“This is a treat, Mr. Dorro!”
“My pleasure, Cheeryup. Tell you the truth, I’d been wanting an excuse to visit the new Hanging Stoat, so why not bring my favorite two young folks for supper?”
The bookmaster ushered his nephew Wyll and young Cheeryup Tunbridge into the new tavern, which had been rebuilt during the Fall after its predecessor had burnt to the ground [previously recounted in the harrowing tale, “Devils & Demons”].
Like the original, the new Stoat was a circular, freestanding building of wood and plaster, with a largish main room for dining and a long wooden bar along one side.
There, busy as ever, was the proprietor, Mr. Mungo, pulling beers and ales as fast as he could for his thirsty patrons. Freda, the barmaid was buzzing around the floor, taking orders and delivering drinks and food, while Mungo’s bride, Farmer Edythe, was greeting visitors and showing them to their tables. Dorro was happy to see the Hanging Stoat back and better than ever.
In a jiffy, the three were seated by Edythe and perusing menus. “What’ll you have, children? I’m looking at that roast partridge stuffed with nuts and gooseberry dressing. That, some turnips, and a glass of red wine will do me fine.”
Freda soon appeared to take their orders and jot down Wyll’s request for a slow-braised beef loin with Brussels sprouts and rice, whereas Cheeryup asked for the buttery fish pie, red potatoes, and squash.
“I’m sorry your mother couldn’t accept the invitation. Is she coughing much?”
“All the time,” said the twelve-year-old girl, a shadow of deep worry passing her face. “She’s never been this ill before. Nurse Pym gave her a nasty syrup to take, and it hasn’t helped. I’m worried, Mr. Dorro.”
Dorro noticed that under the table Wyll had slipped his hand over hers and given it a squeeze. He said with a wink, “Never fear, young lady. One of Pym’s syrup’s will knock over any germ within a mile of your burrow. Frankly, you could remove paint with her concoctions—but they work!”
But secretly, he was concerned. There were Halflings coughing all over the village, including at the Hanging Stoat, and he was afraid a new contagion was on the loose. Whether it was related to Bindlestiff’s smeltery, he couldn’t be sure, but an outbreak of disease would devastate the village. He’d seen it before, though it had been many, many years. Dorro had helped bury the dead and shuddered at the memory.
Suddenly, Dorro became aware of a certain violent jostling, as their chairs were banged from behind. A second later, a pungent stench permeated their table, causing the children and him to plug their nostrils and groan loudly.
This is intolerable, thought the bookmaster. I shall give these hooligans behind us a sound tongue-lashing!
“Now see here!” but the rest of the speech died on Dorro’s lips as he turned in his chair and looked straight into the eyes of a Dwarf. In fact, there were quite a few of them, and they all stared back at the bookmaster as if begging him to start a fight. They all knew it wouldn’t last long. “Ummm, sorry gentlemen, I beg pardon. I thought you were guests we had been expecting,” lied Dorro poorly.
“No harm, Halfling. We Dwarves are unaccustomed to your species’ sense of space. In our country, Dwarves live over, under, sideways down of each other, and are used to being bumped. I’m still learning the ways of your strange folk. My name is Crumble, by the way.”
“Charmed to meet you, Mr. Crumble. I am Dorro Fox Winderiver, the village bookmaster.”
“Just Crumble will suffice, Mr. Doorfox-a-River. I’m a digger, as are my brothers: Wump (burp!), Flume (groan!), Two-Toes (sniffle!), and Magpie (belch!), as well as my fine son, Orli (fart!).”
Wyll and Cheeryup giggled at the display, while Dorro flushed red. “Oh my, there must be beans on the menu tonight!”
“No, a jolly burst of bodily gasses or noise is a customary greeting in the Dwarf lands. It is a sign of manners and good breeding.”
“I see,” said the bookmaster, mildly appalled. “This is young Cheeryup Tunbridge here, along with my nephew Wyll.”
Without missing a beat, the boy let fly a massive burp, horrifying his uncle, but drawing big grins and applause from the Dwarf clan. “Well done, young master, well done!” crowed Crumble. “Perhaps you are part Dwarf and don’t know it,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.
By this time Wyll and Cheeryup were laughing madly; in other circumstances, Dorro might have scolded the impudent boy, but present conditions dictating otherwise, he politely grinned.
“Would you like to [shrug] join us for dinner, friends?”
In a trice the Dwarves abandoned their table and seated themselves around Dorro, Wyll, and Cheeryup. They hooted at Freda for drink and food, and everyone had various ales in front of them. Dorro noticed the Northlanders sharing a tiny glass vial, which they used to pour a few drops of liquid into their beers. He wasn’t sure what it was, but made a mental note to ask them later.
Finally, their suppers had arrived—plates of sausages and chops, and crocks of savory stews—and Crumble yelled out, “Lads, we’ve hit the mother lode—dive in!”
Although Halflings were known for their own formidable eating habits, they couldn’t hold a candle to a North Country Dwarf. The six stocky creatures tore into their plates with violence, eating with their hands, including the stew. There were bits of meat flying across the table and littering the Dwarves ample beards, between gulps of beer. Wyll and Cheeryup couldn’t help but quietly snicker at their guests’ behavior, as neither Mr. Dorro nor Mrs. Tunbridge would have tolerated that behavior for a second.
Dorro, meanwhile, delicately cut his lamb chop with his fork and knife, savoring the flavor and dodging clots of flying gravy. He would break to take sips of red wine from a glass goblet, but paying no mind to the gorging guests across the table.
“So, Mr. Door-a-River, I figger you must live in a burr-ohh,” noted Crumble, already a little tipsy on his ale. “I’ve never been inside one until we got here, y’know.”
“Please, call me Dorro. And yes, I do live in a so-called burrow—a rather nice one, I should think.”
“It’s uncanny to us Dwarves—we live deep under the earth in great halls and caverns, but it would never occur to us to live under inside a clump of dirt.”
“Hold on, good sir! It’s hardly a clump of dirt, sniffed Dorro with a smidgen of rancor. “A burrow is a warm, cozy haven based on the needs for comfort and convenience. In olden times, the earliest Halflings were able to survive because of their quick wits and ability to disappear when predators or enemies came near. Over time, they learned to dig into the good earth itself for safely, and this evolved into the burrows we enjoy today. Why, my home, known as the Perch, is renowned for its charm and excellent views of the River Thimble. It even has running water.”
There were quite a few raised eyebrows among the Dwarves at that, prompting the one called Two-Toes to ask, “May we see it?”
“See what?” snorted Dorro.
“See your grotty burrow-hill,” added Wump. And the one called Flume added flatly, “Tomorrow.”
“It’s … I’m … well … Oh, fine!” snapped Dorro perhaps less graciously than he ought, but pinned on the end, “And it’s not grotty; the Perch is a lovely burrow. Come see for yourselves! In three days! At three o’clock in the afternoon!”
That seemed to satisfy the six Dwarves, and they nodded perfunctorily while resuming their dinners, or at least what tidbits remained. Dorro and the younglings finished up as well and bade the newcomers good evening, leaving a few silver coins on the table. He hoped that they would realize it didn’t cover everyone’s meal and that they’d have to pay for their own food. And he didn’t wait around long enough to find out.
* * *
No sooner had they exited the Hanging Stoat than the three ran into a pair of Thimble Downers arguing furiously.
“You’re ruining my business, ya interloper!”
“That’s tough, my friend. Not our fault you haven’t kept up with the times.” By this time, the first Halfling had already thrown his first punch, catching the second on the chin.
Dorro instinctively threw his arms around Wyll and Cheeryup and drew them away from the brawlers, who were going at it tooth and claw.
“Your rotten smeltery is ruining our village,” shouted Bog the Blacksmith, who’d moved in a few months earlier. “I’m sick of your foul, black smoke!”
“Maybe you’re just too weak for this line of work,” sneered the second chap—Silas Fibbhook, the foreman from Bindlestiff’s smeltery. “Why don’t you try needlepoint or something more suited to your talents?”
At that, Bog charged Fibbhook and tackled him around the midriff, causing both to go down in a heap. Sadly for him, the latter was faster and a mite stronger, as he flipped Bog over and began pummeling him in the face. “If you can’t take the competition, get out of Thimble Down. You’ve gotta learn that only the strong survive.”
By this time, Mr. Mungo had already come out, alerted by the noise and yelling.
“Oy, this is bad for my business, so knock it off!” A big man, he grabbed Fibbhook from behind and pulled him off Bog as if he were a stinkbug. He stood between the two, in fact quite bravely, and held the two fighters apart. “There’s no more fighting at the Hanging Stoat or its environs. We’re a respectable establishment now. And if anyone disagrees, they’ll get a poke from me!”
“Or me!” chimed Mungo’s equally burly missus, Edythe. And certainly, a poke from Farmer Edythe could do some serious damage, as everyone knew, inspiring the pugilists to retire.
“I’m not done with you, blacksmith,” hissed Fibbhook as he disappeared into the darkness.
Mungo and Edythe helped Bog to his feet, his face contorted with rage. “Mark my words, everyone, that smeltery will be the end of Thimble Down. It’s not natural. It’s filling the air with black smoke, and folks are getting sick. Mark my words!” he bellowed before he too headed for home.
The crowd of villagers standing there, along with Dorro and the younglings, all stared at one another. No one knew what impact the smeltery was having on the air or general health of the place, but everyone felt Thimble Down was changing and becoming more modern. Problem was, no one knew if that was a good thing or not.