* * *
Orli spent much of the afternoon in the company of his father and uncles, alternately sad and angry. By late in the afternoon, he decided to go for a walk—alone. He left the worker’s guest burrow where the Dwarves had been living (rather unhappily; it was no match for the vaulted caverns and spectacular mines and caves they called home to the north), and the big boy was happy merely to be out in the fresh air.
Orli rejoiced in the crisp Autumn air, though he sensed cold rain on the way, and looked at the maples, oaks, and ash trees changing colors before his eyes. The squirrels were busy stowing away nuts and seeds, while birds were departing for warmer climates, save the crows and owls, that didn’t mind frosty weather. Although Thimble Down was no match for the Dwarf Kingdom of the north, Orli generally liked the Halflings and the provincial charm of the place.
Still, he was very angry at one of them. Granted, Orli deserved a whipping for not confessing why he, Wyll, and Cheeryup had been poking around Mr. Bindlestiff’s office. And his Pa had been right as well—if they’d been caught by Halflings, the Dwarves would have lost their positions at the smeltery. But Wump whipped him with too much glee, he felt; it went beyond the realm of punishment. His uncle had enjoyed the beating, almost sadistically.
Why his father hadn’t interceded wasn’t clear to Orli; perhaps it was just a matter of pride. Over time, he’d forgive his Pa, but the Dwarf boy had never loved Uncle Wump and Wump had never returned any affection. He was mean and spiteful, nothing like his jolly brothers Flume, Two-Toes, and Magpie.
“I’m glad he’s dead!”
This remark shot out of Orli’s mouth so fast he didn’t have time to stop it. He looked around to make sure no one heard him, but there is was: he felt pleasure in his uncle’s demise. Orli knew he should feel guilty about it, but he didn’t.
Wump was a bad egg that deserved to be broken. He didn’t know who killed him, but wondered, Could my father have done it for his beating of me? He let that thought hang there for a minute, too. If he did it … I would be proud of him. I would!
Just then, voices rang out from down the lane. They were children’s voices, and he knew instantly it was Wyll and Cheeryup. “Oy, Orli, slow down! We want to talk to you!”
Breathlessly, they caught up, and Cheeryup even gave the boy a quick hug, much to Wyll’s dismay. “We just heard!” she said. “We’re so sorry about your poor uncle.”
“Yes, well, it is done,” Orli said curtly.
“Still, he was your family. You must be heartbroken,” she continued.
“We are Dwarves, Cheeryup—once a Dwarf is dead, it’s final. We will always remember Wump in our hearts and minds, but that’s it. He is gone from us.”
Perplexed, the girl continued rattling on. “I’m sorry anyway, and if we can help out, you will ask us, right? I also want to apologize for bungling the break-in yesterday. I shouldn’t have made us wait and you got punished for it.”
“Why apologize to me? You should apologize to Wyll?” snapped Orli.
“Wyll? What does he have to do with it?”
Orli spun around and loomed menacingly over Cheeryup. “You’re such a stupid little girl! Your friend Wyll—the one who cares and protects you—told you it was time to leave the smeltery, but you didn’t listen. You think you’re the smart one, yet you treat him like a dog. He is your protector; I’ve seen that over and over, and he stayed even though he knew trouble was coming.”
“Me, I’m a Dwarf and can take the simple beating from a whip. But what about the way you beat Wyll with your blistering tongue? Who mends him? So don’t apologize to me, silly, foolish child. Apologize to Master Wyll!”
At that, Orli turned on a heel and stomped off up the lane, headed back towards his uncles’ burrow. Cheeryup, frozen with horror and shock, slowly crumpled and let tears roll down her cheeks. She looked to Wyll, who looked away just as quickly; they knew Orli was right, though telling her so was cruel.
Cheeryup ran. She ran away from Wyll as fast she could in the other direction, crying and cursing herself for being such a fool. Shame flowed like hot lava in her veins, a sensation she’d never felt before. It burned her savagely, and she knew this was her punishment.
Creeping Death
The next few days were quiet in the village, as a large rainstorm swept through the area. This drove the Halflings indoors for the most part, some working in their shops cleaning their outdoor tools for storage over the Winter, while others knuckled under and did the ledger accounting work they’d been putting off for weeks. Others congregated in pubs and taverns to relax and talk to neighbors.
The library also did a banner business, as villagers came in to spend the day reading or looking at pictures in giant, leather-bound volumes. The rain put a damper on the mayoral elections, but Dorro mused that this was perhaps for the best. Things had become quite heated, and the brawl the other night at the Hanging Stoat didn’t improve things.
Periodically checking the time on his elegant, Timmo-made pocket watch, Dorro sat at the main desk in the library, taking a break from sheriffing for a few hours and giving the always indispensable Bedminster Shoe a break.
Deputy Gadget was at the gaol, keeping an eye on Sheriff Forgo, who was still in a deep, restless state of unconsciousness. His caretakers managed to get a few spoonfuls of broth down his throat to keep his weight up, but certainly this couldn’t go on forever. Forgo had probably lost twenty pounds already.
In another corner of the library, Wyll Underfoot was reading a book on Halfling history, which he found fascinating. With the lack of a school in Thimble Down, Dorro was insistent that as many younglings as possible borrow books and keep their learning up. Wyll didn’t like it when the bookmaster forced him to read books on sciences and arithmetic, and perform some basic calculations on paper, but knew it was in his best interest.
This was history day and he was reveling in stories about the Battle of the Old Forest, particularly one where a villain named Uwe the Usurper was daring and romance, taking place a thousand years earlier in the dawning days of their folk, all of which enraptured Wyll’s imagination.
Years later, King Borgo created many of the laws that Halflings still followed, as well as a standard calendar and structure of provincial government. Sometimes, when Wyll was out playing in the Great Wood, he’d pretend he was young Borgo, using a stick as his sword to smite his enemies. It was one of his favorite pastimes.
The door to the library banged opened, and in dashed Cheeryup Tunbridge, who looked like she’d been crying. She saw Wyll, but avoided him—they hadn’t spoken since Orli’s tongue lashing. Instead, she came straight up to Mr. Dorro and around the desk. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she quickly collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
“Oh my dear, what’s wrong! You and Wyll aren’t still fighting are you?”
“It’s not that, Mr. Dorro. Well it is, but …” she said as her face crumpled, “my mother has the Grippe. Nurse Pym just confirmed it! She’s in bed and doesn’t look very good at all.”
Dorro looked around the interior until he found Wyll staring back at him and all the commotion. He quickly waved the boy over, which he obliged grudgingly. “Wyll, we have some grievous news, and your friend Cheeryup needs a steady shoulder.”
It didn’t take long for Cheeryup to blubber out an apology for her recent transgressions and vault herself into Wyll’s arms. “I’m really sorry about your mum, Cheery. That’s just not right. Your mum is one of my favorite ladies in the village!”
Dorro nodded approvingly, but worried about Mrs. Tunbridge. There were already about twenty Thimble Downers in the vice-grip of the Grippe and another elder villager—Amos Tidwiddle—had perished just last night. Granted, Amos was not in the best of health and was a smoker and drinker all his life, but certainly, this nefarious illness sped up his demise.
As for Mrs. Tunbridge, he’d ask the Bluebells to expand their nursing duties to include both Sheriff Forgo and Mrs. Tunbridge. This was some
thing he’d only be too happy to spend his gold on. (Dorro had been left an impressive inheritance by his parents and grandfather Lorro, something he used to fund the library.)
Asking Wyll to take over library duties, Dorro excused himself and headed back to the gaol, where he’d an appointment with Nurse Pym. In a heartbeat, he left the library, ran through the rain with a floppy hat on his head (much good it did—he was still soaked), and got to Forgo’s bedside in a few minutes. Nurse Pym was already there, looking over the Sheriff and murmuring to herself.
“How does he look, Pym?”
“I wish I could say grand, but ’tis not to be,” grunted the healer. “He’s not worse, though, and that’s the good thing. But drat it, this Grippe has me stumped! I can’t beat it, no matter how hard I try. I’ve used every draught and herb in my kit, Dorro, and to no benefit. And I’m exhausted, which doesn’t help my mind focus on the problem. You heard about yon Amos Tidwiddle? Popped off smartly last night, and mark my words, he won’t be the last. This is a plague upon us, it rightly is!”
Nurse Pym had dark bags under her eyes, and Dorro figured she hadn’t received a proper sleep in weeks. “Do you think it has to do with the smeltery and its effluent smoke and vapors?”
“Could be, but we have no proof, do we? It’s not like we have yon professors from the College of St. Borgo to assist us. Though I wish we had—they could figure it out!”
“We can too, Nurse Pym, I know we can. Just give me a little more time,” said Dorro with quiet desperation. “I must talk to Timmo. And tell me, how bad is Mrs. Tunbridge?”
Nurse Pym looked at him sadly. “She has it as bad as anyone else in the village. We could lose her.”