No Country for Old Gnomes

by Kevin Hearne

  “Kirsi, listen. I have to tell you something important.”

  “No. Please, Onni, no. Just wait a minute until I fix this, and then we’ll talk all you want. Okay? I have to fix this.”

  Despite the chill in his fingers, he felt Kirsi grasp his hands, and a great warmth suffused him. “You can’t fix this, Kirsi. Neither can Båggi. No one can, I’m afraid.”

  Kirsi was crying now, her face puce and her nose just fountaining snot. She was missing a great patch of her beard, and she was covered with scrapes and a few burn marks, and her cardigan, for once, was definitely askew. To Offi, she’d never been more beautiful.

  “I can fix it. I have magic. I’ll give my entire beard. My braids. My eyebrows. I don’t care. What’s the point of having all this magic if I can’t do what needs doing?”

  Offi gently shook his head. “I don’t think there is a point to magic. What matters is what you do with it, who you help, and how you make the world better. Just like inventing. You fix what you can and keep going. Maybe I’m a little broken, but everything else is fixed, and that’s what matters.”

  “No, Onni! We just—”

  “Kirsi. Listen. This is important.” He waited until she’d stopped focusing on his wound and was instead looking steadily into his eyes. It was nice. If only he’d been wearing his glasses so he could’ve seen her better. “I’m not Onni. I’m Offi and have been ever since Bruding, when you told me to go fetch my brother. I’m very sorry for deceiving you—that was wrong. I just…wanted to go instead of staying behind. Wanted to be something more than everyone thought I could be.”

  “You silly.” Kirsi sniffled as a fresh gout of tears sprung up. “I knew it was you.”

  Not much could surprise Offi now, but that did. “You…knew?”

  “Well, not at first. But Onni never invented anything. He never fixed anything or created anything. He just shouted things, looked heroically at things, or smiled at things.”

  “That is…a pretty accurate summation of his character. But I love him. Tell him for me? That I did something good? And that I love him?”

  “What? No. You’re going to tell him. We just need—”

  “I’m so tired. And so cold.” His eyes drifted shut and Kirsi shook him.

  “Offi, no! You stay awake! Båggi is making you something—I don’t know what it is, but it’s one of his things that’s very alliterative and it’s very powerful and it’s going to fix you up. Open your eyes, Offi!”

  He tried, but his eyelids had never been so heavy. Just a nap was all he needed.

  “Please, Offi! Just hold on!”

  “Saved the king,” he mumbled. “That was pretty metal.”

  Offi couldn’t stay awake any longer, even though Kirsi demanded he not sleep. He wanted to oblige her, but all the fight—all the blood—had drained out of him. He slid down into the cold and black, pleased that he had done some good and made a difference.

  His grandgnome had often told him and Onni, when they were wee and whining about a skinned knee or a split lip, If you’ve been stabbed in the gut and can’t stand all the crying, find a cozy hole because you probably are dying. At the time, she’d been encouraging the boys to stiffen up and toe the line. But Offi smiled. He’d finally found a gnomeism that rang true for him.

  “This is goth as heck,” he murmured.

  And then things went black. For good.

  “This Fyne Gryphone is entitled to as many Tastee Egges and Fluffee Omlets as she can produce and eat on the Gerd’s Herd of Birds Farme. No other Gryphones may call her names or suggest that she may not eat Egges, because she may indeed eat Egges, all the Egges, Really Every Egge Ever, SO THERE.”

  —A ROYAL BOON DRAFTED BY GRINDA THE SAND WITCH, signed by King Gustave, with spellings and capital letters insisted upon by Gerd

  In that moment, Kirsi felt, for the first time, that something broken could not be fixed. No amount of taking charge, no magic wand, no number of perfectly folded cardigans, could brighten the darkness left behind when Offi’s eyes closed.

  Silly boy. How could he think he’d fooled her? She’d known both twins since the day they’d all showed up to gnomeschool in their embroidered lederhosen. At first she’d been annoyed, considering she’d looked forward to indulging her smoosh on Onni. But then she’d seen Offi alone for the first time and had witnessed how he bloomed when out of his twin’s shadow. If he’d ever bothered to speak up in school, if he’d ever opened his mouth without Onni stepping in front of him, chest puffed out, perhaps she would’ve seen it earlier. Seen that Offi was by the far the superior Numminen boy.

  If only they’d been honest with each other from the start, perhaps she could’ve kissed Offi while he was still alive. But it was too late. Her lips brushed his, gentle as a butterfly.

  “Goodbye, Offi. May your pudding be sweet, your cogs be oiled, and your cardigan remain forever as crisp as the day it was embroidered.”

  “Oh, my…my…oh!”

  Something fell to the ground and exploded into a pile of glass shards and golden liquid and the scent of honey and herbs. Kirsi looked to Båggi, who was covered in his spilled potion, and she had never seen the dwarf so flustered or so lacking in peculiar aphorisms.

  “I dropped all my wonderful stuff,” he said sadly. “Ha ha.”

  Kirsi put a hand on his wrist. “It’s okay, Båggi. It’s too late. There’s nothing we can do to help him now.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all? Didn’t those ghosts speak of some magical flesh ho—”

  “No!”

  King Gustave had stepped into their circle, and his royal decree was spoken so forcefully, so regally, that both Kirsi and Båggi knelt at his feet. The spilled potion soaked into Kirsi’s skirt, but she didn’t really care anymore. The king hadn’t seemed like a king before, not that Kirsi had ever really met a king. But he hadn’t exhibited Hellä Traktiv’s competent confidence or even the pomp and style of the local mayor back in Pavaasik. Still, in just one word, he’d fully stepped into her personal ideal of what a king should be, and so she waited for his next kingly statement.

  “No one can say that thing you were about to say, because it is totally gross, and really, you shouldn’t do anything that Ghost Toby says, because he’s sorta barmy,” Gustave said, scratching his nethers with his head cocked to the side.

  “What King Gustave means,” Grinda said, sliding into their midst as if she’d always been there and had not recently been a possum and didn’t still have a bit of turkey leg stuck in her teeth, “is that flesh honey is a level-three forbidden substance, and you probably shouldn’t say the words either.” She gave the king the sort of grin a teacher gives to a small child who won’t stop scratching their bum, and King Gustave quit scratching his bum, as if he were a small child being grinned at in that terrifying way teachers had.

  “Hey, so that went pretty good, right?” the king said, because he needed people to forget he’d been scratching his bum.

  “By which the king means that you’ve all done an excellent service to crown and country and will be well rewarded,” Grinda continued to translate. “You’ve traveled far and sacrificed much. The king would grant you a royal boon.”

  “I don’t have any balloons,” King Gustave said. “But we could possibly order some from Qul?”

  “Boon, not balloon.” Grinda patted him on the shoulder, and he gave a distinctly goatlike smile. “What would you ask of your king?”

  Gerd was the first to respond: Egges. Many egges. All the egges. And a special dispensation that I may feast upon them.

  Grinda and Gustave shared a look.

  “How many eggs are we talking about?” Gustave said. “And, uh, who just said that in my head? This impressive birdcat? Catbird? Thing?”

  “She’s a gryphon, she could easily bite you in two, and she did speak in your head.” Grinda turned to
Gerd. “We can’t promise you all the eggs, but we can give you many eggs,” she promised.

  It’s pronounced egges, Gerd insisted.

  “Oh, no. It’s like we’re in the Catacombs of Yore all over again,” King Gustave groaned.

  “At least we’re not arguing over an umlaut,” Grinda muttered. Returning her gaze to Gerd, she said, “We could build you a chicken farm, perhaps? Just name the city.”

  Gerd looked to Faucon, who’d been walking around the room, checking that the drubs were truly dead and collecting their gold medallions and various toe jewels.

  I will go where Faucon goes, the gryphon said, almost shyly.

  “Well, where do you want to go?” Gustave asked. “What’s your balloon? And, hey, you’re not a Dique or a Chundertoe, right?”

  Faucon drew himself up tall despite his many injuries. “I would rather die than be a Dique. I am Faucon Pooternoob of the Toodleoo Pooternoobs, and what I would like best is a position overseeing the legal demesne of the kanssa-jaarli. For too long, the laws have been ignored. But we have the Elder Annals, and there are many new laws that must be made regarding building codes and statuary.”

  “Are you saying you want a job?” Grinda asked, one sharp eyebrow inching into her hair.

  “I would like the position and power to implement laws that will help the halfling people return to their greatness.” Faucon put a tender hand on Gerd’s neck. “But in a place where Gerd would be welcome and well supplied with eggs.”

  Grinda looked at Gustave. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

  “If you’re thinking that the muesli bar over there is mostly free of blood and probably doesn’t have too many raccoon hairs in it, then yes.”

  “I’m thinking we need a new kanssa-jaarli, and we are in the presence of a halfling and a gnome. A halfling and a gnome who care enough about setting things right for their peoples that they’ll travel across Pell for a reckoning. Not only that, but they are friends who might lead all the halflings and gnomes into a greater understanding of friendship and amity, uniting their people as one.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath, and Kirsi couldn’t help it. She broke out into laughter, and, luckily, Faucon joined her.

  “Oh, I’m just out of school!” Kirsi said. “Old gnomes will never vote for me to be the jaarl.”

  “And while I consider my past to be impeccable, there are many halflings who would look askance upon my adherence to the law and my loyalty to a magnificent pigeon, now deceased. I would fare poorly, I fear, in an election,” Faucon said.

  “But I would be delighted to be appointed to some position where I may do some good, much like what Faucon requested,” Kirsi added. “An emergency appointment as acting jaarl, perhaps, lasting no more than six months while proper elections are arranged, as allowed by the Elder Annals?”

  “Yes,” Gustave said, waggling a finger in her direction while nodding at Grinda. “Yes, that thing, what she just said, Grinda. Let’s do it.”

  “Done!” the sand witch said, her face erupting in a smile so brilliant that it made her wattle quiver.

  “Uh, what about him?” Kirsi asked, pointing at the raccoon, who still sat on his throne as if unaware that his job was being given away. He was, in fact, emitting tiny raccoon snores.

  Grinda rubbed a well-worn place between her eyebrows. “Raccoon, can you speak?”

  In response, the raccoon merely rolled over, bottom in the air, and gave a whistling snore.

  I could get rid of it, Gerd offered. It will perhaps be messy, but that doesn’t appear to be a problem in this room. You may have the tail, if you wish.

  “No!” Båggi cried. When everyone stared at him, he added, “My people often keep raccoons as pets. I’d rather take her home than see her, er, get Gerded. Oh, my fancy fig pies! To return home from Meadschpringå with a Cudgel of Peace and a rotund raccoon! My parents will be most proud!”

  He held up his Telling Cudgel, and Kirsi felt a rush of gladness for her friend. In the last week, she’d seen the wooden stick grow violent protuberances, glow in different colors, wear different badges, and make various squishy bits explode. But now it looked as tranquil as the day she’d met Båggi, the honey-gold wood showing a beautiful grain and an intricate carving of a bee, along with a star.

  “What does the star mean?” Kirsi asked.

  Båggi turned the cudgel and his jaw dropped. “Oh, my juice and jam! A star indicates that a dwarf has performed a feat of extraordinary valor for the world. I’ve only seen one starred cudgel before, that one belonging to an ancient dwarf named Sir Gimlet, who was involved with the Fellowship of the String. Oh, my!” He hugged the cudgel to his chest, and Kirsi was very glad it no longer featured spikes.

  “So you’re leaving, then?” Agape asked, and it was clear to Kirsi, after all this time in the ovitaur’s presence, that she was upset and hurt but trying to act tough.

  “Well, the plan was always to return to my people and live a quiet life of peace, bees, and mead,” Båggi said. “You’re welcome to come, if you wish, but I’ll warn you that my people will attempt to fleece you on the daily.”

  “Fleece me? Like, of money?”

  “Er.” The dwarf looked down and turned red. “Your wool. They’ll want it for warm socks.”

  “Screw the dwarves, then,” Agape said.

  Båggi’s jaw dropped, but the king’s chamberlain stepped in to smooth rumpled pelts.

  “You, too, are owed a boon,” Grinda said to Agape. “What would you ask of your king?”

  “I…I don’t know. Nobody’s ever aaasked me that,” Agape admitted. “I think I’d like to go somewhere and be an artist. Work on my caaarving. But not somewhere I’ve been before, aaand I’ve been most everywhere.”

  “Have you been to Qul?” Grinda asked.

  “Well, no. My faaather said the people were fiercely xenophobic.”

  “Seems like your father lied a lot,” Kirsi said, but kindly.

  “About this, at least, he did.” Grinda nodded once and gave Agape a reassuring grin. “The Qul people are wonderful, and they always appreciate artists. The king and I would like to offer you a scholarship as the Pellican Artist of the Year, Mondo Emeritus. The grant includes travel to and housing at anyplace in all of Pell, as well as a Letter of Introduction/Forced Friendliness from the king. Will that suit you?”

  “That…that would be amaaazing!” Agape said, and to Kirsi, the ovitaur looked years younger, as if she’d finally let go of a heavy burden. It was understandable—instead of spending her entire life belonging nowhere, on the run and frightened of people, Agape now had somewhere she could belong and something to do there. It was unlikely that anyone with the king’s writ in hand would be chased on the daily, which had to be a big relief.

  The smiles and hope they felt for the future evaporated once Kirsi’s eye landed on Offi.

  “What about him?” she asked sadly.

  The king cleared his throat. “A medal of valor. A commemorative stamp from the postale service. A boon granted to his family, perhaps? He deserves so much more. The last kid we killed—I mean, the last kid who died in service to Pell—we gave his parents a newer, unmuddy farmhouse, but they did have to sign papers promising to never eat a goat again, and I might have stolen his father’s boots. Did this kid eat a lot of goats?”

  “Uh, no?” Kirsi said.

  “Then let’s offer all that to his parents.”

  “Their home did get bombed by the halflings.”

  King Gustave looked terribly alarmed. “Oh, no. He wasn’t a Nooperkins, was he?”

  “He was a Numminen.”

  “Good. I mean, not good. But that would just be a lot for ol’ Floopi to take in. I just…I just really want to help all the gnomes who got exploded.”

  Kirsi smiled up at the king and finally understood w
hat good leadership looked like. It wasn’t perfect oratory or braggadocio, or a rattling saber, or military parades. It was a heart to help people and the will to do it.

  “Thank you, Greatest King Gustave,” she said.

  * * *

  After that, it was all paperwork and arrangements, with Grinda dispensing orders with the efficiency of a gnomeric automaton. She found the kanssa-jaarli’s Royal Writ pad and dashed off Chundertoe’s resignation, then another writ for Kirsi and Faucon’s appointments. With her great, looping scrawl, she created signs to post around town, explaining the return of law and pertinent bits from the Elder Annals. The Dastardly Rogues Under Bigly-Wicke were disbanded, and anyone found wearing a drub medal would be sent to prison on sight, where they’d receive the Great Shaving of Shame and be put to work helping clean up and rebuild exploded gnomehomes. The general idea, Grinda told them, was that very busy people doing useful work didn’t have time to get into trouble. She was looking at King Gustave when she said it, but Kirsi was the only one who noticed.

  * * *

  When it was time for the king and Grinda to leave, Kirsi stood at the base of the Toot Towers beside Faucon, picking raccoon hairs off her ceremonial robe. In the past few days, she’d grown quite accustomed to Gustave, as he liked to be called, and his stern but fond chamberlain. Kirsi was sorry to see them go. Ghost Toby had been right: The king was okay, and they didn’t even have to use the passcode.

  “We’re off to Tennebruss to see the Earl of Borix,” Grinda said, climbing onto a centipod much like the one Kirsi’s party had ridden for a time, although the king’s version was much bigger and grander. “With Lord Ergot gone, we must find a new Lord of Bruding. A man who understands the people and is willing to support the retun of laws to the Skyr.”