“Not bloody well likely!”
Heads snapped in the direction of the loud, bellicose voice, which turned out to be Mrs. Fowl, who was somewhere between laughing and hacking as she shouted those words. She was addressing Mr. Dorro Fox Winderiver and playfully poking a finger into his chest. He was flustered and tried to defend himself.
“All I said, my dear Mrs. Fowl, is that I’ve entered some lovely apple pies this year and I think I have a chance at beating you—for once,” noted the village bookmaster, trying desperately not to get humbled by a tiny old woman.
Mrs. Fowl cackled loudly.
“The day your crisps and pies beat mine will be the day I turn twelve again and begin doing cartwheels across the grass.”
At that, she hacked again, slapped poor Dorro on the back perhaps harder than necessary, and walked off to watch the judges at work throughout the Harvest Faire.
Nearby, Sheriff Forgo and Mr. Timmo, the metalsmith, were trying to stifle their own guffaws at this amusement, but weren’t doing a very good job. Neither were Wyll, Cheeryup, or any of another half-dozen Thimble Downers. Dorro, for his part, turned as red as a Flitwyck apple, pretending he hadn’t been humbled by a Halfling nearly half his height and twice his age. The Halfling stomped over to his friends, looking for allies.
“You’d have thought that old bat would remember who her best customer is. Why I’ve bought more pork pies, loaves of bread, and cakes from her than anyone in the village!”
“But Mr. Dorro,” chirped the wee voice of young Cheeryup Tunbridge, “the Harvest Faire is Mrs. Fowl’s biggest moment of the entire year. You can’t begrudge a sweet old lady her moment in the sun—she’s the best baker in the entire county. Besides which, you’ve already won twenty blue ribbons!”
“But still …”
“You’re being a little greedy, Uncle Dorro,” chided his nephew Wyll. “I know how competitive you get, but you’ve already done better than ever. Your apple ’n’ walnut tart was delicious, and your Candleberry apple cider is the best in the village.”
“Well perhaps,” Dorro brightened at the sound of praise. He added, “It was rather good this year, wasn’t it?”
“Yer a piece ‘o work, Winderiver,” laughed the Sheriff. “But I’ll grant you that the cider was outstanding. You know, this Winter, we should take some of that brew and make some applejack brandy for the cold days of February.” Next to him, Mr. Timmo—also an imbiber of Dorro’s strong spirits, which he only made in the smallest of quantities—nodded in agreement.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Forgo, so fear not—I shall set aside a dozen baskets of apples for us to press and ferment this Fall. By mid-Winter, we shall be sipping applejack happily by the fire.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Forgo and Timmo in unison as the village’s Harvest Faire rollicked in full swing around them. There were Halflings young and old, tall and short, bustling around the newly rebuilt Hanging Stoat tavern, its bits of lawn now turned into a faireground for the event, always held on the third Saturday of October.
There were games of skill and games of chance; crafts and fine creations for sale; and more food than you can imagine, much of it made portable for the happily ambling village folk
“Come get yer braised rabbit on a stick! There’s nuthin’ more savory for yer tum,” shouted Mr. Parfinn, who was grilling game meat over an open fire of cherrywood logs. “And don’t miss the roasted eggplant spears, delicately flavored with olive oil, rosemary, and real sea salt from Water-Down!”
Nothing, however, was more exciting than the Judging, the crowning highpoint of the faire. Halflings from far and wide had entered their best fruits and vegetables, flowers, cooked foods, and handicrafts for consideration. And over in Farmer Edythe’s adjacent field, the best farm animals were being eyed (“There’s no finer hog than my Esmeralda,” shouted Farmer Duck. “She understands every word I’m sayin’… and can play the mandolin, too!”).
There were contests of strength and guile, as bulls pulled enormous sleds weighed down with logs and rocks, while dogs rounded up sheep and moved them smartly along. The Harvest Faire was truly one of best days in Thimble Down each year and, true to form, it had never rained on that day.
Wyll and Cheeryup ran off to play and have a nibble with the few pennies and tuppers Dorro had given each of them, while the gentlemen retired to a shady tree for conversation and a quaff of brown ale freshly brewed by Mr. Mungo to mark the opening of his new Hanging Stoat.
Checking his pocket watch, Dorro opened the conversation with an observation. “Sheriff, you seem distracted today. Still thinking of the lad?”
The lawman was quiet for a moment, but then spoke.
“Aye—he’s never far away from my thoughts,” said Forgo, looking up into the ash, hornbeam, and maple trees overhead. “I miss him more than I ever thought I would.”
“Bosco was a fine young deputy, Forgo,” added Mr. Timmo. “I know you’re proud of him, as is the whole village. And he saved a great many children from a horrible fate—maybe one worse than death.”
By this time the Sheriff’s eyes were brimming with tears, and he made no effort to wipe them away. One by one, they began spilling down his whiskery cheeks. “That he did. Bosco wasn’t my natural son, but he was the boy I never had. I shall think of him and his bravery every day for the rest of my life. He was a better Halfling than I ever will be.”
At that, Forgo bowed his head and let the tears flow freely for a few minutes. Eventually he snorted loudly, wiped his eyes, and carried on as if nothing had transpired. That was his way.
“Any news of Porge and Dumpus?” chimed in Timmo, trying to find a brighter subject. “You seem to have a hard time holding onto deputies, Forgo—you can always hire Mr. Mungo again!”
“No!” barked the Sheriff. “He was the worst deputy I ever had! But as for the other lads, from what Dump’s mother has told me, Porge and Dumpus are doin’ fine. The boys bought a piece o’ land well outside of town and are happily farming the earth. I’d say that by this time next year they will have all sorts of crops entered in the Harvest Faire and will walk away with a goodly number of the ribbons. I couldn’t be happier for ‘em.”
“Still, you’ll need a new deputy or two. Maybe in a few years my Wyll can join up, but he’s too young now. What are you going to do?”
“I’ve already interviewed a young feller—a certain Gadget Pinkle from Fell’s Corner,” said Forgo warily. “He’s not from the best of neighborhoods, but he’s a decent lad, as far as I can tell. He’s always tired—I’ve never seen a boy yawn so much.”
“He’s a growing fellow—give him time to get used to the work.”
“I do need the help. There’s been a rash of thefts all around Thimble Down lately. Tools, clothing, bits of tableware—even pies! This bugger has the nerve not only to snatch cool pies off of windowsills, but to creep into the kitchen and grab a piece of beef right out of the oven. That’s pluck, I tells ya!”
“If it is, in fact, a he. We’ve made that mistake before,” admonished Dorro, referring to Lucretia Thrip’s infamous attempts on his life not half a year earlier .
“Quite so,” said Timmo. “I have something to add to this conversation, Sheriff. Someone has been raiding my storage burrow. It sits in a small hillock behind my shop, and I store bits of metal for my work there: tin, copper, iron, and so on. I keep the heavy door locked, but I swear, someone keeps jiggering the lock and taking wares. Nothing too valuable, but with the arrival of that new smeltery, I was planning on using some of it for some special contract work they’ve asked for. I am quite vexed!”
“I’ve heard about that new industrial venture—best of luck to ’em, I say,” murmured the Sheriff. “Say, has anyone noticed all the coughin’ around here today? You’d think the flu has come early this year.”
“True enough,” noted the bookmaster. “The dart throwers kept missing their intended targets this morning because of all the hacking. Half of them were doubled over with a persistent ague.”
“Nurse Pym will have a busy Autumn, much less Winter,” said Mr. Timmo. “And she’s already run ragged with all the births, scrapes, and bruises of everyday life in Thimble Down. I dare say, she needs a deputy!”
They all burst out laughing, but it was cut short when a freckled, red-haired lad of eighteen or so ran up to them, completely winded and gesturing wildly.
“Sheriff! Sheriff! ... gasp … the bandit struck again!”
“Calm down, Gadget,” said Forgo, lifting his bulk off the ground. “Did anyone see him?”
“Some folks saw a lad grab a few pies and take off behind the tents, like the wind. But not close enough to recognize ‘im! He’s headed towards Fell’s Corner!”
“Sheriff Forgo! My pies!” It was Mrs. Fowl, running frantically across the Harvest Faire grounds. “That weasel stole my blue-ribbon pies! The blueberry–rhubarb and the cinnamon–apple crisps, my best ones ever. I want you to catch that thief, Forgo, dead or alive!”