* * *
“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!
Return to the Deep
As per Dwarf custom, Dorro learned, bodies of the dead were not allowed to be sent to the afterworld until a full week after their death. He asked Magpie about this and the problems of, a-hem, preservation, but the Dwarf said in the Northern Kingdom, there were many caves that remained cold, even into the warmer months of the year. There were no worries of degradation of the corpus, and they were further swaddled thickly to prevent any meddling by small, nibbling creatures.
Further, the weeklong delay was given to the corpus to settle any debts—material or spiritual—he or she had incurred in life. Sometimes money changed hands, whereas other times, Dwarves who wronged by the deceased might come speak with the family and try to find some peace and closure. Dorro found this ritual highly civilized and wished the Halflings had thought of it first.
Thus enlightened, the bookmaster and his friend Mr. Timmo found themselves trekking into the Great Wood on a cold, windy morning with the solemn Dwarves—Crumble, Flume, Two-Toes, and Magpie—who carried between them the expired body of their brother Wump (Orli was feeling ill and stayed behind).
The Northlanders said not a word, but their thoughts were loud. They were alternately sad and bereaved, and angry and vengeful. As Crumble had told him a week earlier, when they found the Halfling who killed their kin, that villain would suffer a most painful death at their hands. Every time Dorro thought of this, he got a shiver down his spine.
By late morning, they broke their journey for a few minutes, allowing the two Thimble Downers to rest their achy legs and tuck into a second breakfast. The Dwarves lit up their pipes and sat against green, mossy rocks and trees, listening to the birdsongs above.
Dorro and Timmo brought out some handkerchiefs in whose folds they had stolen away wedges of cheese, seed-crusted bread, and plenty of apples and pears. Sated, they moved on, moving briskly to the northeast until they came upon a place Dorro knew well—the Deep.
The Deep was an amazing natural chasm, a depressed fissure in the earth that ran for several miles through the forest. But unlike its arboreal high ground, the sides and bottom were strewn with boulders, gravelly beds, and tough, twisted trees and shrubs that somehow found the will to survive in such an inhospitable environment. (Earlier that year, Dorro had experienced one of the most frightening episodes of his life in the Deep and had not been eager to return. It was recounted in the earlier tale, Devils & Demons.)
Another hour passed as the troupe maneuvered down a rocky, bramble-strewn pathway to the bottom of the chasm, one made all the more difficult since the Dwarves were carrying a corpus. But both Dorro and Timmo noticed something fascinating along the way—the Dwarves began to whistle and sing to themselves. There was even some playful banter and a few jokes.
Finally, he could bear it no longer, and nudged Two-Toes. “Why is everyone in such a jovial mood? We’re going to your brother’s funeral!”
The Dwarf chuckled, whispering, “That’s because of the rocks—they’re like old friends to us. Remember, we live in caves amongst rock and boulders and massive stalactites, so this is a relaxing place for us. Your so-called Deep is beautiful and makes us feel good. My brothers and I feel like we’re at home.”
Dorro and Timmo both nodded, but to them, the Deep was among the least hospitable locales in all Halflingdom. A bitter wind shot through the canyon right to his bones, and the scenery was nothing short of barren. “Timmo, do you know what kinds of rocks these are?”
“No idea, Dorro,” admitted the shy metalsmith. “Do you know, Mr. Crumble?”
“Eh? The rocks? Oh, this is sturdy schist, but it’s shot through with veins of agate, opalite, calcite, and gypsum!” replied the Dwarf, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “’Tis a fine spot you have here, my Halfling friends. And look—there’s a wondrous shelf of dolomite!”
“I must admit, Crumble, my knowledge of rock-lore is limited,” admitted Dorro.
The Dwarf kept talking about various rocks he saw and why he liked them. “Ooooo, I’d love to spend a few weeks here, taking souvenirs and cracking boulders with my hammer. It would be a lovely vacation for me.”
“Dare I ask why we’re here, Crumble? Are you going to inter your brother in one of the caves along here?”
“No, don’t be daft, Mr. Dorro, with all due respect,” said the head Dwarf. “We have an appointment in
a few hours, and thence we will perform the ritual.”
Dorro said no more, shooting Mr. Timmo a look of apprehension. Again the troupe pressed forward, the Dwarves becoming ever more silent as the sun began to set. They moved ever north, towards their unknown goal, breaking now and again to give the Halflings a little rest. Dorro and Timmo kept their coats and scarfs fastened tightly as the northerly wind began to blow colder and harder. The two were even more shocked when wet snowflakes began to fall, whipping their faces in the howling wind.
“I say, gentlemen, we’re going to need to stop for the night at some point, aren’t we?” asked Dorro hopefully. “We’re not as rugged as you.”
Crumble looked back at him grimly. “We let you come as long as you didn’t interfere or say anything. Those were your words. We still have a ways to go.”
At that, the Dwarves turned and continued marching and the two Halflings had no choice but to follow, despite sore legs and rumbly tummies. Timmo fished in his bag and came up with two more cheese wedges, which they devoured quickly, but it wouldn’t keep them full forever.
After another two hours, Magpie—who was far in the lead—shouted out something in Dwarfish that neither of them understood. The other Dwarves became anxious and doubled their speed. In short order, they arrived at a flat, gravelly bit of ground near a chasm wall, one that had a sheltering outcrop above. It wasn’t snug, certainly, but was better than being out in the open.
The Thimble Downers were pleased to see the Dwarves put down the corpus of Wump and begin gathering wood. In just a few minutes, they made a large pile of sticks and logs from the debris-filled floor of the Deep, and built a fire for food and warmth. They were invited to sit and toast their hands and toes, while Two-Toes produced a sumptuous supper from his bag—venison, oat cakes, cheese, brown ale, and a variety of nuts and fruits.
Soon all the Dwarves and Halflings were happily seated around blazing fire, enjoying each other’s company and discussing anything but the matter at hand. Yet Dorro noticed, they were waiting for someone.
Or some—thing.