“He doesn’t mean your hole.” Maxon turned his bright eyes on Bealomondore. “They call their homes ‘holes.’ They’re burrowing ropmas, and for them, the word home refers to a structure built above ground. So when you said ‘hole,’ they thought you thought you’d been in their home.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bealomondore caught movement. He turned his head to see the two brothers disappear under the flowering bush.
“They’re shy,” said Maxon. “They rarely stick around for a conversation.”
“They talk?”
“Some.”
Vague memories rose in the artist’s mind. It would be a joy to capture the ropmas’ lives on paper, to record their culture. But could he get close to them? “More than just one word at a time?”
Maxon looked up at Bealomondore. “What are you getting at?”
“I was told they were dumb.”
“They are simple, not dumb.”
Maxon darted away, forging a trail through the trees. Bealomondore followed, having more trouble than the small kimen.
He pushed branches out of his way and saw Maxon slip under another bush. “Wait up. And I meant ‘dumb’ as in deaf and dumb.”
Maxon made no comment, and Bealomondore had to shove more aggressively through the thick brushwood to keep up with the little kimen.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To my village,” answered Maxon. “It’s not far now.”
Bealomondore followed his voice. He could no longer see his guide. “Are there any ropmas in your village?”
Maxon laughed. “Only kimens and guests.”
“Guests. You have very few guests, right?”
“Right.”
A branch scraped across the tumanhofer’s face, and he grimaced. “How long will I be there? And why am I going to be there?”
“I think you will be there a long time. Or maybe a short time.”
Bealomondore stumbled over roots and growled. “Maxon, you are moving too fast. Slow down.”
He blinked, and the little man stood at his knee.
“I am anxious to get home,” said the kimen.
The tumanhofer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the scratch on his face. “Why are ropmas who live underground named after things you would find in a house above ground? Why ‘Roof’ and ‘Door’?”
“The story is that one day someone laughed at a group of ropmas and told them their houses were inferior because they had no floors, windows, doors, roofs, rooms, and all that. Ropmas don’t usually understand when someone pokes fun at them. But they got the idea that they needed those things in their holes.”
Understanding dawned in Bealomondore’s brain. “So they named their children for the things they were lacking.”
“Exactly,” said Maxon and started through the undergrowth again.
Bealomondore followed quietly for a time. Maxon did a better job of guiding, slowing his pace so the artist could keep up.
Resigned to his unplanned visit to the kimen village, Bealomondore pondered his fate. Did kimens have beds to fit a tumanhofer? Would he have clothes to wear? What kind of clothes? After all, he enjoyed fine fashion and elegant garments. His sense of fashion got him accepted in the higher circles of society. At first it had been a tool to promote his art, but he had become accustomed to fine fabrics, a distinguished cut, and splendid colors.
The intrigue of experiencing life among the kimens overrode his sense of style and dignity. Would he be able to draw? Kimens had fascinating features, and he’d always wanted to capture their whimsical expressions.
He noticed his kimen was out of sight again. “Hey, Maxon.”
Maxon popped into sight, right in front of him.
He jumped. “You startled me.”
“You called?”
“What am I to do in your village? What am I to wear?”
The kimen waved his hand in the air as he turned away. “All taken care of. You’ll be fine.”
Maxon had just disappeared from view again when he whistled and exclaimed, “Uh-oh.”
Alert and wary, Bealomondore cautiously parted the branches in front of him. Maxon stood with his hands on his hips.
Bealomondore bent forward and whispered. “What is it?”
“Our lost parcel.” He pointed to a mound covered with old, moldy vegetation from the forest floor. “The ropma forgot where he delivered it.”
Bealomondore squinted and peered over the head of his small companion.
Was that a pointed ear he saw sticking out of the dark, crumbling leaves?
5
Kimen Village
Bealomondore nudged the kimen aside and knelt beside the body buried in mulch. He brushed away the debris around the ear and uncovered a familiar face. “Tipper.”
Using both hands, he cleared away the old leaves clinging to her hair and shoulders. He gently gripped her upper arms and shook. “Tipper!”
He cast a look at Maxon, who now hovered near the girl’s other side.
“She’s not dead,” said the kimen.
“Her skin’s cold.” Bealomondore touched her throat and felt a weak pulse. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Couldn’t be drugged,” Maxon murmured. “Door and Roof wouldn’t be trusted with a potion. They consume anything that even looks like food or drink.” The kimen pulled his hair. “Winkel ordered you drugged to keep the village whereabouts unknown. But this emerlindian came by a different route.” He shook his head. “Odd, decidedly odd. Roof and Door were told to rescue her from being found by the foreigners.”
Bealomondore glared at him. “Then what happened?”
Maxon leaned closer and sniffed. “Ah.”
“Ah? What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”
“She smells of awdenberry.”
Bealomondore sat back on his heels and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what awdenberry is and what it does.” He stood. “Now!”
Maxon held his hands up in a placating manner. “Hold on. This is just an unfortunate circumstance. No permanent damage done. The ropma must have carried her through an awdenberry patch. The oil from the leaves would not have bothered them because of their thick, hairy coats. But many of the high races can’t tolerate the soporific side effects of the fruit and foliage.”
All the anger drained out of the tumanhofer. He’d grown fond of Tipper on their original quest. He found her exasperating, but he also found her tender-hearted.
Bealomondore stroked one finger down the sleeping emerlindian’s cheek. “What do we do to wake her?”
“The scent of bogswart bark should do it. You wouldn’t happen to have a piece on you?”
Bealomondore pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, holding his breath for a second before he answered. “No.”
“Well then, we have two options.” Maxon held up a finger. “We can carry her to the village, where I’m sure we can find some bogswart.” He lifted a second finger. “Or I can run ahead and get a piece and bring it back.”
“Will it take you long to fetch the bark?”
Maxon chortled. “A matter of minutes.”
“Then go.”
Maxon shook his head. “But it will be several hours after she whiffs the antidote before she can stand and walk.”
“Then we’ll carry her.”
“She’s rather long.” The kimen moved away from Tipper’s head and brushed forest debris from her feet.
Bealomondore contemplated her lengthy body. He could carry her weight, but her long limbs presented a problem. Her feet and hands would drag in any position he held her.
He frowned at his guide. “Do you have a suggestion that will work?”
“Of course.” Maxon grinned. “I’ll go get someone to help carry her.”
“Ropmas?”
He shook his head. “Kimens.” He turned and disappeared between the nearest bushes, then popped his head back through. “We ought to check if she still has the statue. It would be a shame if she l
ost it.”
Bealomondore looked down at the princess, who, covered with dirt, still looked beautiful. He was not about to search her for the statue. Since it was probably in a hollow bag, he wouldn’t be able to feel it. And it was just something a gentleman should not do.
“The statue will wait. Go get your helpers.”
While Maxon went for help, Bealomondore rid the sleeping beauty of her forest décor. He cleared off most of the larger decaying leaves with his hand, then used his handkerchief to swipe off the clinging dirt and damp mulch.
Maxon returned with nine kimens in tow. They lined up on Tipper’s sides and hoisted her onto their shoulders. Bealomondore followed, and very soon they stepped through a scanty hedge to find a narrow path.
The tumanhofer took his first unhindered step since waking in this dense forest. He looked down at his torn and dirtied apparel. “Too late for these clothes. I don’t suppose the kimen village has shops and booteries.”
“What was that?” asked Maxon from his position in the formation. He carried Tipper’s left foot.
“I’m merely lamenting the utter ruin of a splendid morning coat, a stylish made-to-order shirt, and a very decent pair of trousers, not to mention the most comfortable walking shoes I’ve ever owned.”
Without turning, Maxon waved his free hand in a dismissive manner. “My kin know you’re coming. They’ve done all to make you comfortable. Clothes, a spacious habitat, supplies for your art. You will live in luxury until we receive orders as to what we are to do with the statues.”
A warm glow settled in Bealomondore’s middle. Luxury, leisure, painting kimens, ropmas, and the beautiful emerlindian. This jaunt to an isolated village might be just what his weary self needed. He agreed with the rascally Wizard Fenworth that quests were uncomfortable ventures. He’d had enough of gallivanting around the country, looking for statues and finding villains instead. Bealomondore grinned. If he’d been given the duty of holing up in obscurity with a stolen statue in his possession, he’d make the best of it.
They stopped in a clearing.
“This will do,” said Maxon, and the ten kimens gently lowered the emerlindian to the ground.
“Where’s the village?” asked Bealomondore.
Maxon gestured to their surroundings. “This is it.”
With a hand in his trouser pocket, Bealomondore turned a full circle, inspecting every rock and tree. Nothing looked like a habitat. Then the side of a tree opened, and two kimens stepped out, obviously children by the size of them. Their fair hair stood even more wildly on their heads than the adult kimens’ topknots.
Several vines slipped into view from the trees. Gliding gracefully down these vines, a dozen kimens joined those who were appearing from bushes, trees, and burrows in the ground.
Bealomondore gazed with amazement. His artist eye picked out the slight variation of features that made each kimen individual. No artist had ever been presented with such a wonderful collection of untamed beauty.
Many kimens clustered around Tipper. One spoke earnestly to Maxon. Bealomondore recognized the speaker as Winkel, the kimen responsible for drugging him.
Maxon nodded and left Tipper in the hands of Winkel and a dozen of her comrades. He approached Bealomondore with an excited expression. “I’ll show you to the guesthouse. We’ll have lunch, and you can try on your new clothes.”
“Are you excited about lunch or my new clothes?”
“Both! You’re going to be delighted. Kimens are wonderful hosts.” He started toward the far side of the crowded clearing.
Bealomondore remained where he stood. When Maxon looked back and frowned, he spoke. “What are they doing with Tipper?”
Maxon looked puzzled. “Taking care of her.”
“What are they going to do exactly?
“They’ll hold a piece of the bogswart bark under her nose until she’s had a good sniff of it. Her color will improve and her breathing will deepen. Then the lady kimens will help her clean up. You know, take a bath, wash her hair, put something pretty on. You know, female things. They’ll feed her, and when she’s ready, she’ll join us. Probably tomorrow.”
“I want to see her sooner than that. I want to see that she’s all right.”
Maxon gazed at him with serious eyes, then nodded. “I’ll arrange it.” He started to turn away but looked back. “Are you coming now?”
“Yes.” Bealomondore considered the activity around his sleeping friend one more time. The kimens carefully, almost reverently, lifted Tipper. Reassured that they would treat her well, he followed Maxon.
A dozen steps beyond the perimeter of the clearing, a solid wall of vines blocked their path. Maxon reached into the foliage, twisted something, and pulled. A door made out of the vegetation opened. Bealomondore’s eyes grew wide as he walked in. Whatever the walls, roof, floor, and furnishings were made of, they glowed so that the inside was brighter than the shaded forest outside.
He moved on to a second room, where a bed and clothing awaited him.
“My friends are bringing water for your bath. I’ll come back and get you for noonmeal. We eat at the commons. I’ll show you. You’re going to like the food.”
“I … I’m overcome, dear Maxon. This is perfect. Beautiful and the right size.” He gestured to the bed and the door frame, including everything. “It’s like a crystal palace.”
Maxon shrugged. “It’s only two rooms.”
“It’s magnificent.” He ran his hand down the wall, marveling at the polished, cool, glowing substance. “What is this made of?”
“Oh, just a little something we whip up for guests. We, the family and friends and all, don’t need all the trimmings. But we know those from beyond require a little pampering.”
“I’m much obliged.” Bealomondore picked up a jacket of material so smooth that he could not make out the weave. “I shall be spoiled and not want to go back to ordinary clothes.”
Maxon chortled. “That is if you remember what you’ve seen when you return to your own towns and cities.”
Bealomondore frowned and examined the little man’s face. “Is there a likelihood that I won’t remember?”
The kimen shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been an outsider who’s visited and then left.”
“You’re saying that your people will take away my memories somehow when it is time for me to go?”
“Only if they don’t trust you. And I think they will find you trustworthy.” He cocked his head. “What’s that noise?”
Bealomondore opened his mouth to say he didn’t hear anything unusual when the sound of a low whistle caught his attention.
A voice rumbled under a sustained whoosh. “To the left, I say.”
Another voice sounded louder. “Land, for all the blinking stars in the heavens. Just land!”
“You’d have us in a pigsty.”
“We aren’t going to a farm.”
“Well then, a prickly bush. You want me to just plop down in thorns, with maybe a smelly bristle bomber in residence, a hive full of buzzerbees, and perhaps a growly ginger bear?”
“My beard’s all twisted inside out. Land!”
Maxon and Bealomondore started to the outer door to see what the commotion might be. As they crossed the first room, a whirlwind formed, knocking them back against the walls.
Wizard Fenworth, Librettowit, and a bedraggled kimen appeared out of the cyclonic wind. The swirl of air dissipated, leaving Fenworth and his tumanhofer companion on the floor, glaring at each other.
The tumanhofer librarian stood, straightened his clothing, and worried his fingers through his bushy beard, trying to tame its awful tangles. “That was a poor transportation, a poor landing, and a poor example of misused wizardry. I should pin you in a chair with Margoteum’s Book of Level One Mastery.”
The wizard rose and gently placed the small creature he had been holding on the floor. The kimen crumpled into a heap and covered her eyes with her hands.
“Oh, bother!” said
Fenworth. “Don’t cry. I really get muddled when people cry. It mixes my thoughts up like a bowl of noodles.”
“We don’t want that!” Librettowit took off his hat and threw it on a table. “May Wulder protect us from such a dire circumstance. Imagine a wizard who operates in a state of confusion. The results might very well be disastrous.”
The wizard produced a clean handkerchief and offered it to the distraught kimen. He pulled it back just before her hand closed on it and plucked a very small lizard from its folds. “I don’t believe this fine young reptile would help you recover your equilibrium, my dear.” He shook the handkerchief, then returned the uninhabited cloth to the kimen.
“You know,” he said as she dabbed her eyes, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Fenworth, bog wizard of Amara. This is my esteemed librarian, Trevithick Librettowit. He’s been known to be in a better mood from time to time, but we must make allowances. He prefers a good book, a comfy chair, a plate of daggarts, tea, and a fire in the fireplace. Unfortunately, we are often called to adventure. Slaying damsels, rescuing dragons in distress, collapsing kingdoms, thwarting evil, purging plagues, that sort of thing.”
He bowed with an elaborate sweep of his arm before him.
“A servant of Wulder, dear girl, at your service.”
He straightened and looked around the room.
“Oh, see here, Librettowit. Not a growly ginger bear at all, but Bealomondore and a friend. See, you needn’t have worried. We’ve landed precisely where I intended.” His eyes inspected the walls and furnishings. “Bealomondore, good friend, exactly where are we?”
6
The Grawl
Vaguely aware of the fuss being made over her, Tipper tried to muster enough energy to protest. Her tongue didn’t cooperate any more than her arms and legs. She managed to open her eyelids to a slit, but they closed before she could focus on the little beings that surrounded her.
Their touch soothed her. She wasn’t afraid but definitely confused. Why would someone else be braiding her hair?
And they were singing. Tipper wanted to sing with them. She didn’t know the words or the tune, but the music reached into her heart and made her want to sing, dance, do something to join in. Song had rescued her many times from despair and loneliness. She sang for herself, but she knew her talent lightened others’ burdens as well.