by Pete Prown
* * *
The Sheriff’s wagon drew closer to the Great Wood; in the back sat the prisoners Dorro and, in chains, Amos, while deputy Gadget watched them intently. In his mind, the lawman was turning over the events of the past few days. He still couldn’t reconcile that Dorro Fox Winderiver was now his lawful prisoner, accused of murder and about to stand trial. Forgo knew his friend was both innocent and that he played a role in the accidental death of Dalbo Dall, but the Mayor and that rotter Osgood Thrip were set on putting Dorro in the dock and making him pay for past transgressions.
What a pair of slimy stoats—that Osgood and our illustrious Mayor, thought Forgo. I’d like to see them in the back of my wagon, shackled and manacled to the nines! But it’s too late now.
“Whoa, Tom! Pull up now,” Forgo shouted to his long-suffering pony. He hopped off the wagon and gave his shaggy conveyance a feedbag of oats. He stroked the creature’s floppy ears. “You’re a good lad, Tom. I wish half of these Halflings were as decent and reliable as you.” The pony ignored him and tucked into its lunch instead.
“Now, Dorro and Amos, off the wagon and no funny business!” he snarled at both prisoners, cradling his cudgel. “One false move and I’ll whack you with Gwendolin. And Gadget, you have my full permission to knock their brains in.”
The tall, red-haired boy grinned and thought about heroically quelling a prisoner escape.
“Let’s go!” barked Forgo as he roughly grabbed Amos by the sleeve and tugged him towards the gathering of mourners.
There were about two hundred Thimble Downers gathered in the snowy clearing, in the midst of which sat the Meeting Tree, a gigantic elm tree that was everyone’s favorite gathering spot. Via a special decree from the Mayor, under some pressure from the village folk, the burial site of Dalbo Dall was allowed to be sited near the canopy of the Meeting Tree—he was the first and only Thimble Downer accorded that honor because of his long connection to the Great Wood. It was also his favorite place to sleep off a heavy night’s drink, also a consideration.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” bellowed Farmer Edythe, who volunteered to lead the burial comments since there was no organized religion in the Halfling world, nor any real spiritual leaders.
(Indeed, the closest thing they had to a religion was simply spending time in the Great Wood with friends and family, or punting on the River Thimble with a pipeful of Old Nob.)
“Neighbors, we are gathered here to say goodbye to our dear friend, Dalbo Dall,” Edythe continued in her big, blaring voice. There were a few sobs in the crowd.
“Dalbo, as you know, was a special friend to all. Yes, he was a strange fellow—even downright weird. But still, he was kind as a sparrow, clever as a fox, and sweet as an apple. Never harmed another soul in his entire life and enjoyed every moment he drew breath. We should all be so lucky.”
“Alas, we lost poor Dalbo the other day in an accident and, I want to be clear, me and many others know it was just an accident. There are some who want to punish the fellow who drew the arrow that killed the wanderer, but errors happen and Mr. Dorro is just as much a victim as Dalbo Dall was. Do not harden your hearts to our beloved bookmaster.”
Nevertheless, as Dorro noticed, a few in the throng shot him dirty looks, holding him accountable for Dalbo’s death. It made him feel even worse, but he was grieving, too. However, a few in the group shouted out “Hear, hear!” to affirm Edythe’s words; certainly, Dorro had some friends out there.
“Is there anyone who’d like to share a special memory of Dalbo before we deliver his corpus unto the soil’s warm embrace?”
At that, tiny Minty Pinter stepped out into the clear, weeping and distraught.
“Aye, I’ve known Dalbo me whole life. We grew up together and had many misadventures I wouldn’t trade the world for! Why, there was the time we stole twenty of Farmer Padgett’s rabbits and let ‘em loose in the middle of the village on market day. Was sheer pandemonium for hours, as folks screamed and ran from them hoppin’ bunnies.”
“Dalbo ’n’ me was on the roof of a burrow, laughing like demons at all them rabbits and hollerin’ folks. They was all rounded up eventually and, I believe, many Thimble Downers enjoyed a free coney supper that night. Farmer Padgett never forgave us, a-course!” There was warm laughter at the memory from those in the crowd.
“Then there was the time we stole some fireworks and set them off in ol’ man Wilton’s tavern deep into the night. Why, we burned the place to the ground in our foolishness and Mr. Wilton tanned our backsides good. Neither Dalbo nor me sat in a chair for no less than two weeks!”
More laughed and mirth ensued before Minty turned serious.
“Truly, though, Dalbo Dall was like a brother to me and I shall miss his good cheer and comradeship. Many a time I was taking my wares from here to Nob or Upper Down, and back again, and Dalbo would hitch a ride. Oh, the stories he told and laughs we shared.”
Minty’s face crumbled as tears ran down his cheeks. Many in attendance did the same thing, some with comforting words like
“There, there Minty—we all loved him” or “He was a good lad, Minty—we shall never forget ol’ Dalbo.”
The tiny tinker piped up once more: “Again, he was like a brother to me and, in some ways, I think he was my brother. You knew how much we looked alike and talked alike. I can’t explain how that might be, but there are lots of things I don’t understand.”
“Truly, I don’t remember Dalbo ever having parents; one day he simply walked out of the Great Wood naked as a wee bairn and lived among us his whole life—sun, rain or snow. How can that be? How did Dalbo live in the forest, even as a boy? And why didn’t anyone ever question it?”
There was silence in crowd, but finally a woman’s voice spoke up. It was Mrs. Fowl.
“Why Minty, we never thought nuthin’ of it. He was always such a contented boy and never seemed to want for anything, aside from a few pennies and bite to eat. Once a week, Dalbo would show up at my door with his crazy grin, but not saying much. I knew he wanted a piece of pie, so I kept one ready for him, plus gave him a penny or two.”
“In return, he’d help weed the garden or pick apples, or shovel the snow off my path. As for nights, I never knew where he slept, but figured he crawled into a stable somewhere. It wasn’t until much later that any of us figured out he always stayed out under stars, but the lad never complained about it, even once. He loved the Great Wood and would defend it with his life, I know he would.”
Abel Parsnip, the weaver, stepped up next.
“What about the Battle of the Burrows last Fall? Why, folks all over swear they saw Dalbo Dall leadin’ the trees in the Great Wood, urging them to fight the goblins and smash ‘em to the ground. Me whole life, I heard that Dalbo could talk to the trees and animals and, now, I really believe he could.”
There was one more cough and out stepped Dorro, trembling with fear. “I know I’m the one to blame for us being here today and I regret it more than anyone. But I loved Dalbo, too, and as Abel just said, there was more to him than meets the eye. Some thought of him as a bumbling drunkard, but he really did have a special kinship with the trees and animals here; he said he even talked to the fish and the rocks and I believe him!”
There was some giggling in the crowd, but it was shushed away. The bookmaster continued.
“Dalbo was a magical fellow and I think there was more to him than we’ll ever know. I bet there are folks here who know more than they’re saying, but in any case, I want Dalbo to know I’m sorry and if there was any way to get him back, I would do it. I hope the trees are listening to us right now. And if they can communicate that message to Dalbo, I would humbly appreciate it.”
By now, the tears were flowing like the River Thimble after a Springtime rain and not just Dorro. The whole village was simply inconsolable over the loss of this special friend—and rightly so.
The Trouble with Cousins
Not wanting to get caught up in the mass exodus of Thimble Downers headi
ng home after the burial, Sheriff Forgo gave Gadget the sign and they hustled Dorro and Amos Pinchbottle onto the wagon. With a shake of the reins, Tom the pony began trudging down the snowy track towards the gaol and his warm stable.
“Those were fine words, Winderiver,” said Forgo from the driver’s bench. “I know you’re innocent and after today, so does half of the village. We only have to convince our booby of a Mayor of that fact.”
“I meant every word,” added Dorro, as much to himself as anyone. “I can’t believe the fix I’m in. It seems like a nightmare the more I think about it.”
Forgo steered Tom down a side trail, through a patch of tall rhododendrons still thick with green, leathery leaves, despite the cold. It was peaceful in the wintry woods, and for a moment, all was tranquil.
“Anyway, Dorro, I’m sure we’ll figure it all out—never you fear. One more thing ….”
But Sheriff Forgo never got a chance to finish that thought as a bag filled with heavy sand appeared from a nearby pine tree, swinging on a rope, and struck him clean in the noggin. One second he was speaking calmly and the next he was slumped on the buckboard, unconscious and still.
“Gadget, get out your club!” Dorro screamed at the gangly deputy, who was fussing to get the cudgel out of his belt loop. Yet he too wouldn’t get very far as Amos Pinchbottle pulled back his manacled legs and delivered a mighty kick that sent the boy sprawling over the side of the wagon and into a snowdrift. Gadget didn’t move after that.
“Come out, boys! All’s clear,” laughed Amos, staring at Dorro like a crazed loon.
Suddenly, two scraggly Halflings emerged, one from the rhododendron patch and another from the pine tree they’d just passed. “Howdy Amos. We done good, eh?”
“Sure enough, Woodsy. You swung that bag just perfect—heck, you knocked out a flippin’ windbag with a sandbag. Get it?”
At that they all laughed like fools.
“Winderiver, I’d like you to meet me cousins. This here is Woodsy Pinchbottle, and his brother, Barker—me own kin and relations. We growed up together and ha’ been through thick ‘n’ thin together. A-course, they wouldn’t let me go to gaol for the simple act of dispatching a drunken fool from Nob, so they’re here to arrange my ‘bail’.” They all snickered again. “Now Woodsy and Barker, get me unshackled here and let’s tie up the boy and our fat Sheriff. Manacle ‘em both to a tree. That’s payback, I tells ya—nobody chains up Amos Pinchbottle like a dog!”
“What about me, Amos? Aren’t you going to chain me up, too?”
The ratty looking prisoner laughed again. “Nah, Dorro me ol’ pal. Me and my cousins are gonna escape this rotten village and head down to Water-Down to make our fortune. But just for insurance, we’re gonna bring a hostage. And that would be you.”
“No please, Amos! Just leave me here,” the bookmaster was desperate not to have his world turned upside-down again. “You’ll move faster without me and can make your escape. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Sorry, poor feller, but you already heard us sayin’ where we’re headed, so ….” Amos let that thought linger and Dorro was just about to retort when the lights went out. Woodsy had crept up behind him and struck Dorro with the same sandbag he’d used to knock out Sheriff Forgo.
“Load the bookmaster in the bed, Barker, and let’s go. That funeral mob will be coming down this track any minute, and I want to be halfway to Nob before they find Sheriff Lumberhead and his deputy tied up. Ride out!”
