“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.
* * *
Some hours later a silhouetted figured entered the large entrance at Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works. No one paid much attention to the Halfling at first. Yet he started to cough—not the sick type of cough, but the I want your attention right now kind. Finally, that progressed to a few utterances of “Excuse me!” and, last, a defiant “I want to see Mr. Bindlestiff. Right now!”
A few of the workers stopped their toiling and looked around to see who would deal with this intruder. A shadow advanced from out of the cavern’s depths. “Who wants to see Mr. Bindlestiff? And do you have an appointment?”
“My name is Dorro Fox Winderiver. And no, I have no silly appointment, but I demand to see Mr. Bindlestiff anyway.”
“Oooo, we demands it, do we?” snarled the gruff voice. “I could toss you out of here onto your backside, but I’ve been instructed to make nice with the populace of your fair hamlet. Let me see if the proprietor is in. Stay put.”
At that, the big Halfling disappeared back into the flickering light of the forges and fires within. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a short, chubbier fellow, this one finely dressed with well-combed mutton chop sideburns. “What seems to be the problem, sir? I’m a busy Halfling and don’t have all day for lollygagging.”
“Lollygagging?” croaked Dorro. “Why, Mr. Bindlestiff, we have a certain amount of feasible evidence that you and your smelting operation are poisoning our village and environs.”
“Oh really, Mr. Winderover? What so-called feasible evidence do you have?” Bindlestiff had heard this kind of complaint many times before, in other communities where he had established his smelteries. He’d learned how to deal with the complainers—firmly. “I run a respectable business that’s been endorsed by your Mayor. And provided many jobs for your residents, yet you come in here to tell me I’ve done a heinous thing. How dare you, sir!”
Dorro typically didn’t like confrontation, but this time his dander was up, notably on the news that Wyll and Cheeryup had brought him. “Half this village is coughing due to your black miasma, and some of our elderly residents have even died.”
“I said proof, Mr. Wander-Rooter, not foolish hearsay,” barked Bindlestiff in return. “Do you have scientific facts?”
“My nephew and two witnesses found perhaps thirty dead fish in the river today, and they had no signs of violence upon them,” fumed Dorro. “They died of poison in the water! And in the Great Wood, hunters are complaining that most the game have left. You can give Thimble Downers all the jobs you want, but how will they work if they can’t eat?”
“I’ve listened to enough of this hogwash, Wanda-Rigger. Get the heck out of my smeltery or we shall smelt you!”
A red and flustered Dorro raged back, “I shan’t leave until I have satisfaction. I want answers and proof from you that your business is not delivering black soot and death to our residents and animals.”
“Fibbhook, our esteemed guest wants ‘satisfaction.’ Please remove him from our premises and give him some. Good day to you, Mr. Waddle-Riddle.” With that, Hiram Bindlestiff turned on his heels without saying goodbye and disappeared back into the black heart of the cavern.
“I’m not going anywhere,” snorted the resolute Mr. Dorro, folding his arms and jutting his chin out for good measure.
“That’s what you think, Guv.” With that, Fibbhook swiftly grabbed Dorro’s right arm and twisted it nastily behind his back.
“Arghhhhh!”
“Is that enough satisfaction for you, Mr. Dorro—y’see, I remember your name,” hissed Fibbhook in the bookmaster’s ear. “I remember all the putrid lowlifes that threaten my livelihood. Now, we’re going for a little walk.”
The foreman tightened his grip on Dorro’s arm, causing the bookmaster to cry out louder again. “You’ll pay for this!” came the bookmaster’s empty threat as Fibbhook pushed him outside and shoved him to the hard-packed lane. For good measure, he kicked up a cloud of dirt from the roadway into Dorro’s face, causing him to choke and sputter.
“Next time, little one, bring a knife, so we can fights proper-like,” said Fibbhook, bending over Dorro and addressing him like a child. “If you do, I can knife and gut you legally—in self-defense—and that fat, stupid Sheriff can’t do anything about it. I haven’t killed anyone in a while and, y’know, I do believe I miss it!”
Slowly, the bruised Halfling turned and began trudging back towards the library, where he could clean himself up. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorro saw something else, just in the shadows of Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works. It was for only a second, but yes, there was no question about it. He saw Crumble and the other Dwarves with whom he’d chatted so amicably the other night. But today, they stood by and watched him get thrashed.
Worse, the Northlanders pretended they didn’t know who he was.