Death of a Dwarf

  * * *

  “Hello everyone and good morning.” It was Dowdy Cray, who ran the cart and wagon repair shop, and it was his dogcart they were standing on. “Today, we’ll be hearing from our two candidates for mayor: Farmer Edythe and … the Mayor! (He’d been mayor for so long that no one really remembered his true name.) As always, the incumbent gets to speak first. Mr. Mayor!”

  At that, the tall, spindly figure of the Mayor ascended the wagon steps, trying in his pained way to smile—it was more of a leer—from within his heavily mutton-chopped face. He even removed his top hat, revealing a few oily locks hiding his balding pate. He coughed once or twice for theatrical effect and began to speak.

  “My dear, dear Thimble Downians,” he began grandly, drawing out each syllable. “I am sooooo humbled to be in your presence today. I’ve enjoyed many terms as your mayor and I seek to continue working for you good, good Halflings, and do the noble work which we’ve started!”

  There was cautious, scattered applause. Most villagers knew the Mayor was a weasel, but he was their weasel and was sure he’d win the election somehow anyway. Dorro, meanwhile, leaned on a post and thought about the Mayor’s preening, pandering delivery: Oh, he’s a slick one. Look at him up there in all his glory, lying and cajoling the crowd. Wake up, people—the Halfling is a cad and a fiend!

  The Mayor continued: “In the past year, we’ve had some challenges, but have conquered them together. We dealt with a band of murderous elves and sent them packing from the village.” The crowd didn’t know if this was true or not, but it sounded good. “And we killed a monster goblin who had ravaged the Great Wood and taken the life of our blacksmith, Tom Turner!”

  The Thimble Downers started to cheer, thinking they had actually killed a goblin. “And we chased bloody pirates that stole our children and we successfully recovered them, while tragically losing a few of our own.” The Mayor stifled back a false tear, while the audience began to cheer wildly.

  Listen to that varmint, thought Dorro. The Mayor didn’t do any of that, the big liar! It was Forgo and I and the children … and poor Bosco. I want to scream right now!

  “And this Summer, during a horrible drought, we fixed the plumbing and the flow of fresh well water in Thimble Down, thanks to a generous donation from Mr. & Mrs. Osgood Thrip!” crooned the Mayor. Big yells of approval followed, as well as the sight of Osgood tipping his hat and waving to the folks. “Not everyone in the village has indoor plumbing—like that fancy-pants Dorro Fox Winderiver, up there in his snooty burrow on the hill.”

  The Mayor let that comment hang for a second as the crowd wondered if this was true or not. Even so, a few Halfling teens booed, and one even yelled out, “Dorro stinks!”

  How dare he? Dorro was mortified that the Mayor had pitched him under wheels to score political points. He has running water in his burrow, as does Osgood Thrip. The hypocrites!

  Fortunately, the Mayor was done with his assemblage of lies and half-truths, thanking the populace of Thimble Down for their many years of support, even in the face of threat from his nefarious opponent. He even went on to insinuate that Edythe was a dangerous voice for new and untried things.

  “Why do we want to try radical concepts when the good old ideas have served us so well for so long? And who is this so-called candidate? All we know of her is that she grows tomatoes and is married to a tavern keeper. A lowly tavern keeper, I ask you!”

  The crowd was confused for a second, as most of them loved taverns and tavern keepers, but if the Mayor said they were bad, well, maybe they were! And did they really want a lowly one’s wife as their mayor? As we’ve previously noted, Halflings weren’t the brightest creatures in the world and, among them, Thimble Downers did not rank very high. (On occasion, they made chipmunks seem like great intellectuals.)

  The treacherous Mayor thanked his audience to lavish cheers and stepped off the wagon, while Dowdy introduced the other candidate. Now this should be interesting, thought Dorro warmly.

  In a second, with the agility of a much younger and slimmer gal, the large figure of Farmer Edythe mounted the wagon. Granted, the wagon creaked and threatened to buckle, but Edythe was certainly a presence. Off to the side, her husband Mr. Mungo cheered and hooted loudly to whip up the crowd, and indeed, more than a few villagers politely cheered her arrival.

  “My goodness, what a wonderful reception!” shouted Edythe in her big, burly voice. “I love this village!” A big roar from the crowd. She knows how to work ‘em, thought the bookmaster. Go, Edythe, go!

  “Friends, our village has sat idle while progress and innovation takes flight in every other Halfling village. Upper-Down and Nob put in new pipes for their wells years ago; our Mayor just got around to it this year. And other villages have schools for their young folk, but not ours. Sure, we have a fine library, thanks to Mr. Dorro,” (“Hooray for Dorro,” someone shouted out, while another yelled, “Dorro still stinks!”)

  “But it ain’t enough. We need to educate our younglings, so they can bring their smarts back into the village and help improve our lives. Especially when we start getting old!” More cheers for Edythe.

  “Yet folks, that’s not why I’m here today. I’m here, because we have a problem in Thimble Down and it goes against everything we stand for. I’m talking about all the smoke and dirt that’s filling our air and making us sick. Every other Halfling has the Grippe and we all know where it’s from. Sure, the smeltery brought jobs, but at what cost? Dead fish in the river? No game in the Great Wood? Our elderly getting sick and dying? (Lots of boos and shouts from the audience). Is it really worth it?

  Edythe was on fire, and a few in the crowd responded with passionate cries, save from those who worked there, to close the smeltery. The Mayor, as Dorro noted, stood whispering feverishly with Osgood Thrip, as they clearly recognized what a threat Farmer Edythe was. If she won, she could undo years of work the pair had cooked up to keep the villagers in check, while they pocketed all sorts of profits, taxes, and kickbacks. This was their livelihood that Edythe was threatening. Dorro was sure they were cooking up a way to discredit her. It was inevitable.

  “In closing, my friends, you know me. I’m Farmer Edythe and I’ve been growing fresh, healthy food for Thimble Down for twenty years. And my Mungo Poo’kins—I mean, my husband Mr. Mungo—has been a friend to all at the Hanging Stoat for just as long.”

  Mungo had turned beet-red by this point, but still waved to the crowd.

  “We believe in good, honestly grown food, fresh air, clean water, and good, cold beer!” This drew a massive cheer from the crowd. (Oooo, she’s good! Dorro crowed to himself.)

  “So let’s not corrupt our water and air with black smoke and disease,” continued Edythe. “While it may cost us work in the short term, in the longer view, Thimble Down will be stronger for it. As your mayor, I will improve the dirt lanes and plumbing throughout the village, build us a school, make sure we live on clean, pristine lands—yes, even in Fell’s Corner! (a big laugh)—and make sure we have enough ale and pipe weed handy at all times. (Yet another big whoop from the crowd.) So come to the Hanging Stoat tonight. I will be there talking about my dreams for our wonderful village … and all beers will be half off!”

  At that, the crowd went into pure pandemonium. Even the Mayor and Osgood Thrip knew how good Edythe’s speech had been. No question, the race was on!

  The Ghost’s Walk

  It was late in the evening, and very few Halflings were on the lanes of Thimble Down. In front of the gaol, Sheriff Forgo lit his pipe and waited. And waited. Finally, a shadow slipped around the corner.

  “Where the hell were you?” growled Forgo in whisper.

  “Washing the supper dishes, of course. I can’t stand a sink full of dirty pots and crockery.” Dorro shuddered at the thought, while the Sheriff scowled at him in the dark, wondering if this was all a big mistake. “Are we all set for our little adventure?” asked the bookmaster, rubbing his hands together.

  “Yes, we?
??re good to go. I didn’t tell Gadget a thing about it, and I’m praying you didn’t tell you-know-who!”

  “You mean Wyll and Cheeryup? No, I did not tell my young confederates. But I did mention it to Timmo, who’s silent as the grave and will be joining us shortly.”

  As if on cue, another shadow moved up the lane and it was none other than the metalsmith, Mr. Timmo. He was a modest fellow, quiet and shy, but possessing of a sharp mind and friendly sense of humor. In some ways, he was like Dorro, minus the bold and shameless vanity, which of course, was the bookmaster’s calling card.

  “Ah Timmo, me lad, welcome to the party!”

  “Shut up, Winderiver! Do you want to let the whole village know what we’re up to?” The Sheriff was somewhat crabby. He still hadn’t shaken his cough and was feeling less than one hundred percent, neither of which helped his mood. “Let’s go!”

  The three Thimble Downers trod northward towards the Fell’s Corner neighborhood, one of its less savory areas. Forgo had toured the area earlier, staking out just the right location. Eventually, he’d found it—a perfect place to snare his quarry.

  It was called the Ghost’s Walk, a wee alley between two burrows that lead to a dead end. No one seemed to remember why it had been constructed in the first place, but it was probably just the result of sloppy building, and left that way from laziness.

  There was no reason to go down there unless you enjoyed claustrophobia or, more likely, you wanted to hide because you were a thief and wanted to evade the law. The locals, however, painted colorful tales of ghosts who walked the path, mostly to scare the younglings and keep them from going down there and getting lost.

  To get the plan rolling, Forgo had laid a grand array of Mrs. Fowl’s savory pies on a windowsill near the front of the path and paid a few trusted souls to keep watch over them, quite discretely. They would be irresistible to the thief, assuming he would be nearby.

  The Sheriff also figured it might take a few tries to nab him, but he might as well as start his campaign, and what better place to do it than the nefarious lanes of Fell’s Corner?

  To make the plan work, Dorro and Timmo were positioned about fifty feet on either side of the Ghost’s Walk entrance, near the entryways to various taverns. Each had a pocketful of coins and would use them to buy drinks for the locals and create a gathering on the lane. This would act as a cork to prevent the thief from going either way with his hands full of pies.

  No, the logical conclusion would be for the thief to grab the pies and escape down the Ghost’s Walk. And there, the only sensible thing for the villain to do was eat the evidence.

  Of course, Sheriff Forgo would be observing the whole crime, and once the culprit disappeared down the lane, he’d signal to Dorro and Timmo. Together, the three would creep down the way, trapping the crook and ending the crime spree once and for all.

  In short order, Forgo checked on the five pies he’d put there and, true to form, they smelled absolutely delicious. Next he installed his comrades in their appointed stations on the lane and disappeared himself into a carpenter’s shop directly across from the Ghost’s Walk. And thence began the hardest part of a stakeout—the sitting and waiting, which was rather boring. Timmo and Dorro, meanwhile, were out sipping beers and having a fine time.

  An hour spun by and then two. Suddenly it was getting on midnight and Forgo was beginning to think this first stakeout was a failure. A few passers-by had been stopped by the amazing aromas of Mrs. Fowl’s pies—these were rustic beef ‘n’ onion that exuded a mouthwatering fragrance—but if anyone showed any interest and lingered over the scent, Forgo had the old lady who lived in the burrow shoo them away. No, the crook wouldn’t dally and smell the pies; he’d just grab ’em and run!

  At precisely midnight, however, something did happen.

  A cat screeched down the lane, and a few half-drunk Halflings began to yell and fight in the lane near Dorro’s station. Quick as a flash, a dark shape stole down the lane, grabbed three pies and whooshed down the Ghost’s Walk, just as Forgo predicted.

  Clasping his hands together joyously, the Sheriff stepped into the alley and gave two quick whistles. In a heartbeat, Timmo and a visibly snookered Dorro arrived on the scene, ready to pounce.

  “Winderiver, you were there to create the illusion of drinking, not get hammered yerself.”

  The bookmaster giggled and rubbed his bright, rosy nose. “Yessir, Mr. Sheriff, sir! Lezz go catch ’im—you too Timmo, me boy!”

  Forgo rolled his eyes at the slightly sloshed bookmaster and began trekking down the alley, with his companions behind him. Halfway down, they slowed to a snail’s pace, their feet barely making any sound on the earth and gravel pathway. The earthen, outside walls of the burrows were covered mostly with dank mosses and lichens because not much sunlight ever reached this deeply into the Walk.

  Finally, they closed in on their quarry, a dark mass near the end of the alley, yet one that was enjoying Mrs. Fowl’s pies and making all sorts of gustatory noises.

  Fearing they’d lose their chance if they waited, Sheriff Forgo roared “Now!” and sprang forward.

  Within seconds, all four Halflings were grappling violently in the dim light. “I got him!” screamed Forgo, putting the thief in a hammer-lock about the neck and arms. “Grab his legs!”

  The criminal was kicking wildly and landed a few on Dorro and Timmo, but they eventually got a hold on each calf. It was at that moment that Sheriff Forgo realized the error in his plans. He had enough brute strength to hold the villain in place, but not enough hands to strike a match and finally see who it was. Moreover, they’d have a devil of a time maneuvering him back down the narrow alley, for he was strong and wiry.

  At the moment, all they could do was stand there in near-blackness, three Halflings holding a fourth, who was struggling but paralyzed. Finally, Forgo realized they had to do something.

  “Okay boys, who’s got a match on ya?”

  “I do, Sheriff,” said Dorro, who was still tipsy and very much out of breath from the fight. “But if I let go of this bloke’s leg, what happens next?”

  Forgo doubled up the force on his hammer-lock around the crook’s neck, shoulders, and arms, reminding him of his commanding position. “I don’t think one loose leg will trouble us. Will it, you lousy pie-snatching creep!”

  The thief said nothing, not giving anything away—not the sound of his voice, nor any other clues to his identity. “Now, on the count of three, Dorro, let his leg go and strike your match. Do it swiftly … one-two … three!”

  As instructed, the bookmaster relinquished his grip on the cad’s thin, bony leg and pulled a matchbook from his pocket. Though still a bit wobbly from the ale, Dorro was able to put the match to the tinder and strike a spark. It lit! But what happened next was a blur.

  No sooner had the match created a spark and begun to ignite than the villain blew it out and, with his free leg, delivered a fierce sideways kick to Mr. Timmo’s chest, sending him sprawling into a mossy wall. And with both legs now free, the rat shifted his weight, forcing the Sheriff to get a new grip. In the mere second that Forgo relaxed his hold, the thief threw his head back and butted the lawman in the face with sensational force. And Mr. Dorro, who was both inebriate and stunned, didn’t know what to do, yet the villain saved him the bother of deciding by punching him in the stomach, causing him to double over in agony.

  “Grab him!” was all Forgo managed to say, as all three Halflings lurched towards the path that led back out to the lane.

  But our crook had no intention of going that way; instead, he did the impossible and went up. Using Forgo, Dorro, and Timmo as steps, he ran upwards, using their shoulders as footings and vaulted himself onto a steep burrow wall. Like the nimblest mountain goat, he scaled the nearly vertical plane and disappeared over the top of the back burrow.

  Even if the three had been able to run down the Ghost’s Walk and onto the lane, they would have had to run all the way around to the next street to f
ind the miscreant—a five-minute journey at least.

  As it was, the three lay on the ground, moaning in the dark in misery and pain. Oh, and you can add embarrassment to the stew.

  For not only had the thief evaded the trio of lawmen and thrashed them badly—he’d also slipped back around to the front of the Ghost’s Walk and stolen Mrs. Fowl’s remaining pies.

  Forgo’s plan to catch the robber lay in ruins, but he knew one thing: this wasn’t your garden-variety purse pincher. This was a brilliant burglar who was wily, agile, and daring. They’d have a devil of a time catching him, especially with only dunderheads like Dorro to aid him, much less Gadget Pinkle.

  The Sheriff’s mind drifted back to memories of Bosco. Now that was a deputy, he sighed to himself. A tear quickly sprang to his eye, but he would have none of that. He abruptly wiped his eyes, grabbed the groaning Dorro and Timmo by the collars, and began dragging them down the Ghost’s Walk and back to the gaol.

  Pro Tempore

  Sheriff Forgo tried to see straight, but was having difficulty—his world looked blurry and strange. He stood at his desk and walked towards the door, though his balance wasn’t perfect. He coughed a few times, too, but checked around to make sure no one was looking. At last, he stepped into the autumnal sunlight and felt a measure better. He stood enjoying the moment until it was broken by the sound of the Mayor’s harsh voice.

  “Forgo! Forgo! What are you doing? Taking a nap?” The Mayor was still peevish after the licking he’d taken from Farmer Edythe the previous day. “What progress have you made on the mad thief? I need you to catch him—I’m running for election, you know! Don’t let me down, Sheriff … or else!”

  “I know, I know … you’ll make someone else sheriff,” said Forgo in a deadpan tone, waving over his new deputy from across the lane.

  He’d heard the Mayor’s threats many times before, but his head was getting fuzzier by the second, and in an instant, three things happened. First, Sheriff Forgo coughed, deeply and malevolently, bringing up a horrible ague. Second, he violently threw up all over the Mayor’s new suit and blue leather shoes. And then, the poor Halfling rolled up his eyes and collapsed on the street.

  The Mayor was too mortified even to move, but wisely, Gadget Pinkle knew what to do and sprang into action. Shoving the Mayor (who was doubly shocked that a lowly deputy would dare lay hands upon his exalted person) out of the way, Gadget grabbed the Sheriff under his armpits and dragged him back into the gaol. A young lad was ambling by; the deputy deputized him with a few pennies to go fetch Nurse Pym. Another few boys helped Gadget move the Sheriff back into the cells and put him on a cot.

  By this time, Forgo was burning up with fever, so Gadget dabbed his head with wet towels. The Sheriff’s face was growing paler by the second.