* * *
Dorro felt sick to his stomach. No! This can’t be. His thoughts raced desperately. Not him—I might as well run and take my chances with the vicious dogs. At least the agony will end quicker.
“You rabble, shut up! This is the Overseer and you will do exactly what he tells you to do. Or you will suffer the consequences,” shouted Barnacle.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on ‘em,” cooed the sandpapery voice. “Why, they’ll learn quick enough what’s right for ‘em and what ain’t.”
A Halfling stepped forward, one whose face Dorro knew only too well. It was a mean, heartless face with stubble of a beard and not much more on top. A scar ran down the left side of his head, from his eyelid to his neck. His eyes were squinty and his mouth contorted into a permanent leer.
It was none other than Bill Thistle, the violent thief who had terrorized Thimble Down only a year or two earlier [recounted in the earlier tale, called simply Thimble Down].
Bill’s crimes against the village were more than enough to earn him exile to the East. Worse, it only took him a second to notice the bookmaster.
“Well, well—what an unexpected pleasure. If it ain’t Mr. Dainty-river or whatever. Whatchoo name anyway, friend?”
The bookmaster coughed. “Winderiver. Dorro Fox Winderiver.”
“Ooooo yeah, dats it. Mr. Windy-Pants hisself. The bookfeller from that unfortunate rat hole, Thimble Down. We have a bit of a history don’t we, mate? You musta done sumptin’ bad to be sent here.”
He leaned in close to Dorro, so close that the bookmaster could smell his fetid breath.
“On account of your unexpected, but quite welcome presence ‘ere, we’re gonna give you some extra chores to make you feel at home. I’ll cook up sumptin’ special for ya, too—a gift for giving me this lump on me head. Do you remember doing that, chum?”
Bill rubbed his skull menacingly. Dorro did remember grappling violently with Bill when he broke into the Perch. The big Halfling could have killed him, but at the last second, Dorro found an iron pan and clanged the brute on the head, knocking him senseless. It had saved his life, but now, the shoe was on the other foot; it was Bill Thistle’s time for payback.
“I still can’t believe a little twig like you bested ol’ Bill, but we’ll have to rectify that bit ‘o history. Maybe I’ll let you take another poke at me just to see if it was luck or what. ‘Cos if it’s the latter, I’d love to knock the stuffin’ out of you, Windy-Pants. T’would be me pleasure!”
By now, Bill and his minions were guffawing up a storm, while Dorro had turned every shade of pink imaginable. He had thought that there was nothing worse that could happen than coming to Fog Vale, but indeed, he now knew there was.
Bill’s Tale
Dorro’s first week in Fog Vale was hellacious.
He and his fellow prisoners were housed in a cold, damp barrack where they were each provided a crude bunk; an old mattress stuffed with moldy straw; and a dirty, tattered thing that was supposed be a blanket. Dorro was loathe to think what manner of bedbugs and other crawly creatures inhabited the bedding alongside them.
Plumbing was, of course, nonexistent and the cuisine was spartan at best—gruel, boiled corn mush, potatoes, and a hard, unleavened bread called bannock that the bookmaster thought could double as masonry.
Worse, Bill Thistle had sent word to his bullies that the Thimble Downer should get the worst jobs in the Vale, from cleaning outhouses and patrolling the perimeter (where goblins lurked) to mucking out the barn and peeling potatoes. He knew no one on the farm, save Amos Pinchbottle, who seemed to be thriving in the wretched place, along with his moronic cousins.
“How’s it goin’ there, Mr. Dorro?” Pinchbottle slapped down his bowl of overcooked oat porridge on the long wooden table and sidled up next to the bookmaster. “This looks rather tasty, eh? Ain’t ya gonna eat yours?”
“Help yourself, Amos. I’ve stomached about as much as I can.”
Exhausted and bored, the bookmaster tried to muster a conversation.
“Don’t you miss Thimble Down, Amos? The Halflings, the food, the pleasant air? I’d give anything to go back to my old life. I suppose I took it for granted.”
“Buck up, Mr. Dorro. Could be worse—we could be dead like those crazy sisters or that damnable fool that tried to escape on our first day. Watch what ol’ Amos does and try to fit in. Your year will pass in a jiffy, just you watch. And lucky you—the Overseer seems to be an old mate of yers! That Bill Thistle cuts an impressive figure, he do, and I’d be happy to shake his hand. Such authority! Such panache!”
Dorro could barely believe his ears, but considering Amos had the intellectual capacity of a woodchuck, it made some sense. He just smiled and nodded, before heading off to his next job.
“Oy! You. The boss wants to see ya!”
It was Barnacle, bidding for Dorro to follow. Bill wants to see me. Maybe this is it—the moment he beats me senseless, thought the Thimble Downer. At least if he kills me, I shall be released from this nightmare.
“In here, Windy-Pants!” Barnacle grinned as he proffered that unfortunate nickname. “He’s waitin’ for you in the back room. That’s his official office, y’see.”
Dorro walked down a cold, musty hallway as if headed to his doom. He walked into the dank room that served as Bill’s chamber and Barnacle pushed him down onto a hard bench; across a crude desk, Bill stared at him blankly as the henchman department and closed the door. The silence was deafening.
“So, Mr. Dandy-River, here we are,” cooed Bill. “Must say, I never ‘spected to see you again. We had quite an adventure in that Thimble Down o’ yers, but I do want to tell ya one thing ….”
Dorro said nothing.
“In a strange way, Windy-River, I want to thank you.”
The bookmaster was completely lost at this point. Bill Thistle was thanking him?
“It’s true; if it weren’t for you and yer meldlin’ Sheriff Fargo ….”
“Forgo.”
“Righty-o, Forgo, I’d a never been shipped to Fog Vale. This is the best thing that ever happened to ol’ Bill Thistle, I tells ya. I came here as a ruddy prisoner, same as you, a lowly toad who scrubbed the outhouse. I got whipped and beaten, but then something miraculous happened.”
“Them goblins stepped up their game and started a new campaign to destroy us. In short order, the Overseer back then—a big slob named Grobtooth—took a poisoned orkus dart to the neck one day and died on the spot.”
“Within a week, the goblins took about five more of the goons who watched over our lot and pretty soon there were only a few of the thugs left. And boy, were they scared! So they talked it over and said they were gonna pick a few of us to become the new guards—and I was one of ‘em.”
“Better still, they hightailed it out of the Vale as fast as they could, leaving a classic vacuum o’ power! It was the perfect chance for Bill Thistle to show his quality. A gent named McGerk tried to become the Overseer, but I challenged him and we had a bit of a knife fight. And well, Mr. Windy-River, you know how good I am with a knife.”
Bill grinned evilly.
“And that’s how I’m here, the official Overseer of Fog Vale. Once them cowardly blokes got back to the West, they decided to leave well enough alone and officially install me as the boss. See, I got the letter to prove it!”
He pointed to a tattered parchment on the wall behind his desk.
“Since then, I’ve received accolades from the constables and sheriffs of the western counties for my prudent and iron-fisted administration of this here facility. And honestly, I do love it ‘ere!”
“Sure, it’s dangerous work, but there’s also a thrill—every mornin’ when I awake I have no idea whether I’ll still be breathing by dusk. Fog Vale is me own little kingdom and I’m servin’ the public good. So I kindly thank you and Sheriff Forgo for pushing me in this direction, for I am ever in your debt, kind sir.”
Dorro saw an opportunity. “Tosh, it was nothing
, Bill. Just trying to help out, you know. Say, if I did you a favor, perhaps you could ….”
“Sorry, mate, but I take me job seriously. You done a crime and a goodly one at that—murder! I didn’t think you were the type. There’s probably more malice in you than meets the eye!”
“But!”
“But nuthin’, friend. You’re an exiled prisoner in the custody of the Overseer of Fog Vale, which is me. I hope your time here will be fruitful and will help rehabilitate your lost soul and lowly moral standards through hard work and suffering.”
“Oh, and I still owes ya a beatin’ for whackin’ me with that frying pan; I still have the bump to prove it. Other than that, I bid you a good day, Mr. Windy-River, and hopes ya doesn’t get hacked up by goblins anytime soon.”
Mouth hanging open, the bookmaster arose obediently and left the room.
Did that just transpire? he thought to himself. That mildly insane Bill Thistle is now my lord and master, and intends to make my next twelve months here a living Hell. This is becoming more absurd by the minute.
Dorro didn’t have time to finish that thought as Barnacle shouted his name from across.
“Hey you! Get a bucket ‘n’ a mop, and slop out the outhouse. It’s reeking again and it’s only January. You should smell it in July!”
Green Slime Cookies
After a relatively quiet day at the gaol, Sheriff Forgo ambled over to the Hanging Stoat for a well-deserved supper.
Inside the rambling, smoky tavern, he soaked in the ambiance of his favorite watering hole; Forgo even had a favorite stool—the exceptionally worn one at the very end of the bar, perfectly contoured for his rump. He found it available for his enjoyment and scuttled over to claim it before anyone else did.
“Howdy Mungo, how’s things? While yer at it, fetch me a bowl of the curried chicken stew and roasted rutabaga. I caught that intriguing scent from the gaol!”
“I’ll put the order in right away, Sheriff.”
The rather porcine barman shouted the order back to the kitchen and leaned on the counter. “Sad about poor Dorro. Me ‘n’ Edith do feel rotten, especially about how we cleaned up at the trial. We pocketed some real gold that night.”
“I’m sure Winderiver won’t begrudge you the business. Speaking of which, how is the flow tonight?”
The barman scanned the premises. “‘Tis lookin’ dandy! But odd you should ask—I’ve heard a few rumors today that some of my fellow tavern keepers are complaining of a bad case of the ‘empties.’”
“The empties?”
“A technical term pertaining to taverns, referring a-course to a sudden epidemic of empty chairs and stools. Not good for a barman or his purse, no sirree!”
“Hmmm, thar’s interestin’, Mungo.”
Forgo had a satisfied look on his face as Freda the barmaid placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of him. It didn’t last long, as the lawman was famished and devoured the lot in just a few minutes, taking a few roasted and lightly salted rutabagas along for comfort. A pale lager finished the culinary masterpiece and the Sheriff let fly a loud belch for good measure.
Brrrawwwwp!
“Sheriff, I want a word with you!”
Forgo knew that voice—it was Osgood Thrip, snorting and huffing as he always did when he was perturbed.
“Errrmmm … hullo, Osgood,” preened the lawman, bracing for the worst as he turned on his favorite stool. “What can I help you with today?”
“You know exactly what I want to talk about, Forgo.” Thrip’s face and brow were bright red, as was the Mayor who followed him, similarly hued. “The Mayor and I have been getting reports all day that certain shops and taverns around Thimble Down have stood vacant, while others are thriving. And guess what? The ones that are empty are mine! I know you’re behind this, Sheriff—you and your Winderiver-loving cronies.”
“Osgood, I’m taken aback! Do you really think ol’ Forgo would be able to stop folks from frequenting the shops and watering holes of their choice? I’m just a simple lawman, not a fancy-pants man of industry. Why, I take three naps a day.”
“Don’t give me that country-bumpkin act, Sheriff—you’re smarter than you look! I bet that Darwinna Thrashrack is up to her neck in this. She’s one of the brightest witches in the village and could talk anyone into do what wants just by batting those eyelashes of hers.”
“I’m sure the solicitor will be mighty flattered you’ve noticed her eyelashes, Osgood, but that said, even if some folks are diverting others from patronizing one shop and not another, that wouldn’t exactly be against the law.” Forgo delivered the line exactly has he’d been rehearsing it all day. “Umm, now would it?”
The weaselly Mayor finally spoke up. “Mark my words, Sheriff, if you’re behind this, I’ll have your job.”
This threat prompted the lawman off his favorite stool and he loomed up over the pair menacingly.
“You can do what you want, Mr. Mayor—I’ve been covering your tail for years, as you well know. You ain’t gonna find another constable who’ll do your dirty laundry for you, day in and day out.”
“In fact—I’ve been too lax around this village and let quite a few laws and rules go unenforced, but heck, I think I’ll change that. I know for a fact that some of your taverns in Fell’s Corner haven’t been inspected for years, Osgood—maybe it’s time I paid a visit to make sure everything is in order. Would be a shame if I had to write up some citations ….”
Thrip and the Mayor shot each other quick glances.
Osgood snarled under his breath, “Don’t push me, Sheriff. If we find out your behind all this tomfoolery, you might be the next one exiled to the Eastern frontier. Then you and your pal Winderiver can have someone to hug when the goblins storm Fog Vale and rip all the inmates to shreds.”
The two turned on their feet and stormed from the Hanging Stoat, leaving the Sheriff standing with a look of bemusement on his face.
To his greater surprise, the rest of the crowd began cheering wildly. A few Thimble Downers even bought Forgo warm jiggers of honeygrass whiskey for telling Osgood Thrip and the Mayor just where they could stick their spurious assertions, even if they were entirely true.
It was the most pleasant night Forgo enjoyed in many a moon.