His mind sifting through the day’s myriad of events (and nursing more than a few bruises, courtesy of that ruffian Fibbhook), Dorro lay in his study, contemplating the cooling weather outside.
If the temperature drops past freezing soon, it could stop the Grippe in its path, he reasoned. Warmth tends to spread contagions, while cold moves them indoors. So if the Grippe is caused by Bindlestiff’s smelting and borne by the warm winds of early Fall, a sharp, frost might greatly reduce the infection rate.
Unfortunately, as he looked out the window, it was yet another splendid Autumn day, not quite cold, not quite warm, but just perfect for a germ to travel anywhere it liked. He was jolted by the sound of a firm knock on his door. As far as Dorro recalled, he hadn’t been expecting company. Rising from his favorite settee (the one he used exclusively for reading and napping), he crossed to the front door and opened it with some suspicion.
What he saw was the last thing he expected. For there on his stoop stood six serious-looking Dwarves, all of whom were gazing back intently at him as if expecting something. Finally, Dorro came to his wits and spoke first. “Ummm … greetings, Crumble and friends. What, errrmm, brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“We are here for our tour, Mr. Dorro,” said Crumble. “Just as you requested.”
“I did?”
“Yes, certainly,” continued the leader of the Dwarf band. “You invited us the other evening at the Hanging Stoat, where we enjoyed some degree of jocularity. You must recall.”
“Ah, yes … yes, I do,” feigned the bookmaster. “A tour of the Perch, of course!”
“And by tour,” chimed in Wump, who had dark, braided hair and a thick matted beard, “we assumed that meant with luncheon included.”
“Which is why we have brought some fresh bread,” said Two-Toes, who possessed bright yellow hair, and one assumed, fewer toes than he had possessed at birth.
“And fresh apples,” added Flume, a portly Dwarf with rosy cheeks, holding a number of fine apples in his outstretched scarf.
“And some pipe weed,” giggled Magpie, the one who giggled the most. “I hope you like dwarfish tobacco, Mr. Dorro, sir. I tried yer Old Nob variety, which was potable, but dare I say—ours is better.”
“Ooo, much better,” the Dwarf brothers all crowed at once, before they all broke up laughing. Dorro didn’t know what to make of their strange jokes and inside banter, but decided to give up and get on with the tour. And, as he reflected later, he had invited them over for a visit, but had stone forgotten the appointment.
“Please come in, gentlemen. And try to wipe some of that mud off your boots, if possible.” But Dorro saw that it was no use—these were Dwarves and dirty by nature. He would have to put his normally fastidious nature on hold for the day and let his guests stomp around his beloved burrow. “Welcome to the Perch, in any case.”
Suddenly, the entry to his home was filled with loud oooo’s and ahhh’s, as the quintet of Dwarves pointed and gestured at all the fascinating features.
“Them’s be real, quality iron nails holding them beams together. Must be from a dwarfish forge, I’ll bet,” gloated Wump.
“Oy, Crumble—look at that trim work. Ash. Oak. Figured maple. Quite masterful!” fawned Magpie.
“Note all them rounded windows and door lintels. That’s Dwarf work, no doubt!” Two-Toes speculated.
Crumble himself didn’t say anything. He just looked around, raising and lowering his bushy eyebrows like they were attached to a pulley, and slowly stroking his long brown beard. Dorro, for his part, was lapping up the compliments like it was his birthday, loving every second he heard a kind word for his home. (He was rather vain like that, but perhaps you knew that already.)
Realizing that the tour might work out well after all, he began, “This burrow was built over one hundred years ago by my grandfather Lorro, who named it after the fine view it commands of the River Thimble. He carved it out of this hillock with the help of a few local Halflings, though his diary did note that he’d traveled widely as a youngling and met Dwarves along the way. Whether they inspired the construction of this burrow, I cannot say, but there you have it. He also planted the fine apple orchard out back.”
“We already know that, Mr. Dorro,” said Flume. “Where do you think we picked the fine apples we brought you?”
Dorro groaned inwardly, but remembered these were Dwarves and not used to the etiquette of Halflings, such as not to pick their special apples and deliver them as gifts. Ugh!
He continued, “Here to our right is my study, where I conduct my correspondence, read, and take my daily naps—two if possible—on that elegant settee. Now, please, Mr. Two-Toes, don’t sit on my settee, please!”
But it was too late; Two-Toes had toddled across the small room and hoisted his rump up onto the cushions. To Dorro’s everlasting horror, he flopped around and laid himself out into a recumbent position, with his filthy boots on the cushion and his filthy hair on an intricately stitched pillow. The bookmaster almost gagged, but decided to carry on stoically. He was brave like that.
Dorro moved the Dwarf clan back through the chambers of the Perch, showing them hidden closets and cozy bedrooms, stopping for a long time in the washroom, where they inspected the privy and tin sink’s faucets, pipes, and spectacular running water. Indeed, they were amazed at this technology, and each agreed, “… it was Dwarf work. No Halfling could have thought of this.” Dorro rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well it was Halfling work, but forged onward.
The tour ended up in the kitchen, where the Dwarves took time to praise him directly, as Dwarves and Halflings are kin when it comes to their favorite hobby—eating.
“Look at them copper pans! Beautifully maintained, Mr. Dorro,” cooed Two-Toes, though he whispered to Flume on his right, “… though clearly made by our folk.”
“Look at that cutlery! From the finest steel, no doubt!” exalted Wump, though thinking to himself, No question—we Dwarves made ‘em.
“And what knives! You could flay a troll’s hide off his back with one of Mr. Dorro’s paring blades” cheered Magpie, “Much like own of our own, fine knives,” he added for good measure.
A moment of awkward silence followed the Dwarves’ oaths of admiration, which Dorro finally understood to mean, “When do we eat?”
“Would you gentlemen like some luncheon, dare I ask? I don’t want to hold you up from you other appointments,” teased Dorro, knowing all too well the answer.
“Boys, let’s set the table!” belted out Crumble, his brothers springing into action, putting out plates, napkins, cutlery, and preparing the minuscule amount of food they’d brought.
Fortunately for all involved, Mr. Dorro’s kitchen was ready to go at a moment’s notice, and he too jumped into action. It was fortuitous that he’d spent the morning preparing a thick squash-and-goose soup to go with his supper, but now redeployed it for his ravenous guests. He called for Two-Toes to bring the sliced bread they’d brought and toast the pieces in his clay oven for a few minutes. They’d slathered the tops with butter and raspberry jam to go with the soup.
“Now, Mr. Wump, if you wouldn’t mind, in that pantry there, you’ll find a small keg of ale labeled Dorro’s Draught, and ceramic mugs hanging on the walls. I think you can take it from there.” Wump’s eyes glistened with excitement. “You’ll also find some aged cheeses and sausages. Be a good fellow and bring some of them along. Magpie, perhaps you can help your brother.”
The two Dwarves leapt up and retrieved the tasty goods. Within five minutes, Dorro and his five guests were seated on benches around sturdy oak kitchen table, taking in the spread of soup, endless rounds of toast, cheeses, pork and beef sausages, chutney and pickles, apples, and large mugs of ale. Again, the bookmaster noticed the Dwarves passing around a small vial of liquid and putting a few drops into their cups. He finally decided to call them on it.
“Crumble, might I ask—what is that nectar you pour into your cups?
“Ah, that’s belladonna,” replied Wump nonchalantly.
“But isn’t that poisonous, or, at least, enough to make you ill?”
Flume chimed in, “Not for a Dwarf—we’re made of sterner stuff. We add a few drops to your Halfling ales to, ahem, enhance the experience.”
“I’m not following you.”
Noted Two-Toes, “Your beer is too mild for us; now, a good Dwarf Stout has the kick of ten mules behind it!”
“So you’re increasing the alcohol?”
“Not really,” confirmed Magpie. “Belladonna adds a more dreamy effect to the beverage. It makes it more powerful, but also makes our brains do funny, loopy things.”
“So it’s more like a medicinal affect … interesting,” posited Dorro. “Might I try some?”
“No!” shouted all the Dwarves in unison.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to use up your supply.”
“Not at all, Mr. Dorro,” added Crumble diplomatically. “But friend, you are a Halfling and we are Dwarves—not the same at all inside. What toxins we can more than handle would make you very sick. Dare I say, our belladonna extract might kill you! And that, certainly, would make this excellent dinner end, errmmm, most awkwardly.”
“Ah, now I understand you completely, and thank you for the explanation. Now, before the soup gets cold, let’s tuck in!”
What transpired over the next half hour defies description, but when five Dwarves and a Halfling sit down for luncheon, there isn’t much time for conversation. Bits of soup and bread and sausage and cheese were shooting all over the table, while frothy ale dripped from chins and beards until the floor was sopping wet. Dorro knew he’d be cleaning for the rest of the day (and heaven knows, how long for the settee’s cushions and pillows), but was surprised to learn that Dwarves are also adept at cleaning up and, once the meal was completed, the brothers set to rapid work and the kitchen looked relatively back to normal in no time. Magpie even swept the halls and bedrooms of dirt the Dwarves had trekked in, while Two-Toes took the settee cushions and pillow outside for a good clapping, creating a small dust cloud outside the front door.
Afterward, the six new friends sat quietly in the kitchen, smoking Magpie’s excellent Dwarf tobacco in their long, earthen pipes. It was at that moment that Dorro chose to ask a delicate question. “You know, gentlemen, I had an incident yesterday at Mr. Bindlestiff’s smeltery. I was, how do you say, roughed up by the foreman, this vile Fibbhook. And, I saw you there, observing the incident. I’ve wondered why you didn’t—help me.”
The Dwarves suddenly became very quiet, uncomfortably so, and the five Northmen eyed each other nervously. It was Crumble who finally spoke up. “Ah yes, that ‘incident,’ as you say. That was most unfortunate. We do understand your point of view, Mr. Dorro, but maybe not your approach. Like good Mr. Bindlestiff, we are creatures of business, and you entered his workplace essentially to insult him and his toils. That fact that you got roughed up could have been predicted even before you entered. In Dwarf terms, you let your emotions get the better of you.”
“You don’t think the black fumes from the smeltery have anything to do with the Grippe or the diminishing of animals and creatures in our forests and waterways?”
“That is not for us to say, Mr. Dorro. We have been forging metals and ores for centuries in our own lands, and have not lost animals, nor have our folk fallen sick. We Dwarves spend our lives surrounded by smoke, fire, and rock—it’s our way. Not sure about your folk, but there it is. The two may be related or just strange coincidences.”
“And you don’t think Bindlestiff is up to anything crooked or holding back any pertinent information about his forge?” queried Dorro again.
Crumble looked the bookmaster in the eye. “Mr. Hiram Bindlestiff is a Halfling of business, and he pays us regularly. For a Dwarf, that is a sign of honor and integrity. I don’t know about your birds and fishies, but he is a sharp and astute gentleman. And if you got poked in the eye for insulting him in his own place of business, so be it. I’m sorry, Mr. Dorro, but ’tis no business of ours. Nor yours!”
Inwardly, Dorro felt insulted, as if his new friends had thrown him under the wagon. But a twinge of guilt crept up his spine. In his heart—he knew they were absolutely right. And worse, he probably he owed Bindlestiff an apology.