The crowd at the new Hanging Stoat was in full gear. It was a Friday evening in October, and the brisk Autumn air was beginning to drive Thimble Downers indoors for cold-weather recreation and leisure—and ale! Mungo and Freda, the barmaid, were run off their feet, serving platefuls of slow-braised hog jowls with kale and herbed beef shanks, as well as endless pints of beers, ales, and wine.
Most precious of all, guests asked for small ceramic jiggers of honeygrass whiskey, a powerful drink sure to burn going down, but satisfy your innards, the locals thought. Add to that plumes of pipe smoke, gaggles of alternately laughing and arguing Halflings, and you had the Hanging Stoat rollicking as much as it before it burned.
The occasion was all the more festive as the Mayor and Farmer Edythe were scheduled to speak in an open forum. The Mayor and Osgood Thrip were sitting at a table with Mr. Hiram Bindlestiff, Fibbhook, and a few other business leaders. The pair was huddled in a most conspiratorial manner, exchanging heated ideas between sips of honeygrass whiskey. They had already conceded to having tonight’s event on Edythe’s home turf, with the next one to take place in front of the smeltery. It was fair—at least on the surface.
Farmer Edythe sat a few tables away with Sheriff Pro Tempore Mr. Dorro, Timmo, Farmer Duck, Minty Pinter, and Bog the Blacksmith, among others supporting her candidacy. They were discussing themes and ideas for Edythe to touch on, about balancing work and lifestyle, money and family, and most of all, preserving the natural state of Thimble Down, the Great Wood, and the River Thimble. Dorro, in particular, kept promoting this idea of balance, which appealed to the farmer.
At last, Dowdy Cray—who’d become the unofficial moderator for these speeches—called the crowd to order and noted it was time to proceed. Because the debate was being held in the tavern of Edythe’s husband, she would go first, whereas the Mayor would get the preferred second slot. “Now, let’s have a hand for Farmer Edythe!” roared Dowdy, whipping up the crowd as much as possible.
“Thank you, friends!” yowled Edythe, hopping up and down, showing her remarkable energy and enthusiasm. “Tonight, I want to talk about balance.” At that, she proceeded to regale the Hanging Stoat’s patrons with her views on quality of life and work in their beloved village. They seemed largely receptive to her progressive ideas, gently leavened by the idea to move into the future slowly and carefully.
Dowdy shouted out, “Now it’s time for yer questions, folks! Just raise a hand, and Farmer Edythe will call on you.”
A hand shot up and was recognized by the candidate. “Edythe—what will you do about the price of beer and whiskey,” giggled Minty Pinter, “It keeps going up and up!”
“Well Minty, if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more coins in yer pocket,” laughed Edythe. “Now sit down, you silly drunken fool!” The crowd burst out laughing and clapped at her barbed response.
“Edythe, I’m worried about the Grippe and my family.” It was Nutylla Parfinn, who ran the Bumbling Badger tavern with her husband Millin. “I have lots of babies and wee ones—I’d never get over it one of ’em got sick … or worse.”
“Aye, Nutella, you don’t have to tell us about your wee ones—we know what a terrifying Summer you had,” said Edythe [remembering the fierce saga recounted in The Lost Ones]. “And you’re in the right to be afraid of the Grippe—every Thimble Downer in this room is thinking about it every day and night, not just for themselves, but for friends and family. It is a horrible disease that is consuming our village.”
Somewhere in the Hanging Stoat, a patron coughed lightly, but it was enough to bring about a dead silence—the cough was a harbinger of infection.
“I have told you before, I am not a person of education or the sciences, but I truly believe that something is fouling our air, soil, and water. And by extension of that, the food that we eat.”
More than a few guests looked down into their bowls.
“Fear not Mungo’s food!” said Edythe quickly and with a smile. “The way he cooks his meat for hours would kill any germs—or any flavor!” The room erupted in laughter, at her husband’s expense, but the candidate waved to Mungo and blew him a kiss. “But seriously folks, wash your veggies and fruit before you eat it raw, wash your hands, and don’t hug everyone you meet for a while. We have to be careful, every last one of us!”
One more question rang out. An old feller raised his hand, Tobias McGee; he once made musical instruments, but hadn’t in many years on account of weak eyesight and arthritic fingers. Instead, he talked with his friends in the lanes all day and drank a pint or two each night—something he attributed to his longevity. “Farmer Edythe …,” Tobias said, slow as molasses, “I just wanna know one thing. Why the hell should we vote for you?”
The room broke out into laughter again, but Farmer Edythe waved her hands to simmer down the noisemakers. “Thank you, Tobias—you know, that’s a fair question,” she smiled. “Why the hell should you vote for me? I’m just a farmer. I’m not a politician. But then again, maybe that’s the answer there—I ain’t no politician. I won’t make secret deals you don’t know about. I won’t do things that aren’t in your best interests. And I won’t lie ever. You can count on that!”
The patrons erupted into cheers, while the Mayor and Osgood Thrip exchanged worried looks. “I can only say I’ll work hard for you every day and do the best that I can do for Thimble Down and its folk. Thank you and good night.” There was more clapping and whistling for Edythe as she left the podium and returned to her seat. Dowdy Cray announced it was time for the Mayor to say his piece.
“Folks, you know me,” began the Mayor with his customary leer. “I’ve been fighting for you every day as your mayor and magistrate for, oh, twenty years. And I’m ready to put in another twenty to keep our village the special place for families and friends it’s always been. I’ve created new jobs that put beer money in your pockets.”
“But as for my esteemed adversary, what do you know about her? She’s a farmer, and maybe even a good farmer. Yet does that make her a leader? And we already know her views on industry—she’s against it!”
“She wants to close the smeltery and take away jobs. And maybe other businesses, too! We don’t know what we’d get with a Mayor Edythe. Do you really want to take that chance?”
The room at the Hanging Stoat went silent, and folks started looking at each other. That Mayor is a devil! thought Dorro, flaming mad. He is intentionally discrediting her with lies. I thought I’d seen all his tricks before, but this was a new low.
Suddenly, little pockets of bickering broke out in the tavern. Some folks taking the Mayor’s side, others defending Farmer Edythe. Before Dorro could get a handle on what was going on, there was trouble—and it didn’t take long for the first punch to be thrown. His mission accomplished, the Mayor grinned and slyly slipped out the back door with Osgood Thrip.
Soon, the main room of the Stoat was a melee of swinging and shouting Thimble Downers. Edythe supporter Theo Spark landed a punch on the rather large beak of Grubchuck, one of the Mayor’s toadies, who responded with an excellent kick to Mr. Spark’s left knee. Abel Parsnip took a swing at Fibbhook, which was a big mistake; the big foreman grabbed Abel by the suspenders and threw him over a table.
Even Mr. Bedminster Shoe, the gentle village scribe, was drawn into the affair, though he had just been listening to the candidates. Someone cuffed him soundly on the noggin, and he went out like a light. Jenny Thistleback and Mrs. Poddle helped carry his unconscious body out of the scrum and onto a cot in the back room. He eventually came around, and clutching his sore head, bemoaned that violence like this should not occur in such a sweet village.
It took Dorro a few seconds to remember he was the acting Sheriff of Thimble Down. Yet he was no Sheriff Forgo, and accordingly, no one paid any heed to his shouts for peace and tolerance. Fortunately, the trio of Farmer Duck, wee Minty Pinter, and the humongous Bog the Blacksmith deputized themselves and fell like a fury on the savage brawlers. In a few minutes, the room was cleared out, thanks to Bog’s brute strength and the teeth of Minty, who bit more than a few Mayor supporters on their calves and ankles, sending them scurrying into the night.
Dorro tried to bring some final order, but realized he had no authority. “I’m sorry Mungo,” he said to the sad-faced barkeep, who’d seen too many fights in his day. “I’m no Sheriff Forgo, that’s for certain.” When Mungo didn’t respond, he knew he was correct, which made him even more depressed. At least he could help clean up, which is what he did for the next hour.
But it didn’t change his—or anyone else’s—mind that the bookmaster wasn’t much of a sheriff. Their minds quickly jumped to poor, ailing Forgo and prayed for his speedy recovery.
Dorro, perhaps, more than anyone.