by Pete Prown
* * *
“Mr. Dorro, Mr. Dorro!” The younglings burst into the gaol house to find their friend and tell him the news. “Can we see him?”
“Steady on, young folks. What’s the matter?” Gadget Pinkle was sitting behind the desk, peeling an apple with his knife.
“We need to see Wyll’s uncle. We have important news for him,” blurted the mere wisp of a girl. “The Sheriff should hear this, too. It will break the case wide open!”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, little lady.”
“Too late? What’s happened to Uncle Dorro?” Wyll’s eyes bugged out frantically.
“Nothing’s happened, per se, but he ain’t here. The Sheriff and his lawyer lady hustled him out of here twenty minutes ago.”
“Did they set him free? That would be the best news we’ve heard all day.”
Gadget laughed. “Right, they set him free.” He giggled even more. “Sorry, little lass, but Dorro ain’t free. Forgo and Miss Thrashrack just came to fetch him for the big day.”
“Big day? What do you mean, Gadget?” plead Wyll.
“Why, the big day. The trial. It’s happening right now. Yer uncle is in the dock by now. Har!”
The deputy laughed to himself as he ate the apple. Wyll and Cheeryup looked at him murderously, yet they had no time to deal with Gadget’s insensitive comments.
Instead, they sped out of the gaol and towards the site of the trial across town—the Hanging Stoat.
The Trial
By the time Wyll and Cheeryup reached the tavern, it was already filled to capacity with villagers, all hoping to see the titillating event.
The Hanging Stoat was the obvious venue for the trial since it was perhaps the largest indoor space in all Thimble Down, a sizable freestanding structure which made it unique. Inside, Halflings were jostling for good seats, hooting to friends, and ordering hard cider by the pint (they didn’t normally drink this early in the day, but considering the festive atmosphere, a tipple was more than socially acceptable).
Despite the fact that his friend was on trial, Mr. Mungo still had a business to run and was making a small fortune on mugs of cider, ale, mulled wine, and hot brandies.
“Call to order! Call to order!” The Mayor—here in his role as chief magistrate—banged a gavel on an elevated table in the back of the tavern. “Quiet down!”
Not surprisingly, the villagers kept yakking and gossiping about the trial and goings-on in Thimble Down. Finally a more compelling figure rose next to the magistrate’s table.
“Hey, you lot! Shut the hell up!”
The room quieted down, as no one dared question Sheriff Forgo. His commanding bellow could be heard a quarter-mile away and it was backed up with the good faith of his two mighty fists, which as everyone knew he wasn’t afraid to use.
“That’s better,” rasped the Mayor, picking up his notes. He began to read.
“Today, we are holding for trial the personage of Mr. Dorro Fox Winderiver, resident of Thimble Down and its bookmaster. He is charged with the unlawful murder of Dalbo Dall, an itinerant who lived in the area of no fixed address. It is alleged that on January the seventh, Mr. Winderiver shot at arrow during the Winter Festival, one that sailed into the woods and struck the recumbent body of Mr. Dall, causing his immediate cessation of life. Whether or not this was intentional is something we will discuss today. Any questions so far?”
“Your Honor, I think we can safely say that the death of Mr. Dall was accidental, as Mr. Dorro could have had no idea where his arrow landed,” motioned Darwinna Thrashrack, stunning in a gem-blue frock with a few matching feathers in her carefully coifed hair.
She added, “I don’t see how Dorro could have intentionally shot an arrow one hundred yards into a thicket of trees and hit a target he couldn’t see.”
“Overruled, counselor,” snarled the Mayor. “We still haven’t determined if Dorro knew Dalbo was there or not.” Darwinna sat down with a look of clear irritation on her face. “We will hear testimony from both sides and then the Truth-Finder—today, it will be Mr. Tiberius Grumbleoaf of the firm Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf—will make his recommendation. For the prosecution, Hamment Shugfoot will commence oral arguments. Finally, myself—as the magistrate of Thimble Down—shall make the final, binding decision. Are we clear? Let us proceed.”
At that, the grand figure of Mr. Hamment Shugfoot, Esq. approached the Mayor’s desk. Hamment was all decked out in a fine, horse-hair jacket with silk vest, crisp, white cotton shirt underneath, and matching knee breeches. His brown leather shoes were well buffed and sported gleaming silver buckles. The solicitor also wore bold green stockings that ran up his calf, and his hair and thin mustache had been recently been massaged with a scented lavender oil. Hamment fairly oozed power.
“Thank you, Your Honor. Let us not mince words here—in the course of my discourse, I shall prove conclusively that Dorro Fox Winderiver not only caused the death of Dalbo Dall, but it was willful murder!” (There were gasps from the crowd at Hamment’s dramatic pronunciation, the exact reaction the solicitor had hoped for.)
Now pointing directly at the bookmaster who was sitting sheepishly next to Darwinna, Shugfoot went for the jugular. “There is our murderer, ladies and gentlings! There is our villain! Even if Dalbo’s death was not intentional, it was still caused by gross incompetence, and he should be punished in the most severe manner.”
There are few shouts from the excited crowd, such “Hear, hear!” and “Dorro stinks!” The poor bookmaster was positively shrinking into himself, such was his shame and fear. Sadly for him, Hamment was just getting started.
For the next half hour, the wily lawyer recited Dorro’s own words about the incident, but carefully twisting each statement out of context to make the defendant seem like a careless and dangerous buffoon. He then called Dowdy Cray, Minty Pinter, Mr. Timmo, and Bog the Blacksmith to the stand, all of whom told the same story, though yet again, Hamment was able to insinuate each time that the errant arrow was caused by the bookmaster’s callow regard for the lives of his fellow Thimble Downers.”
“The villagers gasped throughout the presentation of this damning evidence, that is, when they weren’t ordering more hard cider, brandy, and tea to slake their prodigious thirsts. Wyll and Cheeryup stood in the back with Mr. Timmo and Bedminster Shoe, all of them aghast at what was going on.
Finally, the prosecutor took his seat, much to Dorro’s relief, and the elegant form of Darwinna Thrashrack rose to the front, her face one of beauty and ferocity.
“Thank you, your Honor, for hearing our testimony today. As we have just heard from my esteemed colleague, Mr. Shugfoot, I must inform you that most of what we’ve just heard is pure balderdash—with ample amounts of poppycock and codswallop on top. It was then gently seasoned with innuendo and sprinkled liberally with several tablespoons of lying and tomfoolery!” The crowd went wild at Darwinna’s aggressive counterattack.
Thrashrack recalled all the same witnesses to the stand, this time getting them all to admit that Dorro didn’t even want to participate in this the archery events. Her coup-de-grâce was bringing up Sheriff Forgo and putting him in the dock, basically a bench inside a hastily-constructed wooden box that seemed mildly official looking.
“So Sheriff, we know that you are Dorro Fox Winderiver’s friend, but also the official constable of Thimble Down. As such, I’m sure you understand that your answers must be completely honest and unbiased.”
“I do, m’lady,” said Forgo quietly.
“Fine. We’ve heard enough about what happened that day, but I want to know from you, Sheriff Forgo, sworn protector of our village, if you think Mr. Dorro callously shot the arrow that killed Dalbo Dall.”
“No! Not in a million years! We all pressured him to shoot and kept eggin’ him on until he unloosed the bow string. It’s as much the fault of Dowdy, Bog, Minty and me’self, as it was Winderiver’s. As the voice of the law in Thimble Down for twenty years, we’ve had many ac
cidental deaths and the worst penalty has been a large fine or restitution to the family. I’ve never seen such a simple, open-and-shut case pushed the extreme of a full trial before, no sirree!”
“And you say that, Forgo, in your role at the Sheriff, not in any way related to your comradeship with the defendant.”
Forgo looked like he was about to blow his top.
“Your ladyship, I would never do that on the stand! Never, ever, never! We’ve had all our criminal cases documented by Mr. Bedminster Shoe and anyone in the village can go read the transcripts at the library. All the accidental deaths were met with fines and, in this very courtroom, even Mr. Shugfoot implied that Dalbo’s death was just an archery contest gone wrong. And we all heard it!”
By this time, the gawkers in the audience went crazy, jumping up and down and shouting out words of encouragement, from “Free Dorro! Free Dorro!” to “Shugfoot stinks!” Dorro, too, was deeply moved by the Sheriff’s words and choked up a little, while the Mayor smacked his gavel a few times to restore order.
“That’s enough of that, you ninnies. Hamment, you may bring up your next witness.”
“Thank you, your Honor. I call Farmer Edythe!”
There was a hushed roar in the Hanging Stoat, as no one expected Mungo’s wife to be called—none more surprised than the lady herself.
“Are you sure you want me, Shugfoot?” asked the burly, red-haired lady as she pushed through the tangle of tables and chairs. Her husband stood mutely behind the bar, not knowing what to do, but looking forlornly at his wife.
“Yes, Farmer Edythe, you are precisely who I want to question,” noted Hamment, a glint in his eye. Behind him, Darwinna Thrashrack squinted at the lawyer, knowing he was about to pull a fast one. She put her hand on Dorro’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Both of them knew this wouldn’t be good.
With the witness in the dock, Hamment launched in gently. “So Edythe, you’re a well-known personage in Thimble Down, aren’t you?”
“Reasonably so. I ran for Mayor, as you well know, so I figure some folks must know me!” There was nervous giggling in the crowd.
“And you are a voice for progressive notions in the village—so much so that you might have won the Mayoral contest if you hadn’t pulled out. I’ll go on to say that you are extremely well liked and trusted in our village, correct?”
Edythe blushed a little at the flattery and nodded. “Ummm … sure, Hamment. What’s your point?”
“The point, dear lady, is that you are a creditable personage in Thimble Down. You word is valued and you don’t make things up,” cooed the attorney.
“I wouldn’t ever lie to the good folks of our little hamlet.” There was scattered clapping in the audience, along with the odd “Huzzah for Edythe!” and “The Mayor still stinks!”
The Mayor just scowled at them, knowing full well how unpopular he was.
“Then I put this to you, Farmer Edythe,” said Hamment. “We’ve heard all kinds of people today say what an upstanding fellow Dorro Fox Winderiver is. But I say he’s a reckless danger to all and his carelessness led directly to the death of Dalbo Dall!”
“I think it was an accident!” replied the big lady, getting her dander up.
“Oh yes, Edythe? In that case, what transpired not fifteen minutes before Dorro loosed the arrow that killed Dalbo. Something happened at the table where Mr. Mungo was selling ale at the Festival. What happened? You must tell us!”
Flustered and caught off guard, Edythe tried to get her bearings.
“Well sir, you are correct—there was an incident. Mungo ‘n’ me were selling our beers and ales when a hatchet came flying through the air outta nowhere. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the axe landed in one of my Mungo Poo-kins’ ale casks and split it wide open.”
The crowd was a mix of gasps and giggles, one that the thought of the flying weapon and the other at Edythe’s use of the dreaded Mungo Poo’kins, a pet name that always made the barman blush.
“Suffice to say, we lost a lot of pennies over that spilt ale, though we got compensation later.”
Hamment moved in for the kill. “Yes, you were compensated by the gent who threw the hatchet so recklessly, endangering so many lives. And can you point to the one who threw it? Is that person in the courtroom today, Edythe.”
“Well, errmmm, yes, I do know who threw it.”
She stumbled over the words. Lifting her arm and extending a finger, she pointed to a fellow who hadn’t said anything all day.
“It was him—Dorro Fox Winderiver!”
Decree of the Truth Finder
The Hanging Stoat exploded into a frenzy, with Halflings throwing their cider mugs in the air, shouting “Murder!” and generally creating havoc. The Mayor banged his gavel for a full five minutes before Sheriff Forgo told the folks to shut up and be quiet.
“Order! Order in the Court!” the Mayor yelled fruitlessly.
Farmer Edythe stood and left the dock, just beginning to realize how she’d been tricked into accusing Dorro of violent recklessness. She couldn’t even look the bookmaster in the eyes as she passed. As for Dorro himself, he was morose and couldn’t believe the circus exploding around him—he didn’t think he was a criminal, but based on what he’d just heard, even he wasn’t so certain anymore.
“Will the solicitors please approach the bench.” The Mayor’s voice was grim and solemn—he may have been a terrible leader, but he knew the value of theatricality and drama, and milked the moment for all it’s worth.
Hamment and Darwinna approached along with Tiberius Grumbleoaf, the appointed Truth Finder who spent most of the trial writing in the enormous leather-bound book that never left his hands. Softly, the magistrate spoke.
“I get the sense the trial is nearing its natural conclusion, unless of course, you want to bring Dorro to the stand, Solicitor Thrashrack.”
The attorney shot a side glance at Shugfoot. “I will not bring Mr. Winderiver to the stand; I can only imagine how my esteemed colleague would savage him. He’s done enough damage.”
“Oh Darwinna, it’s just my job,” leered Hamment. “You know I didn’t enjoy it.”
She was unmoved. “You seemed to revel in every second. But again, your Honor, my answer is no. We shall present no more witnesses.”
“In that case, I shall allow each of you to make brief closing statements and then let our esteemed Truth Finder make his recommendation. Agreed?”
Grumbleoaf merely grunted as they returned to their seats. For the next twenty minutes, Darwinna Thrashrack and Hamment Shugfoot each presented their best cases for and against the defendant, but there were no more bombshells. As Darwinna had noted, her colleague had already done enough damage. For his part, Dorro said nothing and barely looked up from the desk, while Wyll and Cheeryup remained in the back, frozen in fear.
“All parties now take their seats,” exhorted the Mayor at its conclusion. “At this point in the proceedings, we shall ask our Truth Finder if he’s ready to make a recommendation to the court as to the guilt or innocence of Mr. Winderiver. Will the esteemed Mr. Grumbleoaf come forward?”
With his customary grunt of exertion, the big Halfling rose and stepped forward. On his squat nose sat a pair of reading spectacles with which he used to read from his massive volume. His voice deep and resonant, Tiberius began. There was not a peep in the entire courtroom.
“Good afternoon and thank you, your Honor, for upholding the laws and methods of the Halfling realm in your court. We should all be proud of our unique system of law and the order it brings to our world. You may not know it, the laws of our kingdom help keep the peace from the wider world of chaos and you should appreciate that fact every day. As someone for whom the law is their lifeblood, I admire its machinations and positive results on our society.”
“That brings me to the case at hand, The Village of Thimble Down vs. Mr. Dorro Fox Winderiver, for the charge of willful murder. I have been appointed as the Truth Finder to impartially weigh the evidence and make
a strong recommendation to our magistrate, who is none other than the Mayor. I have been watching this case for weeks and taking copious notes. And I have been forming opinions that I will share now. I will commend both solicitors for their cases, but ultimately I must make a decision. My word as a Truth Finder, despite the strong insinuations of Mr. Hamment Shugfoot, is that one Dorro Fox Winderiver is not guilty of willful, premeditated murder.”
The entire chamber at the Hanging Stoat gasped. Darwinna put her arm around Dorro and squeezed him hopefully.
“However, there was a death in this matter and it must be dealt with,” Grumbleoaf proceeded. “I have researched other cases along these lines and found very clear guidelines as to make my Truth be known to the court.”
“To that end, I recommend to the magistrate that Mr. Dorro is guilty of the following act, established in 1543: Non-Dastardly Murder without Intent, but Obviously a Certain Amount of Mutton-Headed Foolishness. This verdict has been used many times in Halfling courts in the past two-hundred and eighty years and quite successfully, too.”
Grumbleoaf pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose loudly.
“For those of you not versed in the law, which is found in the Codex Borgonian—the veritable bedrock of Halfling law—this means that the death of Dalbo Dall was a simple accident and should be sentenced more as a civil liability than a true crime. Thus, by the laws of Thimble Down, the defendant should be exiled for one year or pay a goodly fine. As historical precedent, I can safely report the fine was paid in one-hundred percent of verdicts and, in my opinion, more than covers the accidental death of Dalbo Dall. A nice stiff penalty of, say, twenty gold pieces, I should think, and then Mr. Dorro—who has done so much for this village and is a goodly soul in general—can put this behind him and move forward. Your Honor, that is the decree of the Truth Finder.”
Tiberius Grumble shut his giant book shut and ambled off to his seat. Neither Hamment Shugfoot nor Darwinna Thrashrack looked entirely pleased, as neither got entirely what they wanted. Yet it was clear to all that Grumbleoaf made a fair recommendation and no one would argue with it strenuously.
“Are there any other comments from the solicitors?” asked the Mayor, who wasn’t particularly satisfied either.
Slowly a figure rose from his seat and addressed the entire room.
“I would like to let everyone know how sorry I am. I really didn’t mean to hurt poor Dalbo. He was my friend.” Dorro looked like a beaten Halfling and had never been this low in his life. Throughout the room, tears were flowing amongst his friends, from the children to Mungo to Timmo to Nurse Pym. Forgo was simple mute with sadness. “I promise I will pay whatever fine you levy upon me, your Honor, and then do my best to be a good citizen again. And again—I am so sorry.”
The bookmaster sat back down in the silent courtroom and hush reigned throughout.
Crack!
“I must say, Mr. Winderiver, that we accept your apology,” continued the Mayor icily, setting the gavel down. “But you display a bit of cheek, offering to pay the fine without my final ruling. A bit of cheek, indeed!”
“Your Honor?” said Darwinna rising to her feet. “I second the motion of the Truth Finder. Dorro’s mistake has been well documented and a fine will allow him to, as Mr. Grumbleoaf said, put this all behind him.”
“I object!” Hamment Shugfoot shot to his feet and looked equally impassioned. “A fine of twenty gold coins might be applicable in normal circumstances, but Mr. Winderiver is a fellow of means and that amount is a mere trifling to him. Such a ruling would send the message that wealthy Thimble Downers can simply buy their way out of the law, while to an ordinary citizen, that amount would be crippling.”
The crowd rusted and groaned. They liked what Shugfoot was implying—the thought of the richest ones getting pinched harder was definitely appealing.
“But Dorro has given us the use of his library for free, as well as a school and other improvements to the village. Doesn’t that count for anything?” plead Darwinna.
Smack! The Mayor cracked his gavel again.
“That’s quite enough from both of you! I have made up my mind, based on all of the information you have proffered. And thus I impose this sentence on Mr. Winderiver. You will pay a fine of one hundred gold pieces.”
There were cries and gasps throughout the room.
“And that is not all, Winderiver,” said the Mayor. “You must also cede control of the library to a board of villagers selected by myself, or you shall be exiled to the prison colony of Fog Vale on the eastern frontier—for a period of one year. What say you?”
Along with everyone else in the room, Dorro was shocked. Dumbfounded even. Yet the bookmaster slowly stood up again. Darwinna looked at him imploringly, while Shugfoot gloated from the adjoining table. “Give up my library? Your Honor, this has been my family’s gift to the village of Thimble Down for generations. There is no way that I could do that in good conscience.”
“Moreover, a penalty of one hundred gold pieces would cripple me financially and leave nothing for my nephew. Why, I’d have to sell the Perch and move to a small burrow in Fell’s Corner.”
“You must do this, Winderiver! It’s really your own choice,” glowered the Mayor, his revenge was nearly complete. Off to the side, Osgood Thrip was relishing this triumph over the ever-vexing Dorro Fox Winderiver.
But something else entirely happened.
“Actually, you are wrong, your Honor,” said Dorro in a bolder, louder voice, his confidence growing by the second.
“I do have a choice and I would never forfeit my fortune, my library, or my home to your clutches. Nay, you shall never have them! Instead I, Dorro Fox Winderiver, hereby accept the punishment—that of one year’s exile to the East. And if I survive, I will return to this village and once again, you will find me to as your sworn enemy and foe. I accept your verdict with all my heart. And to all my friends, I will be back!”
The Halflings of Thimble Down could not be contained any more. They leapt from their seats, hundreds of them off, yelling and crying, stomping and laughing, and throwing any object they could find. Someone threw a pewter mug in the air and hit the Mayor square on the nose, making him to howl in pain and cause an enormous bruise (no one ever found out who heaved the cup, but some thought the culprit looked suspiciously like Mr. Timmo).
No matter how loud he roared, Forgo could not quell the rabble and, once the Hanging Stoat’s door was wrenched open, they spilled out onto the lanes of the village, like a dam bursting and releasing a torrent of angry flood waters.
Dorro, of course, dealt with the moment in the time-honored Winderiver manner. He rolled up his eyes and fainted dead away.
Goodbyes All Around
“I suppose that takes care of that.”
He snapped the lid of a rarely used leather valise shut and sighed. Dorro was puttering around the Perch, packing a few pieces of warm clothing, a pipe and a small supply of Old Nob, thick knee socks, and a pair of handmade walking shoes, crafted by Filbert & Co. on Winsome Lane not far from the library.
He didn’t know exactly what to expect in Fog Vale, but assumed it wouldn’t be a holiday—he expected a grueling, inhospitable environment.
A year on the eastern frontier. Oh dear. How did you get yourself into this one, Dorro?
He continued muttering to himself, trying to put on a brave face; inside, the bookmaster was terrified. The Mayor and Osgood Thrip had craftily railroaded him into either a choice between poverty or exile and, with his opting for the latter, were enjoying every second of his misery. Yet Dorro didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him suffer, hence the false bravado.
Elsewhere in the burrow, Wyll, Cheeryup, Bedminster Shoe and Mr. Timmo, along with Forgo and Darwinna Thrashrack, sat in the kitchen, nibbling on their lunches but not enjoying a bit of it. Dorro had wanted one last meal together, but it was a morose affair and after a while, he excused himself to finish packing. He couldn’t put off the
inevitable.
“That’s all done, everyone—I’ll be ready to go in a minute.” There were heaves of sadness around the room, but few words.
“Let’s go over the plan one more time, eh? Darwinna, you will be kept on retainer during my absence and serve as administrator of my estate. Forgo, you will witness this action and keep an eye on things. Mr. Timmo, you will be the legal guardian of Wyll for the next year and take up residence here. You too will be kept on a generous allowance to be paid out by Darwinna.”
“And lastly, Bedminster, you have the onerous task of running both the library and school—a big task, but I know you can do it.” The scribe smiled weakly, but nodded in agreement.
“If all goes well, I’ll be home next January and we can all start again. And in case of my untimely demise, Darwinna has my final will and testament, and will act accordingly. It’s all pretty straightforward. Any questions?”
“I don’t want you to go, Uncle Dorro!” cried Wyll, the tears already building in his eyes. “It’s not fair!”
“Fair or not, it’s the law, young man,” smiled Dorro. “Without laws, we’d still be primitive beasts hiding in mud holes, not civilized Halflings with an eye towards the future. In any case, children, I’ll be home before you can say ‘Bob’s yer uncle!’”
“We’ll get you home before January, Mr. Dorro,” added Cheeryup. “Wyll and I are already on the job and we will exonerate you, I promise.”
Dorro laughed and gave her gentle pat on the shoulders. “I wish that were true, but even our esteemed solicitor has been hoodwinked by the Mayor. I just hope that my case will help us Thimble Downers rewrite the laws, so that the magistrate doesn’t have so much power in sentencing.”
Bedminster Shoe jumped in, “Indeed, Mr. Dorro. I did quite a bit of research in recent weeks and have found numerous examples of other cultures’ criminal punishments. The dwarfs, as you know, merely put their guilty prisoners in leather bags and beat them with rocks and sticks—savages, I know.”
“Get to the point, Shoe!” snarled the impatient Sheriff.
“Don’t get testy, Forgo. In any case, yes, there are other methods that yield excellent results. Men-folk, in fact, use a device known as a ‘jury’—an assemblage of peers from a town or village—to decide on guilt or innocence. That seems rather wise to me, despite the fact they’re Men and not civilized like us.”
“After Dorro’s verdict, Bedminster, I’m not so sure how civil we really are,” murmured Timmo who hadn’t said much all day. “Still, Dorro, you can count on us to keep your nephew, home, and library in good shape.”
There were nods all around the table—the bookmaster suddenly realized what good friends he had.
“And if the Mayor or Thrip try to pull any nonsense while I’m gone, they’re going to meet my five little friends.” Sheriff Forgo smirked and held up one of his boulder-sized fists. “I’ve punched that rat of a Mayor in the face before and, y’know, I’d rather enjoy doing it again!”
There were half-hearted laughs around the room until Forgo stood up and everyone knew it was time. “Let’s make this fast, everyone—I don’t want to get my scarf wet with tears.”
Dorro hastily worked his way around the table, giving everyone a hug or a firm handshake. He saved his biggest and best squeezes for Wyll and Cheeryup, who cried enough for everyone, but said nothing. “That should do it, then. Ta to you all, and I’ll be back before you know it!”
Without looking back, he stepped through the doorway and was gone.
The Long Ride
Sheriff Forgo planned to get Dorro and Amos Pinchbottle out of Thimble Down without much fanfare. Instead of parading through the center of town, he made the two lie in a dogcart covered with a musty tarp. Forgo took a longer route, using several meandering cow paths that led to the Old Nob Road and headed to the South and East.
The bookmaster wasn’t pleased with the smelly tarp or being shackled to a hard wagon bed, but it was better than riding down the High Street to the jeers, hoots, and stares of his fellow villagers. It would be worse to run into the Mayor or Osgood Thrip and be on the receiving end of their smug glances.
Unless we actually ran them over, thought Dorro wistfully.
Once Forgo pulled off the main road and onto a path, he motioned for Deputy Gadget to remove the cover, allowing the prisoners to sit up. It was chilly, but the wind had dropped and the sun shone between high clouds on this otherwise calm Winter afternoon. Dorro was trying to keep a positive attitude, but knew he was really in some sort of shock; at some point, the full weight of his present condition would reveal itself and bring forth a cloud of depression. Almost in defiance, he tried to enjoy the sight of snowy pastures, graceful hedgerows with cardinals, sparrows, and finches flitting in and out and in the distance, a procession of rolling, pale blue hills marching towards the south.
“Sheriff, I never asked before, but how are Amos and I getting to the eastern frontier? It must be over a hundred miles away. I don’t assume you’re taking us the whole way.”
“That, I am not. No, we’re making for the great crossroads between Thimble Down and Nob and, for that matter, we ain’t the only ones. This day is marked on all our calendars as a mighty important one.”
“It’s the day of the Long Ride, when all exiled prisoners from all the Halfling villages are transported to Fog Vale. We meet at the crossroads where a few bounty hunters take the gang to their final destination. T’ain’t a happy day, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve lived in Thimble Down my whole life—yet never heard of the Long Ride.”
“Oh, I ‘eard of the Long Ride many a-time,” laughed Amos Pinchbottle. “But then again, my type would!”
“It’s not something we boast about,” said Forgo, ignoring Amos. “No one likes talking about prisoners or, to be sure, our penal camps. The Mayor has always told me to keep it quiet, and so have other mayors in Nob, Upper-Down, and the like. We’re comin’ up on the crossroads right now, so pipe down.”
Dorro craned his head left and caught a glimpse of ponies, riders, and wagons ahead. It didn’t look like a happy assemblage and at last the bookmaster felt a shiver of what was about to befall him. Soon enough, they’d arrived and, as he’d thought, this group was not a festive one. The faces on these Halflings were grim; the ones on ponies, Dorro assumed, were the local constabulary, while each wagon carried a prisoner or two, all looking sullen. Except for two.
“H’ullo cousin of ours! How ye be?” Dorro spied two prisoners grinning and waving in their direction.
“Thar be Woodsy and Barker!” gigged Amos, who seemed to be having a grand time, as if he were about to go on a jaunt to the seaside. Dorro assumed he’d been on this side of the law many times before and wasn’t as troubled as the bookmaster; he could learn something from the fellow, perhaps. “Sheriff! Can I sit with me cousins on the road goin’ East? We got some catchin’ up to do!”
“Shut it, Pinchbottle! You’ll sit where they put you in, you damnable fool.”
The scoundrel jutted out his bottom lip as if he were merely a tyke who’d been cuffed on bottom, instead of a full-grown Halfling with a healthy criminal past. The more this circus carried on, the more amazed Dorro became.
“Good day, Sheriff Forgo—glad you’re on time.” A beefy lawman rode up on his brown-and-white bog pony. “You have two for our little party, correct?”
“That’s right, McGinty. I think you know one of our guests—Mr. Pinchbottle.”
“Indeed I do, Forgo. I recognize that other one, too, but don’t know his name. Don’t really matter—they’re all going on the Long Ride and deservedly so.”
Forgo and Gadget leapt from the dogcart and began the process of transferring the prisoners. He didn’t look Dorro in the eyes much; clearly, this was painful for him and felt no uncertain amount of guilt. In any other situation, the Sheriff would have defended his friend to the death, but as they both knew, the law was incontrovertible.
The various sheriffs and con
stables discussed protocols while deputies moved prisoners a large covered wagon drawn by stout mules. Each prisoner was pushed onboard, chained to a bench, and given a dirty cushion to sit or sleep on, however they saw fit.
It was at this moment that reality began to set in for Dorro and, as he was locked into his manacles, he dropped his head in profound sadness. The moment of reckoning came as Constable McGinty rode up and spoke to the prisoners through the back of the wagon.
“Listen up, you scofflaws! You’re about to go on a journey and, for most of you, it will be the most unfortunate one of your life. The Eastern frontier is the destination, more specifically a colony called Fog Vale where you will wait out the remainder of your terms. The Vale is something a pleasure resort … without the pleasure. You could even say it’s yer last resort!”
The lawman laughed cruelly at the pun, probably the same one he delivered every year. “You will live and work in Fog Vale as hard as you ever have in your life; laziness will be met with the lash and hard work will be rewarded with extra food and privileges. I suggest you pursue the latter.”
“This work camp is in a deep, secluded valley, surrounded by mountains and hazardous terrain, but don’t even think of escaping. If you think you’re tough enough to try, no one will stop you, as there ain’t no chains or cells in the colony. That’s because the surrounding hills are teeming with goblins and other fell beasts, some of which we don’t even have names for yet. If you escape and are captured by the orkus, you’d best hope for a quick death. Har!”
Constable McGinty loved his work. He had a solid reputation, but still felt a little sadistic glee when describing the prison camp. Dorro disliked McGinty instantly.
“I want to introduce you to your hosts for this fine journey: Bullock, Salty, and Hammersmith.” Three nasty looking Halflings stepped into the prisoners’ line of vision and they couldn’t have been any coarser.
“These fellers will be your guardians for the entire journey. They are experienced bounty hunters and guards, both rounding up criminals or occasionally taking a little silver to deliver you rogues to the Vale.”
“Although they look as sweet as spring lambs, I assure you they not. Mess with them at your own peril; they are permitted to you whatever means they like in subduing unruly passengers, and that includes mortal force. I really don’t care if they beat you or slap you or kill you. I just want you out of our fair villages. If you come back in a year or two, I’ll expect you to be gentler, fairer folk, less prone to giving us trouble.
McGinty paused to pull a briar pipe out of his jacket, lighting it the cold January air and taking a puff or two.
“That said, not many do come back. Some move on to other Halfling settlements, while others, strangely enough actually prefer the freedom out there and start their own frontier colonies. And a fair number have the good manners to die and save us the problem of having to arrest ‘em again in the future. If you do die, I can assure you that myself, nor any of my colleagues, will miss you. With that, I bid you good day, gentlemen—and you too, ladies” (for indeed, there were two or three female criminals in their wagon).
There was a crack of a whip and the snorting of animals. The wagon lurched and began wobbly down the snowy track towards the east. Dorro was frozen in his seat, unable to comprehend what was really going on; he lifted his head and peered out the back flap of the wagon. In the growing distance, he saw Sheriff Forgo standing alone on the crossroads, his pony Tom nudging him for a bucket of oats.
The bookmaster knew he was beyond all help.
Rotten Cabbage and Beets
For the next hour, the only sounds heard within the Perch were those of Wyll and Cheeryup sobbing. Both had fled to empty bedrooms in the rear and flung themselves on the covers, sobbing piteously while Timmo and Bedminster Shoe ironed out details of running Dorro’s house and library in his absence.
Wyll eventually tired of weeping and decided to see where his friend was. She was in the spare bedroom, looking at the ceiling blankly. “What you doin’?” he asked.
“Same as you, silly. Being angry, sad, and bored.”
“We can’t just sit here and be miserable. Let’s do something.”
“I think you’re right, Wyll. I probably should say that more often, but you are right most of the time.”
Wyll stood a little taller as Cheeryup didn’t hand out compliments very often; only when she really meant it. It wasn’t always easy having an astonishingly intelligent friend, so when she said something nice about him, it felt wonderful. “So what do you want to do—find Minty?”
“Bang on, Wyll! That’s exactly the right move. The only question is where we’d find him at this time of day. He could be anywhere,” said the yellow-haired slip of a girl, tying up her worn leather boots. “But we’ll never find him sitting here—let’s go!”
They bolted for the front door, only to be halted by Mr. Timmo. “Let’s start on the right foot, children. If I’m going to be Wyll’s guardian, I need to know where you’re trekking to and with whom. So where are you off to, hmmm?”
“We’re off to find clues to help spring Mr. Dorro,” blurted Wyll.
Cheeryup rolled her eyes. “We’ve launched an inquiry of our own and think it may pay dividends soon. We’re off to interview our primary subject, a certain Mr. Pinter. We think he has valuable information about Dalbo.”
“Minty?” jested Timmo, with Bedminster Shoe behind him. “He’s probably halfway through a bottle of honeygrass by now, but certainly, anything to help Mr. Dorro.”
“We just don’t know where he is. Mr. Minty could be anywhere in the village.”
“I can help you here, lad. He’s in the library,” noted the scribe. “The place is closed today, but he begged if he could go do some mysterious ‘research.’ Seriously, Minty Pinter doing research—can you imagine? It’s almost comical, but he seemed desperate, so gave him my key. You’ll find him there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shoe!” Cheeryup shocked the staid Halfling by giving him a hug and running out the door, followed by her friend.
“My word!” sniffed a flustered Bedminster. “Have you ever?”
