by Pete Prown
* * *
August 4, 1496 A.B.
My dearest Professor Hornswaddle,
I am Responding to thy letter from earlier in Spring regarding the rituals of our Folk, all of which you are Compiling for a treatise on Halfling culture and lore.
I find it a Compelling topic myself and have touched upon it in my various Philosophical Lectures in our small village of Thimble Down. One ritual in particular catches my thoughts and I wonder if perhaps you might find it of Interest.
I am referring to a strange act that happens in High Summer, when the air grows Thicke and Warm, and the tiny insects and denizens of our earth make an enormous Racket in the trees, grass, and fields.
During these uncomfortable nights, Thimble Downers do a Curious thing—they commune in the Middle of the Night near our woodlands, which we know as The Great Woode.
On the edge of that fine Bosque sits an enormous elm tree, which local folke call The Meeting Tree. It is a very fine Specimen with a grand canopy and a trunk that measures at least one entire Rod, or perhaps three full Fathoms in circumference. It is a mighty tree, I can assure you.
On certain nights of High Summer, Halflings from the village congregate at this tree. Young or old, gentleman or lady, wealthy or low-born, it makes no difference. Folke arrive around Midnight and spend hours in the grand presence of The Meeting Tree. Some sing, talk quietly to the leafy beast, or just stare at its massive branches and form.
Others wrap their arms around its Trunk and squeeze as if a beloved child. Wee bairns are brought there for blessings and the elderly crave a final visit before they Pass from this Life. In happy times and sad, this is where Halflings come.
We have one foolish Fellow in the village who has anointed himself Keeper of The Meeting Tree and he verily dances around the trunk and utters Mad Incantations at these occurrences. We titter at him, yet let him Continue his wilde, but Delightful ways—we never Interfere with one’s own Jocularity in Thimble Down.
I know this sounds Daft, but though I am without fact, I do feel that The Meeting Tree somehow draws the villagers to its bower on these Warm Nights. It is calling to them and they are summoned from their soft mattresses to sit in the grass for All of a Sticky Summer’s night.
Then, an hour ’ere come the Dawn, they quietly get up and amble Home for a few more ticks of gentle Slumber. Can you explain that, Professor? Methinks if anyone has the cranial capacity to solve this riddle, it would be you.
That is all I have Time to relay at this point, but I do look forward to continuing our Correspondence. I am only Too Pleased to share the interesting and oft Strange Ways of our Halfling folk. Looking forward to your Reply.
Yours in scholarly pursuit,
—Master Cardoon Middles
Tutor, Village of Thimble Down
Post Script: Not that this is entirely relevant, Prof. Hornswaddle, but I neglected to mention that The Meeting Tree is, on occasion, also called “the heartwood” by various folks within our small hamlet. For that, however, I cannot provide a Reason. But it remains a persistent thought in my mind—
Heartwood of what, I ask?
The Overseer
Dorro and the rest of the prisoners were standing in a bank of fog as thick as Hammersmith’s chubby neck. He watched as the bounty hunters rode off, leaving them alone, hungry, and cold—and completely baffled. The next thing they heard only made it worse.
Grrrrrr! Grrrrrrrr! Rarrarararrr!
The bookmaster felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the sound of ferocious animals came at them from every direction, but they couldn’t see anything.
Is this how it’s going to end. His mind spun frantically. We’re to be torn to bits by savage beasts. There was probably no penal farm anyway—just a place of execution far from home.
Dorro dropped to an instinctive crouch and hid his face in his hands, waiting for the inevitable doom. The growling became louder by the second until it seemed they were surrounded.
Yet—there was no attack.
The bookmaster looked up, directly into the maw of a vicious dog. Indeed, there were snarling hounds all around the group, lunging at the weak, but held by chain leashes, several brutish Halflings behind them.
“Welcome to Fog Vale!” crowed one of the handlers. “I’m hoping one of you lot is foolish enough to make a run for it, because me dogs ain’t been fed yet today and they could use a good meal. Come on—I dares ya. Har!”
The prisoners cowered from the terrifying hounds, some whimpering and crying even. As if on cue, a young inmate decided to take his chances. He was a fit and wily sneak-thief from some distant village. In a blink, the lad disappeared into the fog, running at full tilt to freedom. Dorro could hear his fleet footsteps disappearing into the distance.
“Well, ain’t that precious,” said the handler, biding his time.
“That one heeded me advice and scarpered back up the trail. Big mistake, chum. The ones ‘o you that will survive your term in Fog Vale will do exactly what you’re told and when. But that one, his day is done. Jawbreaker! Get ‘im, boy!”
He dropped the chain he was holding and let his savage black mastiff bolt away; Dorro closed his eyes in terror as he knew something bad was about to happen. Moments later, there was a horrible scream in the distance, followed by the sound of animal violence and shrieks for help. Then silence.
“Awright boys, let ‘em all go! Feedin’ time for the hounds!” The muscled dogs rushed off into the gray misty wall; in distance, Dorro could hear them fighting other over bone and gristle.
“My name is Barnacle and I am second-in-command of the prison farm at Fog Vale. There are only about twenty of us in management and mebbe eighty of you lot. And here’s how it goes: we give commands and you do what we say. If you don’t, you can make a break for it and end up like the feller my darlings are dining on right now. We don’t feed ‘em much, but that makes the hounds more attentive to prisoners that don’t follow rules. Any questions, my pets?”
One older inmate raised his hand. “Where exactly is we? I ain’t never seen no Fog Vale on any map.”
“Good question, Grandfather,” Barnacle continued in his rough, uneducated manner.
“You are about a hunnerd and fitty miles from anywhere, at the foothills of the Grey Mountains. But instead of up, we’re down. Fog Vale is a small valley at the base of the first hills, cut over thousands of years by the river you can hear in the distance. At one point, the river filled this whole valley, but over time, is now just a trickle of what it was.”
“On the brighter side, it left about two hunnerd acres of good soil and that’s what we run the farm on. There ain’t no trade here; this is hard dirt farming and we only eat what you prisoners can grow in the fields and gardens, plus our small herds of pigs and cows and a little wild game and fish we catch in traps ‘n’ weirs. But if you don’t grow nuttin’, you don’t eat—and you die. Simple at that. Next question?”
Dorro raised his hand.
“The bounty hunters said there are goblins in these hills. Is that true?”
“Oh, it’s true, me beauty,” croaked the boss. “These festering hills and forests are fairly teemin’ with the beasties. They creep all around here, lookin’ for ways to steal our food ‘n’ ponies, or capture a prisoner or two.”
“We keep a constant guard; we have to because them lot is relentless. They even call to us in our own Halfling tongue, trickin’ us into believing that one of our own has been captured in the forest. But whoever is dim enough to follow those voices don’t come back. They are nefarious and smarter than they look. I doubt many of you have seen an Eastern mountain orkus up close and proper. Gives me a fright to think about it.”
“Actually, I’ve seen many goblins up close,” mumbled Dorro before he could shut himself up.
“You have?” asked Barnacle. “I don’t believe it—a prim thing like you?”
Growing irritated, Dorro took the bait. “Yes, I have extensive experience with the genu
s Orkulum. I’ve studied them for years and even spoken to one or two. And my village was attacked by a full goblin army last fall and we fought them off!”
“Hear that, boys? This feller says he talks to goblins! What a loon!” All the brutes began howling. “Say feller, do you talk to fairies and sprites, too? You’ve got some imagination.”
“Do I?” snapped Dorro indignantly. “If so, how do I know that a mountain goblin stands only an inch or two taller than we do; is heavily muscled with long arms and short legs; and has a grotesque lumpen head and warty gray, green, black or grey skin? Kind of like you, actually!”
The bookmaster cursed his own biting tongue; he was in for a beating now. But the insult only made Barnacle laugh harder.
“Actually, Missy, you ain’t far from the mark! Maybe you do have some experience with our throat-slitting friends. That might come in handy down the road, after of course, we beat some sense into you. Handy indeed!”
“Now, you lot will follow me good pal Hodgepodge back towards the huts for some food and clothes. As much as we’d like to feed you to the dogs, we need you to work the farm, run patrols ‘round the fields, and make vittles for ourselves and the Overseer, who I believe is approaching even as we speak”
“Thanks for the kind introduction, Mr. Barnacle,” said a new voice approaching from the void. It was sly, rasping, and menacing and suddenly, the hairs on the back of Dorro’s neck shot up.
I know that voice! Where have I heard it before ….
Suddenly, he froze. The bookmaster knew exactly who was coming towards them. It was a Halfling who once had tried to kill him—and indeed, very nearly succeeded.
A Prickly Thistle
It was a Tuesday morning in Thimble Down and Sheriff Forgo was as pleased as punch. Not one half hour earlier, his secret cadre of Darwinna, Grumbleoaf, Timmo and Bedminster Shoe had slyly met at the library to hammer out a plan.
“Do you think it will work?” fretted Mr. Shoe. “This isn’t my bailiwick, but it seems plausible, I suppose.”
“Oh, it’ll work!” said the Sheriff. “This’ll hit ‘em where it hurts.”
“Better yet,” added Darwinna Thrashrack, looking quite comely in a light-blue cape matched with a pale yellow scarf, “it’s entirely legal. We can’t break the law to get our Dorro back, but we can send the Mayor and that odious Osgood Thrip a clear and blunt message.”
“Don’t forget our esteemed colleague, my dear,” chortled Tiberius Grumbleoaf. “Granted, Hamment Shugfoot is our friend, but he knew the Mayor was overreaching in his authority to exile Dorro and could have publicly said so. No, my dear, I fear Hamment is in league with the Mayor and Mr. Thrip.”
“I had the same thought, Tiberius,” said the lady solicitor. “And I don’t like it. Yet Hamment isn’t without his charms; if only he wasn’t so dashed handsome!”
Grumbleoaf coughed. “His charms are lost on me, Darwinna, but if you say so.”
The big Halfling cracked open his leather tome and began scribbling away, as was his wont.
“What should I do, Sheriff?” asked Timmo. “I fear my role is a rather small one.”
“Poo on that, Timmo me boy!,” croaked Forgo. “Why, you know half the village. First I want you to go have a chat with Mr. Mungo and Edythe and fill them in on the plan. Then fan out across the High Street and discretely give our message to anyone you know. It’ll filter across the town before nuncheon and, by supper, Thrip’s head will be on fire!”
They all laughed, shook hands, and with a few nods and winks, the cadre adjourned and went their separate ways.
