonchalantly, “we know what bad is.”

  “Ogres?” Grimbledung cackled, “he thinks Ogres are bad,” he said to no one in particular. “Ogres are like little cute rabbits in a field of blooming flowers that smell bad!!” He snarled. “Ogres? Ooop! Ooooop! Wait until they get a load of me!” He dropped from the table and dragged himself towards the doctor with his hands. He was snarling and to the doctor’s alarm, drooling excessively.

  “CORPSMAN!” Yelled the doctor in a frightened voice, “CORPSMAN! Guards! Golem Squad!! Someone help!”