Goblin War

  * * *

  Dowdy picked up a hammer and began beating a fore axel into position on a tiny cart filled with pots and pans. Wyll and Cheeryup moved back further into the shop, peering into the back room. There, huddled on a crate and dabbing his eyes, was Minty Pinter, the very Halfling they were seeking. Cheeryup diplomatically coughed as they entered the chamber.

  “We’re sorry to disturb you, Mr. Minty. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  “Ah, young Cheeryup and Master Underfoot—no, you can’t disturb me any more than I am. I’m sorry to hear about young Dorro. It’s a tragedy that goes both ways and, no, I don’t believe he should be rotting in gaol. T’was an accident, that’s all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Minty. I know you were close to Dalbo. Can you tell me anything that could help Mr. Dorro—even the smallest thing?”

  Minty Pinter took a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Dalbo was a fine lad and one of me best pals. T’was an important part of our village, more than anyone thinks. I mean, there have always been rumors about him and his strange ways, but—.”

  “But what, sir?” asked Wyll.

  “But—they’re all true!” Minty had a look of pride in his eyes. “Folks said Dalbo was an odd one, talking to trees and animals and fish like a lunatic. I’ll tell you young people something most don’t know—Dalbo did speak with trees and animals and fish! It was his gift.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Cheeryup knew they onto something here.

  “I mean to say, young lady, that Dalbo Dall was not a loon who spoke to maple trees and squirrels. I mean to say that he was as much a part of the Great Wood as the Meeting Tree itself. He had deep roots there going back hundreds of years—I think he was older than any of us realized.”

  “But Mr. Minty, how can a Halfling live for hundreds of years?” asked the boy.

  “That’s a simple one to answer, Wyll—because he weren’t no Halfling! Not at all!” Minty Pinter laughed. “He only looked like one, but I don’t believe it for a second. Dalbo was like a living spirit of the ol’ Great Wood itself. Call me crazy, but I believe that with every bone in me body!”

  Cheeryup drove right to the crux of the matter without hesitation. “Then why was he lying on the ground that day and how was he killed if he was some kind of ‘spirit’ as you say?”

  Tears welled up in Minty’s eyes again as he remembered the tragic event.

  “That’s the problem, lassie! Something went wrong. Something went tragically wrong that day and poor Dalbo was struck by the errant arrow and died. I don’t know how, but he did.”

  “I’m sorry for reminding you of it, sir. We both are.” Cheeryup fell silent.

  “That’s not the half of it, though.” The tinker stared at both children with the saddest of expressions. “T’was not just poor Dalbo that died that day. No—part of the Great Wood died with him and I’m sure t’was its heart! I’m not sure the old forest can survive without him. I feel it in me bones; the Meeting Tree itself is dying. And when that goes, well, let Minty Pinter be the first to say that the village of Thimble Down will be next!”

  At that, the tinker dropped his head and let the tears come freely.

  Darwinna

  Sheriff Forgo was enjoying one of the few respites in his day—breakfast!—a moment that usually began with a visit to the Mrs. Clementine’s bakery a few lanes away. Her clay ovens were lit at four o’clock in the morning and by seven, her cupboards, cooling racks, and window displays were chockablock with delicious scones, buns, seeded loafs, and sweet confections.

  Today, the lawmen had picked up a selection of raisin muffins (as raisins were about the only fruit one could get in January), as well as oatcakes and buns, which he planned to slather with fresh butter and strawberry preserves.

  The door of the gaol creaked open.

  “Hello? Is anyone … oh, hello Sheriff.”

  Forgo was in the midst of cramming a large, delicious muffin in his mouth just as Darwinna Thrashrack walked in the door.

  “Mmmffff, urrggkkk, (Cough! Gag!) … errrr, hello Dar-winna!”

  “Oh dear! Forgo, you’re choking. Here, have some water!” The solicitor quick poured a cup of water from a ewer on his desk and the lawman chugged it down, hacking and wheezing the whole time. “Are you well? I’m sorry if I startled you!”

  “It was nothing,” Forgo bluffed, embarrassed, but still trying to recover his dignity. Of course, Darwinna looked absolutely ravishing in a fur-lined green coat and matching hat, offsetting her green eyes and radiant smile. “I was just taking some notes for the case, that’s all.”

  Not believing a word of it, the legal doyenne continued, “That’s good to hear, Sheriff. I’d hate it if I caused you injury—why you might sue me!” She laughed at her own joke, while Forgo still basked in her beauty while trying to look nonchalant.

  “Are you, errmmm, here to see the prisoner?”

  “Of course—how astute of you. The trial is coming up and this recent incident of the escape with Pinchbottle doesn’t help.”

  “I swear, Darwinna, the bookmaster was a hostage and had nothing to do with it.”

  “I concur, but the magistrate doesn’t agree; he seems hell-bent to punish Dorro, but for the life of me I don’t know why.”

  “The Mayor and Dorro have a long history and it ain’t a happy one. Nor with Osgood Thrip—it seems me that the Mayor and Thrip have been waitin’ for something like this for a long time.”

  “That is not good news, Forgo. Let me talk to my client and we’ll proceed apace.”

  He led Darwinna back into the gaol and showed her to Dorro’s cell; the Sheriff also noticed her scrunching up her nose at the dingy environs; apparently, the cells were far more unpleasant than he’d ever noticed. There was a small side room with a table and chairs, and he motioned for the solicitor to enter while he fetched Dorro from his cell. The bookmaster shuffled in, still looking puffy and sore from his beating at the hands of the Nob constabulary.

  “Dorro, I’m so sorry! Poor fellow, come sit by me,” Thrashrack was clearly upset at the sight of her client. “Do you need anything? In that case, we need to plan for your trial.”

  She motioned for Forgo to leave them alone and he retreated back to his confections with some relief.

  “How bad is it, Darwinna?” Dorro spoke in the voice of one who felt defeated by life.

  “I won’t lie to you, friend—the Mayor and that odious Mr. Thrip will use this latest event to tighten the screws even harder. As Grumbleoaf said in our first meeting, this is going to get worse before it gets better. Our road will be a difficult one.”

  “What if I simply confess and pay a grand fine? That way we can simply be done with the whole thing.”

  Darwinna frowned, yet as Dorro noticed, she was still attractive with a doleful face.

  “At this point, I can’t see the Mayor accepting it. He has momentum behind him and will use it to press his advantage. You have a real enemy—and a powerful one at that.”

  “It’s my fault entirely, you see.” The Halfling looked positively morose.

  “I’ve used my position of respect and wealth in this community to make things better, but often at the expense of the Mayor and his selfish viewpoint. I’ve leveraged these advantages over him, most recently in the establishment of our new school. It’s not common knowledge, but it was something of a grand bargain: Farmer Edythe said she would withdraw from the election if the Mayor created a small tax to fund the institution. He was livid and swore vengeance and now I am reaping the harvest of that decision.”

  “Good gracious, Dorro! I had no idea you forced his hand like that—now his actions make all the more sense. You must be respectful of him during the trial. If not, the Mayor will only make your life more miserable.”

  The pair heard a new voice coming into the building and bumping into chairs and tables.

  “My, my, Sheriff, this gaolhouse of yours is revolting. Have you ever heard of a mop? Disgusting!”
>
  The door to their room opened and in loomed the imposing figure of Tiberius Grumbleoaf.

  Closing the door behind him, he continued, “Hello Darwinna, my dear. Is this gaol repellent or is it just me? How do I get some tea around here?”

  Grumbleoaf’s apparent eccentricities made Dorro crack a smile; in another situation, he thought Tiberius and he could be friends. The bookmaster already a small cadre of eccentric friends and always sought more.

  “Trust me, Mr. Grumbleoaf, but you don’t want any of Forgo’s tea or coffee. It can quite lethal.”

  “Duly noted, sir—I thank you for saving my life and saving me from the chore having to sue poor Forgo! Now, to the business at hand.”

  Dorro was fascinated that Grumbleoaf seemed immune to the charms of Darwinna Thrashrack. Not only did he refrain from ogling her, he seemed to treat her with almost sisterly comfort, unlike most others in the village.

  “How can I help you with the trial, Mr. Grumbleoaf?”

  “As the official truth-seeker, I’m neither here to help nor hinder you, Mr. Dorro. As a matter of fact, our esteemed colleague Mr. Shugfoot shall be joining us momentarily to make sure none of our discussions are biased in any direction. Ah, here he is—.”

  A dapper gent swept into the small chamber, “Hello all and especially Darwinna—you look stunning today!”

  In contrast to Grumbleoaf’s aloofness, Hamment Shugfoot wasted no time in currying favor with the legal lady, cooing over her and offering compliments by the score. Darwinna didn’t seem to mind the attention and gently flirted back.

  “Now stop, Hamment—we must work. This is business, so stop behaving like a schoolboy, you fool,” she tittered, tossing back her luxuriant hair.

  Grumbleoaf merely groaned and opened his thick, leather-bound book, which he guarded jealously. Pulling a quill out of its spine and a small ink jar from his pocket, he proceeded to start scratching away furiously, writing heaven-knows-what on the volume’s secret vellum pages.

  Dorro, for his part, was mildly astonished. Here he was, languishing in a cell, accused of a heinous crime, and surrounded by lawyers who were mooning like young people. It was like an unsettling dream come to life.

  “I agree, Hamment—let us work for once,” barked Grumbleoaf. “Now that the counsel for the prosecution and defense are present, we can begin. Mr. Dorro, please tell us your recollection of the events that transpired at the Winter Festival, in excruciating detail pleases. Leave no stone unturned. Keep in mind that whatever you say can be used by Hamment in his defense strategy. The best course is to be as honest and consistent as possible.”

  Darwinna reached out and put her hand over Dorro’s, giving it a squeeze. “Tiberius is right—be as honest as you can and tell us everything you remember.”

  She gave another squeeze for emphasis and smiled at him in a way that made the gent briefly go weak.

  For the next hour and half, Dorro relived that dreadful day, telling the trio everything he recalled. It was painful to relive, but all three solicitors took copious notes and asked blunt, but fair questions.

  Finally, all the participants were exhausted and made to leave. Darwinna leaned close to the bookmaster and whispered, “You did very well, Dorro. The evidence that Dalbo’s death was accidental is growing. I wish the Pinchbottle incident hadn’t happened, but there it is and it’s clear you were taken against your will. Fingers crossed, dear Dorro!”

  She winked at him and packed up to leave, putting the fur-lined hat and coat on. Again, Hamment began flirting, causing Grumbleoaf to snort and beat a hasty retreat.

  Shugfoot laughed: “Oh, just ignore Tiberius. He’s an old crank and doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Darwinna knows I’m just kidding—don’t you, dear?—but our friend doesn’t go for that kind of friendly banter. Just wants to scrawl nasty notes in his book; I’d love to have a peek at it, but the old badger keeps it locked and guards it jealously.”

  Darwinna smiled at him one more time. “Goodbye, Dorro—I will be in touch soon. And it will all turn out well. I’m very hopeful.” Then she left the chamber.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Winderiver, it will turn out fine—just dandy,” laughed Hamment, flashing a shark-like smile as he departed. Yet the bookmaster didn’t feel that Shugfoot’s declaration meant things would turn out well for Dorro.

  In fact, quite the opposite.

  Heartwood

  There was stark quiet in Dowdy Cray’s wagon shop and, by this time, it wasn’t Minty alone who was grieving.

  Cheeryup was crying along with him and although loath to admit it, Wyll was fairly choked up. Out in the main shop area, the children even heard a loud sob from Dowdy himself, who had been listening in to Minty Pinter’s brave soliloquy about his friend. The wagon builder spent the next few minutes blowing his nose ungraciously into a hanky.

  Cheeryup finally stepped up and gave the tiny tinker a hug. “We’re so sorry, Mr. Minty. If there was any way we could bring Dalbo back, we would.”

  “Thank you, missy. But now that I think about it, there is,”

  “What? Are you saying we can bring Dalbo back and save the Great Wood?” Wyll blurted out.

  Minty Pinter seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Maybe I’m imagining this because, truth be told, Dalbo and I spent much of our time together drinking ale and smoking Old Nob, so I’m not sure what I’m remembering, but there’s a kernel of an idea me old braincase.”

  Cheeryup was about to burst out of her skin. “What is it, Minty? Tell us!”

  “Calm down, young girl, calm down. Let me think on this. I have a strange recollection of Dalbo and me rollin’ down the road on me wagon, drinking from a wine skin and laughin’ it up as usual. But then, he gets all serious and says, ‘Minty, I love ya like a brother. So do me a favor, will ye? If anything should befall ol’ Dalbo, I want ‘chus to remember one thing.’”

  More silence. “Mr. Minty, what?”

  “Oh yeah, sorry—I got lost in me own thoughts. So Dalbo says, ‘If anything should befall me, find the heartwood of the forest.’ Yep, them’s his very words.”

  He fell quiet again. If Cheeryup hadn’t been a lady, one taught to respect her elders, she would have slapped Minty on the head and told him to get on with it. This was important news! “And what does that mean?” she scolded him.

  “I haven’t the foggiest, Cheeryup, me girl. Not a clue. But it’s in me brain so it must be true. In fact, I recall Dalbo telling me this more than once. Though for the life ‘o me, I have no idea what the heartwood is.”

  Wyll jumped in, “But you think this heartwood of the forest could bring him back?”

  “The more I think on it, the more I think it be true. Most of the time, ya see, Dalbo was as silly as I am—we were just a pair of daft larks who pr’aps drink a bit too much and giggled most of the time. But there was another side to Dalbo Dall I witnessed a few times and it was a most peculiar personality.”

  “On rare occasions when we’d be campin’ out in the woods and pullin’ on our pipes, the boy would become grave and start talking about the history of the Great Wood, back before the beginning of time. He’d say tosh like, ‘—back when I was a wee acorn.’”

  “I’d laugh and he’d shoot me a dirty look, as if I should shut me gob. He’d talk about watching them hills grow and move from here to there, and how tiny streams turned into creeks and then the mighty River Thimble over a few thousand seasons. He remembers when the Deep was a small gully in the earth, until a thousand years of torrential water wore it into the ravine it is today. The water is gone, but the riverbed remains—that’s the Deep.”

  “It was absurd stuff, mind ya, and more than likely fueled by whatever fine concoction we were drinking that night—particularly the ol’ honeygrass. But Dalbo seemed quite emphatic about it and wouldn’t brook any of my jokin’ around during these moments.”

  “No, it seemed like he was tryin’ to teach me about the Great Wood and all that stuff—about the trees and rocks and critter
s. Again, probably the ranting of a fellow hopped up on whiskey, but he always told me to remember the heartwood, in case o’ trouble. Whatever the heck that is.”

  Minty Pinter grew quiet again and dropped his head. Wyll and Cheeryup were waiting for him to keep going until they heard snores from the tiny Halfling. The tinker was fast asleep, sitting upright on a box.

  Dowdy came in from behind and gently lifted Minty, placing him in the back of a wagon that was in his shop for repair; it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he’d done dealt with the unconscious tinker.

  The younglings thanked Dowdy and slipped out of the repair shop.

  “So what do we do now, Cheery? And how will we ever figure out what the heartwood is?”

  “We can certainly ask Mr. Shoe—he can find anything in that library. And we’re due to visit Mr. Dorro anyway. He might have a clue. Let’s go!”

  As the two rounded a corner onto the High Street, Wyll grabbed the girl and pulled her behind a barrel. “Shhhh!”

  “What did you do that for?” screeched the girl, but Wyll clamped his hand over her mouth and bugged his eyes out.

  They heard voices not a few paces away. A few gents were huddled in conversation and Cheeryup suddenly understood why Wyll pulled her aside.