The next few days were quiet in the village, as a large rainstorm swept through the area. This drove the Halflings indoors for the most part, some working in their shops cleaning their outdoor tools for storage over the Winter, while others knuckled under and did the ledger accounting work they’d been putting off for weeks. Others congregated in pubs and taverns to relax and talk to neighbors.
The library also did a banner business, as villagers came in to spend the day reading or looking at pictures in giant, leather-bound volumes. The rain put a damper on the mayoral elections, but Dorro mused that this was perhaps for the best. Things had become quite heated, and the brawl the other night at the Hanging Stoat didn’t improve things.
Periodically checking the time on his elegant, Timmo-made pocket watch, Dorro sat at the main desk in the library, taking a break from sheriffing for a few hours and giving the always indispensable Bedminster Shoe a break.
Deputy Gadget was at the gaol, keeping an eye on Sheriff Forgo, who was still in a deep, restless state of unconsciousness. His caretakers managed to get a few spoonfuls of broth down his throat to keep his weight up, but certainly this couldn’t go on forever. Forgo had probably lost twenty pounds already.
In another corner of the library, Wyll Underfoot was reading a book on Halfling history, which he found fascinating. With the lack of a school in Thimble Down, Dorro was insistent that as many younglings as possible borrow books and keep their learning up. Wyll didn’t like it when the bookmaster forced him to read books on sciences and arithmetic, and perform some basic calculations on paper, but knew it was in his best interest.
This was history day and he was reveling in stories about the Battle of the Old Forest, particularly one where a villain named Uwe the Usurper was daring and romance, taking place a thousand years earlier in the dawning days of their folk, all of which enraptured Wyll’s imagination.
Years later, King Borgo created many of the laws that Halflings still followed, as well as a standard calendar and structure of provincial government. Sometimes, when Wyll was out playing in the Great Wood, he’d pretend he was young Borgo, using a stick as his sword to smite his enemies. It was one of his favorite pastimes.
The door to the library banged opened, and in dashed Cheeryup Tunbridge, who looked like she’d been crying. She saw Wyll, but avoided him—they hadn’t spoken since Orli’s tongue lashing. Instead, she came straight up to Mr. Dorro and around the desk. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she quickly collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
“Oh my dear, what’s wrong! You and Wyll aren’t still fighting are you?”
“It’s not that, Mr. Dorro. Well it is, but …” she said as her face crumpled, “my mother has the Grippe. Nurse Pym just confirmed it! She’s in bed and doesn’t look very good at all.”
Dorro looked around the interior until he found Wyll staring back at him and all the commotion. He quickly waved the boy over, which he obliged grudgingly. “Wyll, we have some grievous news, and your friend Cheeryup needs a steady shoulder.”
It didn’t take long for Cheeryup to blubber out an apology for her recent transgressions and vault herself into Wyll’s arms. “I’m really sorry about your mum, Cheery. That’s just not right. Your mum is one of my favorite ladies in the village!”
Dorro nodded approvingly, but worried about Mrs. Tunbridge. There were already about twenty Thimble Downers in the vice-grip of the Grippe and another elder villager—Amos Tidwiddle—had perished just last night. Granted, Amos was not in the best of health and was a smoker and drinker all his life, but certainly, this nefarious illness sped up his demise.
As for Mrs. Tunbridge, he’d ask the Bluebells to expand their nursing duties to include both Sheriff Forgo and Mrs. Tunbridge. This was something he’d only be too happy to spend his gold on. (Dorro had been left an impressive inheritance by his parents and grandfather Lorro, something he used to fund the library.)
Asking Wyll to take over library duties, Dorro excused himself and headed back to the gaol, where he’d an appointment with Nurse Pym. In a heartbeat, he left the library, ran through the rain with a floppy hat on his head (much good it did—he was still soaked), and got to Forgo’s bedside in a few minutes. Nurse Pym was already there, looking over the Sheriff and murmuring to herself.
“How does he look, Pym?”
“I wish I could say grand, but ’tis not to be,” grunted the healer. “He’s not worse, though, and that’s the good thing. But drat it, this Grippe has me stumped! I can’t beat it, no matter how hard I try. I’ve used every draught and herb in my kit, Dorro, and to no benefit. And I’m exhausted, which doesn’t help my mind focus on the problem. You heard about yon Amos Tidwiddle? Popped off smartly last night, and mark my words, he won’t be the last. This is a plague upon us, it rightly is!”
Nurse Pym had dark bags under her eyes, and Dorro figured she hadn’t received a proper sleep in weeks. “Do you think it has to do with the smeltery and its effluent smoke and vapors?”
“Could be, but we have no proof, do we? It’s not like we have yon professors from the College of St. Borgo to assist us. Though I wish we had—they could figure it out!”
“We can too, Nurse Pym, I know we can. Just give me a little more time,” said Dorro with quiet desperation. “I must talk to Timmo. And tell me, how bad is Mrs. Tunbridge?”
Nurse Pym looked at him sadly. “She has it as bad as anyone else in the village. We could lose her.”
* * *
“There he is—the one who’s bringing death to our fine village!” said Berry Raeburn, who delivered produce for Farmer Edythe in the warm months. “It’s your muck in the air that killed Amos Tidwiddle. Who’s gonna be next?”
Hiram Bindlestiff stiffened as he walking into the Hanging Stoat for a bit of supper, surprised to be singled-out like. He waved away Berry, dismissing him as a drunk, but Raeburn wouldn’t back off. Sure, he’d had a few pints to get his dander up, but wanted to get this off his chest.
“Don’t walk away from me, Mr. High-Falootin’ Bindlestiff!” bellowed Berry. The patrons throughout the Hanging Stoat quieted down, and a few of the wagon driver’s friends tried to get him to sit down. “You can’t ignore me. My friends are sick ‘n’ dying, and you’re responsible.”
“You’re a drunkard, sir. Sit down before you embarrass yourself anymore,” snapped Hiram Bindlestiff, drawing himself up to his full height of four feet and seven inches tall and looking down his nose at his opponent. “What proof have you that my industry has anything to do with the illness that has befallen your poor village?”
“Proof? You want proof, Bindlestiff?” snapped Raeburn. “Why, I’ll give you a tour of my friends’ graves tomorrow, if you’d like. Is that proof enough for you?”
“No it isn’t,” barked the business tycoon in return, speaking loudly enough so everyone could hear him. Bindlestiff wanted to put this to rest right now. “I’ll have you know my employees are the healthiest folks in Thimble Down! We work around the smoke and vapors all day and night, and none of us come down with your so-called Grippe. In fact—I see a few of my boys here—they’re all hearty and hale, and ready to smelt some more!”
There were a few rousing cheers from around the Hanging Stoat. “And don’t forget the ladies, Mr. Bindlestiff, sir!” shouted Mrs. Mick, one of his best workers. Bellows of laughter followed.
“That’s right, Mickey, you’re looking fine, too. That’s because working around the rocks and ores from the earth give us vitality and strength. No, the plague that’s afflicting Thimble Down isn’t from us,” continued Mr. Bindlestiff in his commanding voice, “It’s from living in your dank burrows with sod roofs and too much moisture. It breeds the bad things that fester in your lungs. Now, if you had smoke in your homes, you’d kill off all the bad germs and let good ones breed happily.”
“So you there, Mr. So-and-So (referring to poor Berry, who by this time had sat down and tried not to be noticed), you can insult me and my great works, but Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works and its labor force are paragons of health in this village. No sir—look in the mirror first. The cause of your horrible Grippe has to do with you and yours.”
“I say, we start tearing down all these wretched burrows and let my workers start building you fresh new homes of wood and iron. You have ample forests here, and I have the will. We’d create another fifty jobs for villagers, cure your infectious disease, and create prosperity for all. Who’s with me?”
A huge roar went up through the Hanging Stoat and echoed onto the streets outside. Hiram Bindlestiff had merely gone to the tavern for supper, having no idea he was about to make a huge amount of gold. But, as he sat down to cheers, waving and smiling, the merchant knew he’d hit upon another great business venture.
Why, in a few years, they’ll change the name of this crummy hamlet from Thimble Down to Bindlestiff-Town! he cooed to himself. I’ll be richer than Osgood Thrip and Dorro Winderiver combined!
He laughed out loud and gestured for Freda to come fetch his supper order. Hiram Bindlestiff was surprised how ravenous he suddenly felt!