Dorro didn’t often hold meetings at the library, but on this blustery late-Fall morning, there were few patrons, save Bedminster Shoe. As usual, Mr. Shoe was providing crisp, efficient service for the folks who showed up—a few younglings bundled up with scarves and hats, and eager to hear a ripping good yarn from the scribe.
“See the way Bedminster is showing them kids how to read. Remember back in our day?”
“Course I do, Forgo, ye fool! We had classes most days with yon late schoolmaster, Cecil Root.” Nurse Pym gave a rare smile, making her look many years the younger. “Mr. Cecil was harsh when he needed to be, but ye can’t argue with the results. T’weren’t for him, none of us wee ones would ever know our letters, nor our numbers.”
“True enough, Jessie, true enough.”
“I remember Mr. Cecil catching me at the river with my fishing pole, rather than studying my arithmetic. Here, I was trying to catch a big bass, and instead, he caught me!” Dorro laughed with his friends, all of them fondly remembering their younger days and all the long years that had passed. “And now here we are, old and fat ourselves.”
“Speak fer yerself, porkchop!” scowled Pym, knowing all too well she was anything but lithe.
“How are the patients, Jessie? Is the Grippe receding?” asked Forgo.
“Aye, it ‘tis. Ever since ye closed the smeltery, folks been getting better every day, even dear Mrs. Tunbridge. True, I thought Cheeryup’s mum wasn’t going to make it for a while.”
“Thank goodness she’s well. How many did we lose to the disease?” asked Dorro quietly.
“Hmmmm, maybe twenty villagers all told. Too sad to think about, what when you add in the dead from the battle. Then it rises to more like seventy Thimble Downers, many in the prime of their lives. Breaks my heart, it does.”
The nurse was silent after that.
Dorro looked across the room. “The reason I’ve called you here is because of an idea. It’s been rumbling around my brain for a while, and now it’s thumping even louder. I think you two may have hit upon the same thing here.”
“What idea?” The Sheriff had no idea what Dorro was blithering about.
“About the schoolmaster—it’s true, we haven’t had one for nigh on thirty years. And why not?”
“Oh, you know how cheap our mayors are,” rasped Forgo. “When Mr. Cecil passed, the Old Mayor didn’t want to spend any more money on the position, especially since your family had just promised to build the library. It was assumed that this fine institution would fill that need in the community.”
“It fills a role, certainly,” Dorro continued, “But it’s not the same as a proper schoolmaster. Now here’s my little thought …”
* * *
“That’s outrageous—I won’t stand for it!” The current Mayor was incensed. He crushed his bushy eyebrows together and pounded the desk. “That’s blackmail, Winderiver! How dare you?”
There, in the Mayor’s office, stood Dorro and the Sheriff, along with Osgood Thrip and Farmer Edythe, who had gained quite a bit of ground in her campaign to become Mayor herself.
“I don’t need you—I have this election sewn up,” he boasted, but then shot a quick glance at Thrip, whose face was grave.
“Do you really, Mr. Mayor? I think not.”
Dorro had his thumbs in the pockets of a bright yellow vest, the one he wore when he was feeling triumphant.
“On the contrary, I’m fairly sure that Farmer Edythe will not only win the election, but she will trounce you soundly. Why, you can’t step into a tavern on either side of the High Street and not hear your fellow Thimble Downers talking about Edythe’s bravery in the Battle of the Burrows—they talk about that almost as much as they talk about your cowardice!”
“Out—rageous!” bellowed the Mayor again, acting like a spoilt child. “I should have you thrown out of my office instantly.”
“But you won’t,” purred Dorro. “I know the good Sheriff here doesn’t have an opinion either way, but I bet your closest ally would advise against it. Wouldn’t you, Osgood?”
The look on Osgood Thrip’s face could have melted stone, but instead of answering, he merely walked behind the Mayor, and leaning over, whispered in his ear. The Mayor looked as if he were about to explode, while the bookmaster continued.
“Your lordship, the election is already in the bag for Edythe. Either you take our deal and retain your seat, or you do not—and return to your old life as … what ... a tailor? You remember how to hem breeches and sew buttons, don’t you, Mr. Mayor?”
Thimble Down’s top elected official said nothing and just sat in his fine oak chair, glowering.
“Splendid!” said Dorro. “So this is what you’ll do. As Mr. Bedminster Shoe’s work as a scribe seems to be diminishing—he’s doesn’t have much of a head for business, does he?—a number of us think he’d make a wonderful schoolmaster for the village. Our younglings haven’t had a proper one for decades, and it’s time we prepare them for the days ahead when they’ll be mothers and fathers, bankers and merchants, and maybe even mayors. We’ll also be the envy of every other Halfling village in the entire county, if not the Kingdom, and you know it!”
“To that end, sir, you will hire Mr. Shoe to conduct classes on five out of every seven days at the library—I shall donate the space—and thus we all win. We get a school, the children get an education, and you get the election. Edythe will back out of the race and give it to you on a silver platter. For all that, we only need a few things from you.”
“It’s extortion!” the Mayor murmured icily.
“It’s what?”
A sharp look from Osgood Thrip made the Mayor change his mind. “Oh, nothing. Keep going!”
“Precisely,” said Dorro. “From you, we will require a salary for Mr. Shoe of ten … no, make it twenty silver coins per year, plus a bonus at year’s end to be determined by the school committee over which I will preside.”
“Second, you will designate the Great Wood and the River Thimble as places of irrevocable beauty and write a series of laws that will forever protect them as open, natural places that no Halfling or other creature can use for business or any so-called ‘progress.’ They will stay the way they are in the Wide Green Open, something I’m beginning to learn quite a bit about. Don’t worry—I will help you write these special writs of protection, assisted by my special advisor in these matters, Dalbo Dall.”
“That drunkard Dalbo? Have you gone mad, Winderiver?” The Mayor puffed out his cheeks, making his mutton chop sideburns verily dance on his face.
“Actually, Dalbo is an authority on the Great Wood, and all matters related to the natural world. We’re lucky to have his consultations,” crowed the bookmaster.
“Finally, you will forever ban any industry from the village of Thimble Down that creates excessive smoke, waste, poison, or yet-unknown toxin that could harm either its citizenry or the denizens of the Great Wood. On that account, in particular, you will create a standing committee, led by none other than Farmer Edythe, and its word shall be binding. And for that, sir, you shall remain our Mayor.”
“Fine! So be it!” snarled the Mayor. “Anything else?”
Sheriff Forgo coughed awkwardly. “Ermmm, on behalf of your office, I did promise Mr. Dorro a new silver pocket watch, seeing as his was lost in the line of duty. It was taken from him by the Dwarf Seer, who gave us that most-important information about the Grippe, if you may recall.”
The Mayor’s jaw hung open. “You promised Winderiver on my behalf? What is this world coming to!” Thrip shot him another intense look. “So be it! At this point, the treasury is shot anyway. Well, there you are, bookmaster—on the whole, it seems you’ve won the day. You can have all of that; you have my word on it.”
“Ah, not so fast, m’lord.” Dorro fished in his pocket and pulled out a document. “I do have a contract, which contains the arrangements for the school and teacher—beautifully drawn up by Mr. Bedminster Shoe, ironically—and ready for you to sign, with Osgood, Forgo, Edythe, and myself as witnesses. The original will be locked in the archives at the library, while copies will be posted about the village as proof of its lawfulness.”
The Mayor began grinding his teeth. He spoke quietly and emotionlessly: “I’ll get you for this, Winderiver. I will!”
He reached for his quill and ink bottle. A few quick flashes of his hand and it was over—Dorro had his authorized agreement, and the Mayor had his election. The rest initialed the document as a formality.
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything less, Mr. Mayor,” smiled Dorro curtly. “In fact, I enjoy our little games. They do so amuse me.”
With that, Dorro held out his arm for Farmer Edythe and led her grandly from the room, both of them beaming in a moment of utter and complete victory.
Not knowing what else to do, Sheriff Forgo muttered “G’day” and beat a quick retreat from the room, leaving the Mayor and Osgood Thrip to stew in their misery.
* * *
Outside the Mayor’s house, the trio found Wyll and Cheeryup bundled up on a bench in the sun.
“Ahoy, you two. Aren’t you supposed to be at the library?”
“Mr. Shoe said we could come find you,” said Cheeryup. “He told us he had just received the happiest news of his life and was so delighted he said we could pack up ’n’ go play.”
“And what would that news be, Uncle Dorro?” Wyll Underfoot looked at his uncle shrewdly. “He said you would know.”
“I shall divulge all tonight at supper, young Mr. Underfoot” said Dorro, waving his hand with garish theatricality. “Cheeryup, you and your mother are more than welcome. And you two as well, Edythe and Forgo, plus Mr. Mungo. I will summon the inestimable Mrs. Fowl to conjure us up something mouthwatering.”
The children rolled their eyes, knowing that the bookmaster would regale them with an extended, if not practically endless, recasting of recent events. But that, they knew, was the price of admission for one of Mrs. Fowl’s delicious dinners.
“Bring Bedminster Shoe, won’t you, Forgo. He’s a central character in the saga. Oh, and Gadget Pinkle—our deputy and thief! I think we’re all becoming fond of the lad. Now I’m off to an appointment and will see you folks later, around seven o’clock.”
“Where are you going, Mr. Dorro? Not making trouble, are you?” Cheeryup put on her scolding face.
“Of course not, young lady! I’m merely going to visit the good Mr. Timmo. He’s designing a new silver pocketwatch for me.”
He glanced slyly over at Sheriff Forgo.
“And a very expensive one, at that!”
THE END