Death of a Dwarf Read online

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  No sooner had Nurse Pym left than the door burst open again, and in flew Wyll and Cheeryup, along with their new friend.

  “What ho, young ones! And who’s this fine fellow?”

  “Sheriff Forgo, may I introduce Orli, a Dwarf from the North Country,” said Cheeryup in her most formal voice.

  The lawman held out his hand to shake, which Orli returned, though looking curiously at the custom. “Hullo, Mr. Sheriff. My Pa says yer the boss in this here village.”

  Forgo laughed. “Maybe I am, good sir. Who’s your papa?”

  “He is Crumble of the Northern Realm, known far and wide for his gifts with metals and ores,” happily continued Orli. “We are here with the rest of my uncles to work for Mr. Bindlestiff at yon smeltery. My dad and uncles are the best smelters around, which is why they were called for. And they’re teaching me, so someday I can be the best, though I ain’t sure that’s what I want to do with my life.”

  “What would like to do, Orli?” chimed in Wyll. “I’m going to be a lawman, just like Sheriff Forgo, and fight villains all day long.”

  Forgo guffawed again. “I wouldn’t go that far, young Wyll. So what about you, Orli—will you be a lawman, too?”

  “I was raised deep in the earth, but I do like life under the naked sun,” said the stout lad, who was as tall as Cheeryup and Wyll, yet wider than both put together. He also had a few scratchy black hairs on his chin and neck, a mark of a grand Dwarf beard to come.

  “I enjoyed our trek through these woodlands, Wyll. We don’t have many trees in the colder places, but I quite like them trees o’ yers. I could become very fond of them in fact. Can you make a living as a tree man, or … a tree Dwarf?”

  “Of course you can, Orli,” chirped the thin yellow-haired girl. “You could be a carpenter or a lumber-Dwarf. Can you climb trees?”

  “I dunno.”

  “That settles that,” added Wyll with a gleam. “This afternoon, when it warms up a little, we’ll go search for my favorite climbing trees. I know a good many, especially in Mr. Dorro’s orchard.”

  The children clapped hands joyously, but Sheriff Forgo interrupted. “So what did you three actually come her for?”

  “Oh dear, I forgot!” snapped Cheeryup, not happy with herself for forgetting. “There was a hullaballoo at the library this morning; many village folk were there complaining of the thefts. Apparently, that thief was a busy bee last night.”

  “Why didn’t they come to see me?”

  Wyll jumped in, “They’re comin’ soon. They just bumped into each other at the library while Mr. Dorro was there, and he began asking all sorts of questions. Soon, half the library patrons had stories of things that had gone missing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Minty Pinter lost a nice tin pot from his cart, and Dowdy Cray said a whole axel was stolen from his wagon shop,” piped Cheeryup.

  “… and Farmer Duck can’t find his scythe or any of his baling twine. And Freda at the Hanging Stoat says her apron is gone. So is her beer tray!” rang in Wyll. “Folks are missing pies and hats and coins and books and socks and more!”

  “Dorro must be out of his melon about missing books.”

  “He is, Sheriff, he is,” groaned Wyll. “Steam was coming out of his ears this morning when he discovered that Bladgett’s Illustrated Portfolio of Burrows and Hillock Homes was missing. He was going to show it to Orli’s father and uncles, but now he can’t.”

  “So I’ve got a thief who steals with impunity from burrows and public buildings, and a mysterious illness that is felling my fellow citizens. What’s next?” Forgo frowned and looked out the window of the gaol. Suddenly, he coughed. A loud, wracking cough.

  He stared at the children, and they back at him, all quite alarmed. “Not a word of this to anyone, younglings—you never heard me cough. Understood?”

  Wyll, Cheeryup, and Orli nodded mutely and departed. Behind them, they heard the Sheriff start to hack and cough again. It didn’t seem like it would ever stop.

  The Campaign

  With Wyll and Cheeryup back in the library and watching the front desk, Dorro made plans to see the Mayor’s speech at noon. The chief magistrate of Thimble Down was up for reelection—maybe his twelfth or thirteenth term—and was ever the commanding orator, even if he was also a sneaky weasel.

  The Mayor was only ever interested in his own welfare and didn’t care two hoots for populace at large; fortunately for him, no one ever rose to challenge his vice-grip on the village. For all his shortcomings, he was a brilliant politician and knew how build networks and alliances throughout Thimble Down, notably among its merchants and business leaders.

  The Mayor was less popular with the farmers that surrounded the village, but that’s because they never did anything for him or vice-versa. Thus when elections rolled around, the leader was able to call in all the favors he’d been doling out and lock in votes before even starting the campaign.

  As Dorro arrived to the site of the Mayor’s speech near the Bumbling Badger tavern, he noticed a lectern hastily mounted on the back of a wagon and a crowd beginning to swell. At noon on the dot, Thimble Down’s wealthiest citizen, Osgood Thrip (newly returned from his family’s exile in Water-Down), mounted the cart and snorted loudly to get everyone’s attention.

  “Hear, hear! Halflings of Thimble Down—this is your hour!” he began with overt theatrics. “Today, we begin the campaign for the Mayorship of our fair hamlet, between our fine Mayor and any contestants that may emerge today.”

  By now, over a hundred Thimble Downers were present, all jostling each other and grumbling about this and that. Few were actually listening to Osgood Thrip and many were complaining that the speech was keeping them from their lunch. In fact, you could hear more than a few stomachs rumbling.

  “… as I was saying,” continued Thrip, “Our esteemed Mayor is about to address you today. But before that, I want to ask you good folks of Thimble Down if there is anyone who plans to join the race this year. You’ll need two nominations and the support of the crowd. Is there anyone? Anyone at all? No, well that’s fine, we’ll just carry on …”

  “Oy!” came a loud voice from the crowd. “You hold on there, Mr. Osgood Thrip! Always in a rush, pushin’ people around and not letting them think things out. I know something about that, I do!”

  Pushing his way through the mob was Mr. Mungo, the venerable tavern keeper of the Hanging Stoat. The big Halfling was red in the face and puffing heavily, but he kept pushing his way forward until he stood next to the wagon and spoke up. “I … [wheeze!] … hereby nominate … [gasp!] … my lovely wife Farmer Edythe … [puff!] … to be the next Mayor of Thimble Down!”

  There was a cheer in the audience, as everyone loved a good race and glad they didn’t have to listen to the Mayor dawdle on with his vague promises and lies. “I second the nomination!” came another voice from the throng. The Halflings all turned their heads to see who had dared to speak up. Even Osgood Thrip scanned the motley assemblage looking for the source, but stopped and frowned.

  “The nomination of Farmer Edythe has been made by Mr. Mungo and seconded by Bog the Blacksmith,” sneered Thrip. “However, Mungo’s nomination is null and void owing to the fact that he is the candidate’s husband. No relations can nominate their kin!” A sly grin stole over Osgood’s face.

  The crowd of Thimble Downers all started shouting and grousing at the technicality, with more than a few “Boos!” ringing out and echoing down the burrow-lined lane. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules,” said Thrip in a deep basso voice.

  “In that case, I nominate Farmer Edythe for mayor. I do so with great joy and think she would make a fine leader for our village!”

  Again, there was a mad uproar from the citizens, necks turning left and right to find the speaker who dared to challenge Thrip. He too scanned the crowd, a nasty snarl on his face. “Who said that?” he roared. “I demand to know who made that nomination.”

  A figure on
the periphery of the crowd stood up on a wooden box, puffing on his pipe. It was a tall, soft-middled Halfling with tousled brown hair and wearing a reasonably posh jacket and waistcoat.

  “I said it.”

  “Why’s it’s Mr. Dorro!” crowed half a dozen village folk, in quiet awe. “It’s the bookmaster! Good on ye, sir!”

  Slowly, the tremor rippled through the crowd, building until it reached a deafening round of applause. His snarl became a horrible grimace, and to restore order Osgood Thrip pulled out a wooden hammer and began banging on the lecture. “Hear, hear!” he shouted in his formidably loud voice. “I regret to say that … [sigh] …Mr. Dorro’s nomination of Farmer Edythe is perfectly legal and binding, as is Bog the Blacksmith’s seconding. I hereby announce that Farmer Edythe will challenge the Mayor in the upcoming election.”

  The crowd exploded into a frenzy of joy, as they knew this would be an excellent contest and would require many hours in the pubs and taverns of Thimble Down discussing the merits of each candidate. That these discussions would further entail the downing many mugs of ale and pipefuls of Old Nob weed was incidental; this was serious politics and required such actions. If consuming a plateful of chops or two were a further requirement, so be it.

  By now, the village folk were cheering and dancing all over the lane, so much so that they forgot about the Mayor’s speech and set off for the nearest tavern to slake their thirsts. As for the poor Mayor, he arrived at the scene only minutes later, only to find an empty lane, a wagon with a lectern atop, and a morose-looking Osgood Thrip next to the wagon, his face buried in his hands.

  “Say, Osgood,” asked the Mayor, “Did I come at the wrong time? Where is my crowd of jolly supporters?”

  Thrip merely looked up at the Mayor, rolled his eyes, and shook his head whilst he stepped away. The Mayor stood there baffled, looking more a fool than usual.

  A Hush in the Wood

  “Orli, do folks like to go fishing in your realm?”

  The Dwarf boy was walking along the edge of the River Thimble with Cheeryup and Wyll, skipping rocks and taking in the color around them. It was a beautiful Fall’s day, warm and crisp with a hint in the air of the cold days to come.

  The big lad scratched his head and thought for a moment.

  “Wyll, we Dwarves actually ain’t much for water, y’know. Every once in a while a trader or tracker will nab a big salmon in a river or a carp from a deep mountain cavern where the cold water runs free and fast like veins of silver. Otherwise, we prefer rooting about for diamonds, gems, gold, and copper. For food, there are tasty game animals who wander our lands and rest in our caves—like elk and snow hares. Them’s we eat, along with mushrooms—we grow lots and lots of ‘shrooms in our caves.”

  Wyll was befuddled that there were folk that didn’t love fishing; it was one of his favorite pastimes and something he shared with his Uncle Dorro. “Someday we will take you fishing, Orli, and you will see how much fun it is. In our village, we have anglers who fish even in the middle of Winter, sawing holes in the ice for sleeping trout below.”

  “That sounds more enjoyable—we Dwarves do not care for boats or falling into water, unless it’s a hot spring.”

  “How do you cleanse yourselves?” wondered Cheeryup.

  “Why do we need cleansing?” Orli asked in return. “We are Dwarves—we live under the earth and love the smell of dirt and rock and gravel. That is why we are who we are!

  Cheeryup chose not to pursue this line of inquiry, quickly understanding that Dwarves do not bathe with any frequency, which accounted for their rather pungent aromas.

  “Let me ask you, Master Wyll, are those the kind of fish you seek?” wondered Orli. “If so, I do not see much sport in gathering them. Seems too simple minded.”

  The children looked to where Orli was pointing; Cheeryup was the first to shriek. “Oh dear, what happened to those poor fish.” The three raced down the rocky shoreline to a small eddy that was completely filled—with dead fish: trout, bass, perch, walleye, sunfish, pike … some quite large and of prize weight.

  Wyll was horrified. “These are some of the biggest fish I’ve ever seen in the river. And they’re all dead, just dead! Who could have done this?”

  “Not who, young master Underfoot. But what.” The children jumped and grabbed each other as a figure stepped out from behind a winterberry holly bush, whose rich, red fruit was just coming into color. It was a small Halfling, very old, and with wrinkly, leather-like skin.

  “Oh! It’s you, Mr. Dalbo. You always spring out like that,” said a visibly flustered Cheeryup. “You’re such a sneak!”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but I have ye ol’ Halfling gift of stealth.” It was Dalbo Dall, the villager wanderer. “You’ve seen yon horrible tragedy. I found it this morning and cried many tears over those lost souls.”

  “What caused it, Mr. Dalbo?” cried Wyll.

  “There’s something wrong in the water, friends. And in the air and soil, too. The Great Wood has been poisoned, I fear.” Dalbo’s words just hung in the air with profound sadness.

  “What can we do?”

  “I don’t know as yet, but am I am in consultation with thy trees, and they’re as upset as I am. I should know more after I confer with Big Otto.” Dalbo Dall adjusted his floppy, pointed hat as he spoke.

  Wyll and Cheeryup briefly looked at each other, wondering if Dalbo had finally lost his melon. “Big Otto?” they said in harmony.

  “Ah, he’s a friend of mine. Actually, a mutual friend with yon Uncle Dorro. You know the fine fellow.”

  “You mean Big Otto, the pike?” inquired Wyll. “Why, he’s a fish! Out there, in the river! How can you talk to him?”

  “We have our ways here in the Wood, and Otto is one of the most perceptive minds in the river. I rely on him to tell me about changes in the currents, scents, and temperature of the water—this is information I need to know!” added the vagabond most emphatically, his eyes bugging out. “I’ve spoken to others—I met some villagers near the Meeting Tree yesterday, who were out for a hunt. Yet they’d spent the whole day scouring the Great Wood and found no game. No birds, no squirrels, no deer—nothing. This troubles me.”

  Wyll and Cheeryup edged closer together, wondering if Dalbo was insane and could become dangerous. “My words may seem strange to you as yet, but give it time. O’er the years, they may begin to make sense. But never mind for now—introduce me to your young friend.”

  “Ermmm, this is Orli. He’s a …”

  “Dwarf, yes, I know,” said Dalbo. “I’m a great admirer of ye kin, young sir. The Dwarves of the Northern Realm are strong folk and legendary diggers. They are as close to the earth as any creatures alive. I assume that’s why you’re here—to dig!”

  “Yes, Mr. Dalbo,” said Orli with customary shyness. “We’re here to help Mr. Bindlestiff at the smeltery.”

  “Aye, that’s what I was afraid of.” Dalbo looked off pensively and began rubbing his chin. “But I won’t make hasty judgments. I just wanted to say I’m glad to meet ye and look for’ard to being introduced to thy father and uncles. Welcome to Thimble Down!”

  At that, Dalbo Dall bowed awkwardly, nodded at Wyll and Cheeryup, and disappeared back to the shrubbery from whence he came. The children remembered Mr. Dorro was home at the Perch right at the moment and knew what to do.

  “C’mon, Orli!” shouted Wyll.

  The three ran as fast as they could back to the burrow of a certain bookmaster.