Adventures of a Dwergish Girl

by Daniel Pinkwater

  “You know all about it already? How is that possible?” I asked.

  “I am Oom Knorrig, the horrible, the terrible. I know most things,” he said, furrowing his brow and trying to look serious in a way that made us want to hug and kiss him. “Lucinda Pannen, also known as the Catskill witch, also known as the Yorkville witch, has sent you to me for help, is that not so?”

  I saw Leni’s hand move a little. Then she drew it back. I knew she had almost reached out to pinch the charming chubby cheek of the little darling Oom. I knew because I had the same impulse myself.

  “I know you find me terrifying,” Oom Knorrig said.

  “Oh, no! Not at all! Not in the least! To the contrary!” Leni and I said.

  “Yes, yes, you are very polite, and so is everyone I meet, but I know I am the last of the wild Dwergs, and strike fear into the hearts of all who meet me. So I will not prolong this visit.”

  “Please, prolong it! We could stay here forever,” we said.

  “Such good manners,” Oom Knorrig said, in the sweetest way. “Since it will take hours and hours to explain what you must do to solve your problem, which I assure you I understand completely even though you have not devoted a single word to telling me about it, I will simply convey my wisdom to you by means of the waggle dance. Hortense! Get the bagpipes!”

  “Wait a second!” I said. “The waggle dance? Like the bees do?”

  “What an intelligent and well-informed young woman!” Oom Knorrig said. “Yes, it is the same in principle, like the dance the bees do to tell the other bees the direction to fly when they have discovered a source of nectar. Hortense will provide the music, I will dance, you will follow me, and you will know exactly how to deal with the gigantic moose that’s destroying your crops.”

  “Moose? Crops?”

  “Your problem. Be assured, you will know the solution after we dance.”

  “It doesn’t have to do with a moose,” I said.

  “Details. It will work or my name is not Oom Flanagan.”

  “We thought your name was Oom Knorrig.”

  “Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds,” the irresistible little wild Dwerg said.

  33.

  IN CASE YOU'VE NEVER HEARD of the waggle dance, also known as the dance of the bees, it’s a real thing and well documented. A bee locates flowers, a source of nectar, goes back to the hive, and performs a complicated dance. The other bees observe and follow the dance, which in some way, not fully understood by science, tells them the direction and distance they need to fly. Studies have shown that much of the time, the bees are able to locate the nectar after watching and following the dance. A certain percentage of the time, they miss it. This could be because the bee communicating the details isn’t such a good dancer, or the bees watching the dance don’t pay attention. It’s known as the waggle dance because the bee with the information does a lot of waggling his abdomen, which on a bee is the last part you’d see if the bee was flying directly away from you.

  Oom Knorrig’s human, Dwerg, or Dwerghuman, or Dwergish, or bee-ish waggle dance, we supposed, was meant to work along the same lines. Oom Knorrig’s abdomen was in more or less the usual place for bipeds, so he waggled his completely adorable little heinie, which of course made Leni and me deliriously happy and joyous. We followed after, waggling our posteriors as best we could, wearing big smiles on our faces. Even Hortense’s bagpipe playing, which was horrible, as we knew it would be, could not take anything away from the delightfulness of the dance.

  I don’t know how long the dance went on, it might have been an hour. We were warm and winded when Oom Knorrig stopped waggling, and we all sank to the ground.

  “That went very well, I think,” the last of the wild Dwergs said. “And I am sure you will have no more problem with the rotten eggs smell coming from your well.”

  “It’s not about a well,” I told the Oom.

  “Well, your stream, brook, or rivulet, then, they’re all much the same. And now, old Dwerg that I am, I’m a little fatigued after the dancing, and need to curl up for a nap among a lot of daisies.”

  We pictured the darling little fellow napping surrounded by flowers, and were mentally saying, “Awwww!” when he vanished into thin air.

  “OK, girls, you have been assisted by Oom Knorrig, the uncrowned king of the Dwergs,” Hortense said. “If you have a complaint, tell us, if you’re satisfied, tell your friends. Here is a large parsnip for each of you. The duck will show you the way, now get out of my sight.”

  It was a large white duck. It led us to the rocking rock, which we were perfectly capable of finding without help, and we were back on the trail again, heading for home.

  “Don’t you just love him?” Leni asked me.

  “I so do,” I said. “And how about that dancing?”

  “The dancing was fantastic,” Leni said. “I don’t remember ever dancing so much.”

  “And Hortense is scary, but I think she’s nice deep down,” I said.

  “She does good parsnips,” Leni said. “So do we know what to do about the planned torching of Kingston, and the attempt to steal the Dwerg gold?”

  “It doesn’t feel as though I do,” I said. “But I have some great ideas about how to deal with a renegade moose.”

  34.

  BEING DEAD is not all it’s cracked up to be. If you’re a spirit of the departed, you can’t eat anything, you can’t really do anything, about all you can do is know things, and what’s the good of knowing things if you can’t tell anybody?

  “Say, do you know what’s next week?” Roger Van Tussenvuxel asked me.

  “What’s next week?” I asked him.

  “October 16th, that’s what’s next week.”

  “OK, so October 16th happens next week. Why is that something?”

  “It’s an anniversary, October 16th, 1777. The burning of Kingston.”

  “Oh. So, if someone was going to reenact . . .”

  “Stands to reason.”

  “So it does, but do not worry. I have it all taken care of.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Roger, I do. You expect that the reenacted burning of Kingston, or anyway the part of Kingston that got burned in 1777, was going to be carried out by those deadand-alive British soldiers who’ve been seen around lately, is that not so?”

  “Well, yes, that is the word among us departed.”

  “But you did not know, and apparently no other ghost knew, that I made a deal with those troops.”

  “You did? I heard nothing about it.”

  “I am arranging for a distinguished military man, a noncommissioned officer, to lead them to the secret hiding place of the vast hoard of Dwerg geld. They will remove the many bags of gold and take them to a safer location. So you see, nothing will happen to the gold when they set fire to the city, and all is well.”

  “But they are still going to set fire to the city?”

  “Well, yes, but we have a modern fire department now, and you, more than most, will remember the town was rebuilt after the last time. The gold will be safe, that’s the important thing . . . Not that it was in much danger in the cave, but you never know, fires get out of hand, there might be a collapse or something.”

  “The gold is in the cave? The Kingston Cave?”

  “Yes, no harm in telling you. It won’t be there much longer. Besides it’s way deep in the cave, very unlikely anyone could find it. The soldiers will be marched to it, pick it up, and snip-snap-snoo, the deal is done. Just the same, you’d better not tell anyone.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Mum’s the word. Shtoom! Schweig! Silencio!”

  “Wow. You’d have thought some ghost would have known about this.” Roger was impatient to get away from me so he could start telling other ghosts that he knew something they didn’t. He had fallen for it like a ton of weightless bricks.

  35.

  ARNOLD BABATUNJI showed me how to punch the numbers on his phone.

  Ring r
ing ring . . . “With a tow row row row row row, Carlos here, how may I help you?”

  “You can help me by turning up in Kingston with your full uniform no later than tomorrow. It’s Molly, by the way, speaking via telephone. There’s a Dwergish coin in this for you.”

  “You don’t have to pay me. I am happy to help.”

  “No, no, I want you to have the coin. Oh, and look around your shop and see if you have any moose repellant.”

  “What? Moose repellant?”

  “Did I say that? Never mind. Just bring yourself, and the uniform. You don’t have to wear it on the bus. Ask anybody where to find Babatunji’s pizzeria. Wait for me there.”

  “Will I need the musket?”

  “No, no musket needed.”

  “Sword?”

  “A sword might get in the way.”

  “How about a flag? I have a number of flags.”

  “You’ll be carrying something other than a flag. You’re pretty strong, aren’t you?”

  “I do 18th-century British Army calisthenics every morning.”

  “Babatunji’s pizzeria. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  36.

  “MOLLY? I THOUGHT YOU were living among the English in Kingston, and working in a pizzeria.”

  “I am, most of the time, Uncle Norbert, but I came back to the village to see you about a special subject.”

  “Is there such a thing as a scrambled eggs pizza? You know, it is generally thought that I know all the ways there are to prepare eggs, but I always worry there might be one I haven’t heard about.”

  “As far as I know, such a pizza does not exist, but I think it is a good idea. I am fairly sure I can get my employer, Arnold Babatunji, to put it on the menu, and it can be called the Pizza Norbert in honor of the inventor . . . that would be you. You can come to the shop and be served the very first one ever to exist.”

  “I am a bit shy to come to a pizzeria in a town.”

  “Then I will bring you one. I will run all the way, and get it to you piping hot.”

  “You are a fine niece, niece.”

  “Will you do a small favor for me?”

  “If I possibly can, I will.”

  “I believe you are known and admired for your skill in making Catskill Mountain juniper juice, also known as Dwergish gin.”

  “I am, but what interest could a child like yourself have in it?”

  “I need a large keg of it.”

  “Niece, that stuff is dynamite. It is not for children, or adults even. Even most Dwergs won’t touch it.”

  “It is not for me to drink, but I have a very good reason to ask for it.”

  “I have a keg. It has been aging for two weeks, and is ready for consumption, but I am hesitant lest it fall into the wrong hands.”

  “I promise it will be used in a good cause. And I would never do anything that would even indirectly bring dishonor to my uncle, let alone the inventor of the Pizza Norbert.”

  “You are an honest child, and I trust you, but a keg is rather heavy. I’m not sure you can carry it very far.”

  “I have arranged for a strong fellow to carry it. Will you leave it behind the ancient oak tree outside the village?”

  “You know, this is the stuff they gave to . . .”

  “I am familiar with the story.”

  37.

  "YOU KNOW THOSE BIG PARSNIPS Hortense gave us?” It was Leni talking. “You didn’t eat yours or anything?”

  “No, I’ve still got mine, and I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I think mine may be a magic parsnip. I discovered something about it last night.”

  “So did I. If you’re in a very quiet place, and you yourself are very quiet, and you listen carefully, the parsnip will talk to you.”

  “So it’s not just mine, it’s . . .”

  “Both of them.”

  “Mine picks up voices, conversations going on somewhere else.”

  “Like a radio.”

  “Yes, only I think these are ghostly conversations.”

  “That’s what I think too. And what are the ghosts talking about when you hear them on your parsnip?” I asked Leni.

  “They’re all excited. They’re talking about how the Dwerg gold hoard is way deep in the Kingston Cave, and the fleshopoidal soldiers are going to remove it, and then they’re going to set fire to the town.”

  “Did you pick up any conversations involving ghostly gangsters?”

  “I was saving that for last. I heard someone who could only be Leg Rhinestone, talking with his henchmen, alive and dead. They intend to follow the soldiers, see where they move the gold, and then steal it. The live ones will do the actual henching, and the ghostly ones will sort of encourage them and supply brainpower, such as they’ve got.”

  “All of this is just what we wanted to happen. It’s some plan, isn’t it? I wonder if we actually thought it up, or whether we got it from doing the waggle dance with Oom Knorrig.”

  “I’m going to say it’s because of Oom Knorrig, because he’s so darn cute.”

  “Now we have to see Billy Backus, and make sure he understands what he has to do,” I said. “And I’d better go and see Mr. Winnick.”

  “Who’s Mr. Winnick?”

  “Someone,” I said. “He does things for the Dwergs. I’m a Dwerg and I need him to do some things for me. Then we wait for Carlos Chatterjee to show up. Oh, and I have to take a scrambled eggs pizza to my uncle. I think that’s everything for the moment.”

  38.

  MR. WINNICK had a little office right across from the old courthouse. Everything in the place was made of dark wood, the walls, the ceilings, the furniture, and it was all crackled and ancient-looking. It looked like nothing had changed in two hundred years. Mr. Winnick looked like nothing about him had changed in two hundred years. He was a fat man, with no neck, and his fat little hands were folded on his fat stomach. He was jammed behind his two-hundred-year-old desk.

  “No need to tell me your name, Miss Van Dwerg,” Mr. Winnick said.

  “I don’t know if that means you know who I am, or just can see that I’m a Dwerg,” I said.

  “You’re not meant to know, and I must tell you that I do not wish to hear any secrets. Also, if I am asked who came to see me this day, I will say a Miss Van Dwerg, member of a very large family, who did not tell me her first name, or her address. Do not tell me your address.”

  “Am I allowed to tell you why I came here, and what I hope you can do for me?”

  “If you mention no names. As to doing something for you, it is my honor and my responsibility to do anything within the law for anyone of your last name, and I have at my disposal virtually unlimited funds, should they be needed.”

  “Then I will tell you my plan,” I said.

  “Do so, but do not tell me any plans,” Mr. Winnick said. “Rather tell me an interesting story you are making up in your head as you go along. If asked, I will say that a certain Miss Van Dwerg visited my office and told me a story for purposes of amusement.”

  I told Mr. Winnick my story.

  “A very good story, Miss Van Dwerg,” Mr. Winnick said. “You should write a novel. Apropos nothing, I mention to you, completely out of context, and for no earthly reason, that I have excellent relations with the police, and other city departments, and getting a necessary permit at the last minute would be no problem for me, not that I needed to tell you that.”

  “I understand,” I said. “You are just making idle conversation.”

  “Correct,” Mr. Winnick said. “As to many other aspects of your story, I should say part of its charm is the fact that such things could very well happen in real life.”

  “I have something to add, not part of my story, as such.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Would it be possible to acquire a secret, patent-protected, papaya-juice juicing machine from the Papaya King, and have it delivered to Arnold Babatunji, the pizza-maker?”

  “I know the King personally,” Mr. Wi
nnick said.

  39.

  CARLOS CHATTERJEE was a strong and energetic guy. After putting the heavy keg he’d carried all the way from the woods in Billy Backus’s radio studio, he bounded down the stairs and sprinted to the pizzeria to get the duffel bag containing his uniform, which he’d stashed there.

  Billy opened a door connecting to a tiny apartment. “Make yourself at home, Carlos,” he said. “Feel free to have a bath, take a nap. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I had two large mushroom pizzas a while ago,” Carlos said. “And I brought some comic books with me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Conserve your energy,” Billy said. “The balloon goes up at eight o’clock.”

  “There’s going to be a balloon?”

  “Figure of speech. You go rest now. I’ll let you know when to put the uniform on.”

  Leni and I were sitting in the visitors’ chairs in the studio. “This next part is the critical one,” I whispered.

  “What if it doesn’t work?” Leni whispered back. “What do we do then?”

  “Then we buy bags of marshmallows, and get ready to roast them over the flames of old Kingston.”

  “So the whole business depends on Billy Backus?”

  “He’s a former boy genius, I have confidence.”

  Billy made a throat-cutting gesture with his hand, which is the radio studio signal to be quiet, and turned the big knob. Then he produced a toy trumpet from under the console and blew a few notes. “Soldiers of the king!” he said into the microphone in a commanding voice. “Assemble tonight at eight in front of the Cows and Frogs Gift Emporium, your source for tasteful crafts and works of art featuring the popular cow, and the beloved frog. Bring your torches. You will report to Sergeant Major Chatterjee, and obey his orders. Button up your tunics, blow your noses, put your headgear on straight.” Then he blew a few more notes on the toy trumpet.