Kendermore

by Mary Kirchoff

  Woodrow and I—you met Woodrow, do you remember? He’s the human who works for Gisella Hornslager, the red-haired dwarf who came to fetch me back to Kendermore. He can talk with animals, and he knows a lot about boats, and he doesn’t yell at me like Flint.

  Tas paused, then carefully crossed out the yelling part in case the dwarf read the note over the half-elf’s shoulder. He could picture them by the fire at the Inn of the Last Home, tears flooding their eyes, clinking their mugs together and toasting his memory.

  A few interesting things have happened since I last saw you. We met a bunch of gully dwarves who dumped everything out of the wagon as it was going down the cliff, then we got in a shipwreck and nearly drowned.

  But the most exciting thing was riding on a dragon! You’d like riding a dragon, Tanis. This was not a real one, it was built by a gnome named Bozdil—or maybe his brother Ligg built it. I never asked. They made this machine called a cara … carus … a round thing that plays really loud music and has statues of animals that go up and down and around in circles.

  Tas looked over the description of the carousel. He was not completely satisfied with it but he couldn’t think of an easy way to make it better, and he did not want to start the whole letter over again.

  So I was riding the dragon at Oktoberfest in Rosloviggen and it took off! Bozdil won’t tell me how he made it come to life, and I know it didn’t really, but it was neat anyway.

  The bad part is that the dragon brought us to this tower way up in the mountains where those two gnomes I mentioned live, and they are going to kill me and put me on display in a glass case to fulfill their Life Quests. They’re going to do the same thing to their pet woolly mammoth, Winnie, which I think is terrible! Ligg is bigger and gruffer than his brother, and he builds everything around here. Bozdil is more sensitive, but he’s the one who usually collects the specimens.

  I asked Woodrow whether a person could see things after dying, if he’s been stuffed. I mean, will I be able to see the people who stare at me in my display case the way I stared at the dinosaurs? Woodrow didn’t think so, but I think the next few centuries might be more interesting if I could.

  With only one sheet of paper remaining, Tas decided to conclude his good-bye.

  I’m running out of paper, so I have to go now. It was really nice knowing you. I had a lot of fun with everyone (even Raistlin, I guess), while we were all together in Solace. Please tell Flint that I never believed him when he called me a doorknob and that I really like him, too.

  Tas read that sentence over and decided he liked the way it sounded. He knew he was going to have to close soon, or he’d burst out crying, which would smear the ink and he’d have to do it all again.

  Biting the tip of his tongue in concentration, he signed it, “Your friend, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” Choking back a sob, he fanned the last page to hasten its drying, then stacked the pages and folded them in half as one. On the back of the last page he wrote “Tanis Half-Elven, Solace.” He knew that someone there would get the letter and hold it until Tanis returned from wherever he was.

  Tasslehoff was not crying because he was afraid of dying; there was very little any kender feared. Though they did not welcome it, they thought of death as the last big adventure. Still, Tas hated the thought of leaving his good friends, Tanis and Flint, forever.

  Just then there came a knock at the door, which seemed ridiculous considering that the occupants of the room were prisoners. The wooden door swung open and Bozdil’s head appeared around it.

  “Time for the kender’s jar fitting!” he said merrily.

  Woodrow and Winnie both snorted themselves awake at the sound of the gnome’s voice.

  “Jar fitting?” Tas repeated dully. “What’s that?”

  “Liggandlweretalkingaboutwaystoimprovetheexhibits, somethingtomakethemmoreinteresting.” He was speaking very quickly, avoiding Tasslehoff’s eyes. “We thought perhaps putting more of the specimens in interesting-looking jars might help.” Bozdil’s voice trailed off, and he continued to fidget.

  “Uh oh,” Winnie mumbled in the shadows. The sound reached only Woodrow’s ears. “This is just an excuse to get him out of here without suspecting anything. No one ever returns from a fitting.”

  Woodrow looked up through bleary eyes and gulped. “Oh.” Woodrow’s foggy brain began to slowly clear, and he was frozen with helpless indecision.

  “Come with me, Burrfoot,” instructed Bozdil. Seeing the kender reach for his hoopak he said, “Leave your forked weapon here. You won’t need it where you’re going. You can retrieve it later.”

  “Where’s Ligg?” Tas asked the smaller of the two gnomes, peering past him into the silent hall.

  “He’s preparing some things,” Bozdil said vaguely, “but he’ll be along shortly.”

  Tasslehoff set his chin firmly, said good-bye to Winnie and Woodrow, who seemed to be a bit muddled still, then followed Bozdil into the torch-lit hall. The kender walked without his usual bounce, his arm held firmly by Bozdil’s small but strong hand, a torch sputtering in the gnome’s other hand.

  “So, how are you going to do ‘it’?” the kender asked. “Bonk me over the head, poison my food, hold a pillow over my face?” He’d been thinking about “it” very clinically in the last hours.

  Bozdil cringed. “Don’t you think talking about ‘it’ is, well, in bad taste?” He patted Tas’s hand. “You’re better off not knowing.”

  They fell silent. Tas heard a rooster crow in some far-distant room. He could hear the near-silent “swish-swish” of a pendulum slicing through air.

  The kender did not know how far they’d walked when they stopped before a closed door. “This is it. The jar-fitting room,” Bozdil said, his voice clipped. He pushed open the small, simple wooden door.

  Tasslehoff ducked his head in hesitantly. He let out a high whistle of wonder and delight. Multicolored glass from thousands of jars winked and sparkled in the torchlight.

  “They look like gems,” he breathed. The kender dashed into the room and skipped between two rows of knee-high jars of all shapes and colors, gaping at every one in unabashed fascination: sky blue, bird’s egg blue, water blue, sea green, grass green, leaf green, amber, ruby, and dozens of other colors. “I haven’t seen this many colors since the stained-glass windows fell out of the Rainbow Inn in Kendermore. I didn’t know glass jars came in so many shades!”

  “They don’t generally,” Bozdil said smugly. “We blow our own glass, so it’s very clear and sturdy, but thin enough so you can still see through it clearly. Nothing is too good for our specimens. Do you see anything you like?” He waved a hand to include the whole area.

  The room was so full of jars that it was impossible to tell how large the room was, or even to hazard a guess as to how many jars were actually there. Tasslehoff sprang from one to the next like a bee between flowers. He stopped momentarily by a long, low amber jar with a wide mouth cocked up at an angle.

  “Go ahead, try it on for size,” Bozdil encouraged the kender.

  Nodding happily, Tasslehoff hitched up his vest, leaned over sideways, and slipped a foot into the mouth of the jar. He was in to his hips when his feet scraped the bottom.

  “I’d have to lie down to fit in here, and I don’t think I’d like lying down forever,” he said, looking about for another jar to sample.

  “No, no,” Bozdil said agreeably. “I’m not sure amber is your color, anyway.”

  Tas buzzed around the room and located some taller jars. He slid into and out of all shapes and sizes. He eliminated the fishbowl shape quickly; he was afraid he would slop from side to side in it, which was not the impression he wanted to give of kender. He liked the elegant design of the ginger-jar. Its narrow bottom gently curved out toward the top, then closed back up again at the mouth. But he hated the way it felt on his neck, like he was suffocating. He discarded the straight, thin style as too conventional. Besides, sitting down in it would be impossible, he reasoned.

  Weighing the options
carefully, he wandered back to a jar he had considered early on. It was cobalt blue, with simple but classic lines: sleek yet roomy, from its slightly flaired mouth to its tantilizingly rounded bottom. This was a jar a kender could be proud of. Tasslehoff studied it and tried to picture himself in it. Would he look happy in this jar? he wondered.

  “Ah, hah!” Bozdil exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. “I thought you’d select blue. It looks so nice with your leggings. By the way, is this pretty typical dress for a kender?” he asked bluntly, plucking at Tasslehoff’s clothing.

  “Sure. I guess,” the kender said haltingly, caught off guard by the question. But looking at the rich blue shade made him happy again. “You think blue is my color?”

  “Oh, definitely!” Bozdil declared vehemently. He locked his fingers together to form a step and nodded toward Tasslehoff. “Here, let me help you up.”

  Enraptured, Tas eagerly placed his foot in the gnome’s clasped hands. He reached for the top of the jar and nimbly swung himself up to sit on its wide lip. Then, with his arms at his sides, he straightened his body and slipped to the bottom with a sharp “tink.”

  The kender’s breathing echoed in the jar. Tas shuffled his feet softly, and it sounded as if his feet were right next to his ears. He pressed his hands and nose to the blue glass and yelled, “What do you think?” Reverberations rang in his ears, so he muffled the sound with his fingers.

  “Perfect!” Bozdil clapped his hands again happily. “You don’t even need a size adjustment. Absolutely perfect!”

  “Huh?” Tas squinted through the glass. He could see the gnome’s lips moving but all he could hear was a faint murmuring. Eternity might be a little indistinct and difficult to understand from inside this jar, Tas decided. But this thought was interrupted when Tas felt the jar shudder, as if the ground, or at least the building, were shaking. The expression on Bozdil’s face turned to confusion. When it happened again, much more violently, the gnome’s expression turned to anger and he spun and bolted from the room, his puffy sleeves billowing behind him.

  Tas pounded on the glass anxiously. “Wait, Bozdil! What’s going on? Where are you going? I can’t get out!” The sound of his own shouts ricocheted around the inside of the jar.

  Something exciting was obviously happening, and Tas was not about to sit inside the glass bottle and miss the fun. The problem was how to get out. While the jar itself was roomy enough, the opening at the top was quite small, barely large enough for Tas to slip through. He reached up and grasped the edge and pulled himself up. With his head and shoulders through the opening, there was too little space left for his arm. No matter how he twisted and pushed, his elbow just wouldn’t fit through the jar’s mouth.

  Irritated at the delay, Tas dropped back into the jar. Pointing his arms straight above his head, he sprang from his toes. His eyebrows came level with the rim of the glass, then he dropped back into the jar. Undaunted, he sprang again. This time his shoulders cleared the lip of the jar and as they did, Tas threw his arms to the sides, catching the rim of the glass under his armpits. He then proceeded to wriggle and squirm his way up and out.

  Then, suddenly, the castle shook even more violently than before, and Tas heard a terrific crashing from somewhere nearby. The jar, now impossibly top-heavy, teetered and rocked menacingly. Tasslehoff froze. The jar did not. It swayed and tottered, wavered and wobbled across the small, low shelf on which it stood. Just as it tipped over the edge, Tas sprang clear to land on his fingers and toes. The jar smashed into the floor behind him, showering Tas with broken fragments of glass.

  A hasty inspection proved to Tas that although he was blanketed with tiny slivers and a fine powder of glass, he was unhurt. Snatching a polishing rag from a nearby shelf, he quickly brushed away the splinters, then dashed through the door after Bozdil.

  The gnome stood in the hallway, his back turned to Tasslehoff, his gaze fixed on the end of the hall. There was a loud thump, the castle shook slightly, and the door creaked and groaned, followed by a tremendous crash. Pieces of splintered door showered the floor, along with chunks of rock smashed from the stone door frame. Through this jagged breach stormed the woolly mammoth, Winnie. The slight human, Woodrow, was spread-eagled across the mammoth’s back, hanging on by two handfuls of fur.

  “Whatisthemeaningofthis?” shrilled Bozdil. “Thisisamuseum, notanarena! Inthenameofscience, stopthisrampage!”

  Woodrow sat up unsteadily. “We’re leaving,” he announced, “and we want Mr. Burrfoot.” The human shook the kender’s hoopak over his head threateningly.

  “Youcan’thavehim,” Bozdil shot back.

  “He’sanexhibit,” added Ligg, scrambling over the wreckage behind Winnie. The skin of some small lizard, complete with feet, tail, and head, was clasped in his left hand. “It’sanhonortobeanexhibit. It’slikeimmortality!”

  “You haven’t pickled him already, have you?” Woodrow asked anxiously.

  “Yes, you’re too late,” Ligg said quickly.

  Woodrow gasped, swallowing a lump in his throat.

  “Now give this foolishness up, and we’ll deal lightly with you,” the bigger gnome continued, pushing up his spectacles.

  Winnie shook his head furiously, forcing Woodrow to tighten his grip. “I won’t make any deals,” the mammoth said firmly.

  “Look at all the damage you’ve caused,” implored Bozdil. “At least help us repair this and clean up the mess.”

  “We may be too late for Tasslehoff,” Winnie sobbed, forcing his voice to be firm, “but Woodrow and I are coming through anyway. I’ve decided I don’t want to be pickled for posterity. Don’t make me hurt you, Ligg, or you either, Bozdil. You’ve treated me pretty well these fifteen years, but I’ve decided I want to leave, and I’m taking my new friend with me. I’ll do what I have to do to get free.”

  Winnie advanced rapidly toward the two brothers, who were now side-by-side in the hall. Just then Tas emerged in the hallway from the jar-fitting room. He could immediately see how angry the mammoth was. Fearing for the two gnomes, who stood resolutely in the path of the charging behemoth, but anxious to get away with his friends, Tas made a quick decision. Dashing into the hall behind the brothers Ligg and Bozdil, the kender used his favorite trick: he knocked their heads together, which clunked like two coconuts. The startled gnomes slumped into Tas’s arms, and he dragged them to the wall, out of Winnie’s way.

  “Tasslehoff!” both human and mammoth cried at the sight of their friend. “We thought you were dead!” The woolly mammoth slowed down, allowing Tas to grab two handfuls of thick fur and haul himself up the animal’s flank. The kender plopped down behind Woodrow, and Winnie continued to hurtle down the hallway.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you guys, too!” Tasslehoff exclaimed, craning his head around to get his bearings. “Which way is out?”

  Woodrow grinned foolishly with relief. “We don’t know. But if we try enough doors, we’re bound to find one that leads outside.”

  “Wahoo!” screamed Tasslehoff as Winnie lowered his head and smashed through another doorway.

  “Uh oh,” said both Tasslehoff and Woodrow as the dust cleared and they saw what was in the room they had just broken into. On the far side of the room was a large door that appeared to lead outside. Between the door and the woolly mammoth stood a giant cat—a mountain lion, guessed Tas—connected to the wall by a thirty-foot chain. “Turn around. We’ll find another door,” urged Tas.

  But Winnie stood fast. “C’mon, Winnie, that’s a mountain lion,” pleaded Woodrow. “You’ve been locked up in here all your life. You don’t know what a mountain lion can do. Just back up and we’ll find another way out.”

  But Woodrow underestimated the woolly mammoth. In spite of years of imprisonment, Winnie’s instincts were still honed. He charged straight toward the mountain lion, which had never seen anything as massive as Winnie. The cat crouched on its belly and slinked to the side, expecting to leap on Winnie’s flank when the wall forced the mammoth to stop. Wi
nnie passed the lion, hit the wall, and kept right on going, smashing completely through the brick and out into the sunlight beyond.

  And he did not stop there, either! The frantic woolly mammoth bounded down the slope, away from the castle, skidding in the dirt, whooping and hollering and waving his trunk.

  * * * * *

  Farther down the mountain, Gisella and Denzil rode single file, Gisella in the lead, along the narrow, winding trail. As they rode out from the shadow of a towering boulder, Gisella looked ahead and spotted the silhouette of a tower against the morning sky. She halted, waiting for Denzil to catch up.

  They rounded yet another bend in the twisting, rock-strewn trail. Gisella spotted something and stood in the stirrups to get a better look. A structure, or series of structures, like no other she had ever seen—four towers thrust upward from the side of the mountain, staggered irregularly. Beneath the towers, a castle appeared to grow out of the side of the mountain, or perhaps the mountain had crumbled down on top of the castle. She thought she saw two figures riding atop a boulder. Then she realized that the boulder was, in fact, some sort of enormous, shaggy animal. In a few moments, Denzil reined up alongside her. He, too, straightened up and shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “Some sort of creature, carrying two riders,” he said. “They seem to be running from that stronghold. Could they be your companions?”

  Gisella squinted. Fortunately, the sun was behind her. “It’s hard to be sure at this distance. The one in front looks a lot shorter than the other one … and he’s definitely carrying a hoopak. OK, that’s Woodrow and Burrfoot. Do you suppose that’s another wooden animal they’re riding?” Gisella laughed girlishly at her own joke.

  Denzil ignored her question, saying only, “We’ll wait for them here.”

  “Want to make the time pass more quickly?” Grinning, Gisella slid her hand across Denzil’s leg and patted his rump.

  Denzil lowered himself to his saddle. Gisella snatched her hand away to keep it from being pinned beneath him. “No,” he replied. With a flick of the reins, he directed his horse forward to a spot where he could edge off the trail behind an outcropping.