The pain-dulling root stood erect between the tight grip of clenched teeth, as Ghost-Tongue hobbled beside the Captain up and down the hills of Arcadia. They were headed toward the sunrise, as the Gurglesplat had instructed, but the short distance described was being challenged by their slow pace. Several times they were forced to halt and give Ghost-Tongue’s ankle a break from swinging and thus creating a momentum that would send jolts of searing pain through him.
It was during such a break that they watched the dancing of dozens of fowl, frogs, and hares around a candy-striped maypole. Holding to colorful ribbons in their beaks, mouths and maws, the song they sang was a lively one that brought smiles to both men. Full of chirped, croaked, and screeched melodies, Ghost-Tongue translated the bestial language for his Captain.
“She was a bonny lass,” Ghost-Tongue quoted. “He was an ugly thing. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and this is why we sing.”
“So, it still rhymes when translated into English?” the Captain wondered.
“I think it would still rhyme if I translated it into Mandarin, Cap’n. This is Arcadia.”
“I like it,” the Captain nodded. With that said, Ghost-Tongue could not have stopped him even if both his legs were functional. A moment later, the towering, broad-shouldered mystical industrialist was dancing a jig around the tiny maypole along with a small horde of woodland creatures.
Ghost-Tongue smiled at this for a good ling while. This was why they were friends. But the sun had its own agenda and continued to creep across the sky, so eventually the hobbled Anasazi had to coerce the Captain back to their original goal: reaching Kettle’s Knob.
It was during this coercion when one of the hares explained that the gnome hamlet was perhaps three hills away. They were, in fact, nearly there. This proved to embolden the Captain and made his departure from the wonderful festivities much easier. So with fond farewells all around, whether spoken, croaked, squawked, or otherwise, the men departed and headed away from the sun’s descent.
Upon surmounting the third hill, the Captain said, “I will forever trust rabbits more than pixies.” Thousands of tiny holes peppered the lumpy vale below them. Like some green amalgam of Swiss and bleu cheese, these perfectly round holes set into the sides of the grassy hills all faced the tiny creek that ran through its center.
There was little movement outside of these holes. As such, it was relatively quiet below, though there were the resonant clangs of miners at work within the earth. These were gnomes after all. Their world was a subterranean one. The few tiny figures feudally garbed in tunics or other peasant dress that hauled buckets to and from the creek were content with mild greetings and conversation as they passed one another. The men wearing the standard Germanic, red conical hats of miners above long beards, and the women in braids, they bowed and curtsied here and there, presenting what by all appearances was a kind, cordial community. It was pleasant.
That was until they heard one loud, particularly gruff voice exclaim, “Thunderpuck… bardbelly… CRAG!”