by Pete Prown
* * *
June 16, 1668, A.B.
On the Matter
of the Heartwood
By Prof. Crastus Beckett,
Department of Natural Philosophies,
College of St. Borgo
I have continued my work on the matter of the Heartwood throughout the Winter and Spring, journeying twice to the environs of the Great Wood, near Thimble Down, a Small, but Lively hamlet to our south and west.
This time, however, I made quite a Breakthrough, as I have actually found and spoken to a true Heartwood myself. This has been corroborated by my colleague, Prof. Petula Tumnutch, also of the university, who traveled with me. She is quite interested in this area of Intellectual Curiosity.
The Heartwood I met was quite Elusive. It took me many Months just to find his Name and, even then, he was Reluctant to speak—and for Good Reason, as it turned out.
The Halfling in question is thought by Many in Thimble Down to be nothing more than the village Drunkard. He’s a wee chap with a Pointy, Squinty face, floppy Hat, and deeply Wrinkled skin. In fact, it looks like Tree Bark itself.
Through many Inquiries, I finally found him and, even then, he would not talk, not until I began to Procure him unhealthy Quantities of whiskey and ale. Finally, after Many Evenings of liberal Libation, he took me into his Confidence and told me Wondrous things.
(Though I was dubious at first of his methods, he advised that the strong Spirits helped him maintain his Halfling form, plus they made his nose feel all bubbly and tickly.)
The role of the Heartwood is, simply put, to act as Guardian of the Great Wood and all Trees within the Halfling Kingdoms. Furthermore, he speaks with all Living Things in the Wood and they Respond, be it Fish, Tree, or Reptile. He talks to Birds almost daily, he added, and says he counts a few Owls and Nuthatches among his dearest friends.
It sounds Preposterous, but the more time I spent with this strange Fellow, the more inclined I am to Regard his comments as genuine. Pray, let me continue.
I hired this odd Thimble Downer to give me a Tour of the Great Wood at additional Expense, as well as provide a wineskin that he could sip as we Perambulated. I asked many questions, subtly trying to find out about his Birth or Place of Origin. When the Halfling could not tell me Where or Whence he was born, I pressed him further, to which he admitted that he was Born of the Forest, his mother an Alder tree and father a Heartwood like himself. I laughed at first, but He grew irritated with me.
From his belt, the fellow produced a knife—at first, I thought he was to attack myself and Tumnutch, but instead he Inflicted a Grievous Gash upon his own arm. I feared the Gent would bleed out and Die in our Presence.
Instead, he showed me the Wound, which resembled Nothing More than a jagged cut upon Tree Bark. He allowed me to use the Blade to further probe the wound and, as I can Honestly Attest, there was no Blood or Tissue to be found. I inquired how a Halfling could not have Blood, to which he laughed and replied in a crude vernacular, “That’s simple, Big Nose—I ain’t no Halfling!”
I also asked him, “How old are You, sir?” to Which he replied, “At least Three Hunn’erd Years old, though probably more.”
I was Stunned, to say the Least, but Then Prompted him to on the simple question of Mortality — “Can you die, sir? Or be chopped Down like a Tree?”
This seemed to Amuse the queer little fellow, as he became overcome with fits of laughter at my Expense.
“No, of course not, ye fool,” he cackled. “We can only leave the Wide Green Open”—his name, mind you, for the land we live upon—“by way of lightning strike, fungus or most dreaded of all, Root Rot.”
I jest not.
Thinking we thought him a Prankster, he bade me to Again take his Blade and Impale him in the Midriff. I was reluctant, but Petula took the initiative and Jabbed him fiercely. Her knife merely protruded from the Heartwood’s body as if Stuck in the Side of a fence, the creature laughing gaily at our Folly.
He added that neither blade nor arrow could pierce him, though he did not like Fire, nor Smoke. He said they made him Itchy.
As the little Heartwood made ready to Depart, I begged him to share with us his name. He smiled warmly and said he was known by many names by many folk—be they Halfling, tree, animal or fish.
“To your Kind, however, most know me as Mr. Dalbo.”
Then with a wink, he disappeared into a Large Bank of Shrubbery and, Lo, he was Gone.
That is my Tale and I stand by it. If you doubt my account, please discuss the matter with Prof. Tumnutch. Everything I have Written here is True and I swear by Every Word.
—Prof. Cras. Beckett
College of St. Borgo
* * *
Timmo drew in a deep breath; his mind was reeling in a dozen different directions. Then he made a rare impulsive decision.
“Children, let us grab some shovels and find Minty Pinter. Immediately!”
The three ran out of the metalsmithery and flew down the lane towards town.
