The next day, Thimble Downers were again gathered on one of the lanes, this time to hear official speeches from their mayoral candidates. The Mayor was a known quantity, but Farmer Edythe was the wild-card, bringing her unknown notions into the campaign. Again, the obligatory wagon was rolled in and an obligatory lectern mounted on top.
Dorro strolled up with Wyll and Cheeryup, as well as Orli, who had only light duties at the smeltery assisting his father and uncles. Indeed, Crumble thought it wise for the boy to get to know these Halflings as part of his education. It would be good, he reasoned, to understand the Southerners’ strange ways as Orli grew into a mature Dwarf.
“Do you elect your leaders, Orli?” asked Dorro.
“What does ‘elect’ mean?” said the beefy Dwarf boy.
“You know, when the majority of the populace vote to elect a leader. The candidate with the most votes wins.”
“We don’t live in villages like you; we live in a vast network of caves and caverns. We have a few leaders—we can them Torkae—but no one votes for ’em. Every once in a while, an interloper challenges the leader to a contest. Aye, they throw rocks at each other until the one that’s weakest and most bloodied retreats into the deepest caverns and never returns. He lives in shame until the day he or she dies a horrible, lonely death. Pretty straightforward, actually.”
“That’s terrible!” cried Cheeryup, “I thought you were a nice boy, Orli.”
Mildly offended, the Dwarf countered, “I didn’t invent this ritual. Us Dwarves have been pickin’ Torkae like this for thousands of years, and it has served our people well. We don’t judge yer silly elections where people stand on top of wagons and blither endlessly.”
“Good one, Orli!” laughed Wyll. “I think you just lost your first debate, Cheery.”
“Did not!” screeched the girl, and she stomped off into the crowd, her bright yellow hair whipping about angrily.
“What did I say?” ask Orli.
“Oh nothing. Cheeryup is a smart girl, a’course, but she doesn’t like to lose an argument. Your points were perfectly valid, and there was nothing she could do to outflank you. Well done, sir.” Wyll shot out his hand and shook hands with the confused Northern boy, but their attention was diverted by the moderator on top of the wagon.
* * *
“Hello everyone and good morning.” It was Dowdy Cray, who ran the cart and wagon repair shop, and it was his dogcart they were standing on. “Today, we’ll be hearing from our two candidates for mayor: Farmer Edythe and … the Mayor! (He’d been mayor for so long that no one really remembered his true name.) As always, the incumbent gets to speak first. Mr. Mayor!”
At that, the tall, spindly figure of the Mayor ascended the wagon steps, trying in his pained way to smile—it was more of a leer—from within his heavily mutton-chopped face. He even removed his top hat, revealing a few oily locks hiding his balding pate. He coughed once or twice for theatrical effect and began to speak.
“My dear, dear Thimble Downians,” he began grandly, drawing out each syllable. “I am sooooo humbled to be in your presence today. I’ve enjoyed many terms as your mayor and I seek to continue working for you good, good Halflings, and do the noble work which we’ve started!”
There was cautious, scattered applause. Most villagers knew the Mayor was a weasel, but he was their weasel and was sure he’d win the election somehow anyway. Dorro, meanwhile, leaned on a post and thought about the Mayor’s preening, pandering delivery: Oh, he’s a slick one. Look at him up there in all his glory, lying and cajoling the crowd. Wake up, people—the Halfling is a cad and a fiend!
The Mayor continued: “In the past year, we’ve had some challenges, but have conquered them together. We dealt with a band of murderous elves and sent them packing from the village.” The crowd didn’t know if this was true or not, but it sounded good. “And we killed a monster goblin who had ravaged the Great Wood and taken the life of our blacksmith, Tom Turner!”
The Thimble Downers started to cheer, thinking they had actually killed a goblin. “And we chased bloody pirates that stole our children and we successfully recovered them, while tragically losing a few of our own.” The Mayor stifled back a false tear, while the audience began to cheer wildly.
Listen to that varmint, thought Dorro. The Mayor didn’t do any of that, the big liar! It was Forgo and I and the children … and poor Bosco. I want to scream right now!
“And this Summer, during a horrible drought, we fixed the plumbing and the flow of fresh well water in Thimble Down, thanks to a generous donation from Mr. & Mrs. Osgood Thrip!” crooned the Mayor. Big yells of approval followed, as well as the sight of Osgood tipping his hat and waving to the folks. “Not everyone in the village has indoor plumbing—like that fancy-pants Dorro Fox Winderiver, up there in his snooty burrow on the hill.”
The Mayor let that comment hang for a second as the crowd wondered if this was true or not. Even so, a few Halfling teens booed, and one even yelled out, “Dorro stinks!”
How dare he? Dorro was mortified that the Mayor had pitched him under wheels to score political points. He has running water in his burrow, as does Osgood Thrip. The hypocrites!
Fortunately, the Mayor was done with his assemblage of lies and half-truths, thanking the populace of Thimble Down for their many years of support, even in the face of threat from his nefarious opponent. He even went on to insinuate that Edythe was a dangerous voice for new and untried things.
“Why do we want to try radical concepts when the good old ideas have served us so well for so long? And who is this so-called candidate? All we know of her is that she grows tomatoes and is married to a tavern keeper. A lowly tavern keeper, I ask you!”
The crowd was confused for a second, as most of them loved taverns and tavern keepers, but if the Mayor said they were bad, well, maybe they were! And did they really want a lowly one’s wife as their mayor? As we’ve previously noted, Halflings weren’t the brightest creatures in the world and, among them, Thimble Downers did not rank very high. (On occasion, they made chipmunks seem like great intellectuals.)
The treacherous Mayor thanked his audience to lavish cheers and stepped off the wagon, while Dowdy introduced the other candidate. Now this should be interesting, thought Dorro warmly.
In a second, with the agility of a much younger and slimmer gal, the large figure of Farmer Edythe mounted the wagon. Granted, the wagon creaked and threatened to buckle, but Edythe was certainly a presence. Off to the side, her husband Mr. Mungo cheered and hooted loudly to whip up the crowd, and indeed, more than a few villagers politely cheered her arrival.
“My goodness, what a wonderful reception!” shouted Edythe in her big, burly voice. “I love this village!” A big roar from the crowd. She knows how to work ‘em, thought the bookmaster. Go, Edythe, go!
“Friends, our village has sat idle while progress and innovation takes flight in every other Halfling village. Upper-Down and Nob put in new pipes for their wells years ago; our Mayor just got around to it this year. And other villages have schools for their young folk, but not ours. Sure, we have a fine library, thanks to Mr. Dorro,” (“Hooray for Dorro,” someone shouted out, while another yelled, “Dorro still stinks!”)
“But it ain’t enough. We need to educate our younglings, so they can bring their smarts back into the village and help improve our lives. Especially when we start getting old!” More cheers for Edythe.
“Yet folks, that’s not why I’m here today. I’m here, because we have a problem in Thimble Down and it goes against everything we stand for. I’m talking about all the smoke and dirt that’s filling our air and making us sick. Every other Halfling has the Grippe and we all know where it’s from. Sure, the smeltery brought jobs, but at what cost? Dead fish in the river? No game in the Great Wood? Our elderly getting sick and dying? (Lots of boos and shouts from the audience). Is it really worth it?
Edythe was on fire, and a few in the crowd responded with passionate cries, save from those who worked there, to close the smeltery. The Mayor, as Dorro noted, stood whispering feverishly with Osgood Thrip, as they clearly recognized what a threat Farmer Edythe was. If she won, she could undo years of work the pair had cooked up to keep the villagers in check, while they pocketed all sorts of profits, taxes, and kickbacks. This was their livelihood that Edythe was threatening. Dorro was sure they were cooking up a way to discredit her. It was inevitable.
“In closing, my friends, you know me. I’m Farmer Edythe and I’ve been growing fresh, healthy food for Thimble Down for twenty years. And my Mungo Poo’kins—I mean, my husband Mr. Mungo—has been a friend to all at the Hanging Stoat for just as long.”
Mungo had turned beet-red by this point, but still waved to the crowd.
“We believe in good, honestly grown food, fresh air, clean water, and good, cold beer!” This drew a massive cheer from the crowd. (Oooo, she’s good! Dorro crowed to himself.)
“So let’s not corrupt our water and air with black smoke and disease,” continued Edythe. “While it may cost us work in the short term, in the longer view, Thimble Down will be stronger for it. As your mayor, I will improve the dirt lanes and plumbing throughout the village, build us a school, make sure we live on clean, pristine lands—yes, even in Fell’s Corner! (a big laugh)—and make sure we have enough ale and pipe weed handy at all times. (Yet another big whoop from the crowd.) So come to the Hanging Stoat tonight. I will be there talking about my dreams for our wonderful village … and all beers will be half off!”
At that, the crowd went into pure pandemonium. Even the Mayor and Osgood Thrip knew how good Edythe’s speech had been. No question, the race was on!