Death of a Dwarf
* * *
Scant minutes later, Dorro found himself deep in the smeltery, in a hot, steamy area where several vats of hot liquid metal were simmering over hot coals. One wrong step and Dorro might find himself in the vat—at least, he mused, it would be a quick death.
He tread through the steam carefully until he found his quarry, the Dwarves, who were near the back of this particular cavern, huddled in a group and talking quietly. Presumably they were still grieving for the loss of Wump. How they were awake and working, Dorro did not know, as he was worn and could have slept right there on the floor. He coughed to get their attention.
“Ah, friend Dorro,” said Crumble warily. He knew the bookmaster was not here on a social call. “What can we do for you?”
Dorro relayed the details of the theft, as told to him by Bindlestiff and Fibbhook. Finally, he delivered the coup de grâce—Fibbhook’s accusation against Orli and the children. At first, Crumble said nothing. His face was grim and set like stone, as were those of his brothers. The boy merely looked away.
“As much as I’d like to bury my fists into the face of Mr. Fibbhook, we are Dwarves of honor and do not lie,” said the head Dwarf. “It is true that my Orli and your younglings were found in Mr. Bindlestiff’s office. When we found them, we were angry, and we may have scared your young friends, Mr. Dorro, but rest assured, we never harmed them. Orli, however, was punished in the way of our folk, and trust me, it was not pleasant.”
The younger Dwarf still did not make eye contact, staring off into the depths of the caverns. Still, he was listening to every word. And he was not surprised when Crumble asked the next question: “Boy, did you take the papers? We’ve already caught you there once. Did you shame us again by stealing from the boss on the very night we were off burying your Uncle Wump?”
Orli said nothing, but slowly stood and looked at his father. “I did not steal any papers.”
“Why did we catch you there before?”
“Because Cheeryup wanted evidence that the smeltery was poisoning this village. I—”
Crumble interrupted, “She charmed you with her Halfling ways, didn’t she? Didn’t she!”
Dorro knew that, like Wyll, poor Orli had feelings for the girl. It was there on his face.
Crumble continued, “I don’t like what you’ve become, my son. Since we’ve come to Thimble Down, you’ve lost your Dwarfish honor. Now you want to steal things that proved that what we do—our very work!—is bad. And all for the affections of a little girl. And a Halfling, no less! You’ve brought shame on us, Orli, all of us.”
“I didn’t steal anything, though I tried once,” cried the boy. “My tools aren’t even sophisticated enough to crack that safe.”
“Whether you did or did not is not relevant anymore,” said Crumble, his voice cracking with sadness. “It’s that you tried to in the first place, all in the name of putting your own feelings ahead of the needs of your own family. And it’s clear that we must leave this village, Dorro. My son has done enough damage and needs to return north to relearn what it means to be a Dwarf. He has apparently forgotten.”
Dorro merely nodded and left. He didn’t really think Orli stole the papers, but he would interrogate Wyll and Cheeryup. Like Crumble, he was embarrassed by the actions of his young friends and would tell them so. In his heart, he knew he was also to blame.
I’m too soft on Wyll, he chided himself. And I give Cheeryup too much leeway. I’m supposed to be the grownup here, but all too often, I’m just as foolish and immature as they are. Or worse!
Supper’s Ready
Dorro returned to the Perch, tired and exasperated. He’d been gone for over a day and needed a bath, food, and a full night’s sleep—in that exact order. The bookmaster stoked up the fire under his oven, and after checking his larder, put a few chicken pies in the oven, hoping that Wyll would be home for dinner soon. Perhaps Cheeryup would appear, too, which would make his job easier.
Dorro followed with a hot bath, in which he promptly fell asleep. A half an hour later, he rousted himself from the tub, dressed in his night robe and went out to finish dinner. By this time, the pies were bubbling along nicely. He complemented the main course with a loaf of rye bread, fresh butter, and a jar of Summer blueberries for dessert. He’d top them off with a few spoonfuls of fresh cream and perhaps a sprig or two of mint.
As if on cue, the door to the burrow opened, and in strode Wyll and Cheeryup. “There you scamps are! I hope you’re staying for dinner, young lady,” chastised Dorro with mock gravity. They nodded yes, so he promptly sent them to the privy to wash up for supper. Eventually, they were all seated at the kitchen table and devouring the chicken pies crafted by the inestimable, if sometimes cantankerous Mrs. Fowl down the lane. They chatted about the Dwarves, the health of Mrs. Tunbridge (not good), and the state of Thimble Down (even worse).
Dorro waited until they were on their blueberries to bring up the incident at Mr. Bindlestiff’s office. Wyll and Cheeryup froze, but slowly took stock of their actions. Wyll explained their motley plan to find incriminating documents, while Cheeryup bravely took responsibility for the maneuver in the first place.
“I’m glad you realize you did wrong, children,” began Dorro, “Yet I’m disappointed. I admit, I’m not the best role model in the village, but this was your most foolish prank yet. If Fibbhook had discovered you in the office instead of Crumble, you might not be here right now. He would have been well within his rights to have you tossed in gaol. Even as Sheriff, I would have no authority to stop him. You broke our laws!”
“But Mr. Dorro, we meant well,” said Cheeryup meekly.
“But nothing, young lady. And you, most of all, using your feminine charms to get poor Orli to do your bidding. This must stop right now!”
Laying down his spoon, Dorro continued: “Wyll, you’re my nephew—I’d have thought you would have learned by now what is lawful and which is not. Certainly, we’ve pushed the limits before, you and I, but this is nothing but theft. My nephew, a common thief! I’m ashamed of you, though it truly pains me to say that.”
“Wyll tried to talk us out of it, Mr. Dorro!” plead Cheeryup. “He really did.”
“That may be so, but still, a thief in the family. What would your good mother say?”
“I am not a thief!” screamed Wyll, standing up and his face red. “Stop calling me that!”
“How you dare speak to me like that, boy?” Dorro was shocked. “I give you a good home and you go off and burgle the neighbors. And now this!”
At that, the tousled-hair boy kicked his chair back until it slammed back onto the floor. “In that case, I shall live somewhere else, Uncle Dorro!”
Wyll Underfoot ran from the burrow, awash in anger and bewilderment, knowing not at all what he was going to do next.