by Peter Plasse
Saviar Murlis, former Personal Advisor to the now-deceased Emperor of the Gnome nation of Vultura, suddenly resented every moment he had ever spent away from them.
Miano, his six-year old boy, and Fabindora, his five-year old girl, disentangled themselves from his legs and stood. Jori, his two-year old boy, had wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck in an embrace that he was clearly not going to surrender. Saviar managed to stand, with little Jori hanging on for dear life, and made his way to the bedroom where he flung the toddler onto the bed and jumped on top of him. They rolled about for a few minutes while Saviar tickled and kissed him on the neck, making loud fart noises that caused him to howl with delight. Miano and Fabindora joined in the fray, and within seconds everyone was laughing and rolling all about. “My innocent children,” he thought. “The kingdom is lost. Our city is in ruins. The Emperor has been murdered, and yet here we are … ”
In a couple of minutes the energetic display had settled down, and they were all merely holding each other.
“Daddy,” said Miano, “what’s going to happen to us? Mommy says that the Trolls killed Emperor Night. Did they really?”
Saviar thought for a moment and then said, “We’re going to be all right. Yes. The Trolls killed Emperor Night. That was terribly wrong of them. That was a very, very bad thing.”
“I hate them,” said Miano. “I really liked Emperor Night. He was always nice to us. Why did they have to kill him?”
“Yes, Father,” chimed in Fabindora. “Why did they have to kill him? He was nice. Why would they kill such a nice Gnome?”
Saviar sat up on the bed, leaning his back up against the headboard. His children all battled for a position on his lap. All somehow won.
“Well,” he said slowly, “it’s like this. The Trolls are not like us. They have different rules. But they have taken over our country now, and we have to do what they want, or else. Our lives are not ours any more. We kind of, like, belong to them, and so they can tell us what to do, any time they want, and we have to do it. It’s awful, but that’s the way it is, and for right now, we can’t change it.”
Kerlix entered the bedroom and waited until the conversation hit a lull, then ordered the kids away to clean up for dinner. They protested mightily of course, but headed towards the washroom with Miano and Fabindora swinging Jori between them like a monkey.
“How are you holding up?” Saviar asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she said. “You’re home, and that tells me something big is going on,” adding, “aside from the murder of our Emperor and the beginning of the end of our country, that is.”
“Yes,” he said. “Things are going quickly from bad to worse. How did you hear that Hanz was killed?”
He moved over to the closet and started to change out of his work clothes.
“Punjon came over a little while ago and told us,” she said. “You know how she is. They have no children … so she … well, she blurted it out before I could stop her is what happened. She is such a dolt. Anyway, the kids were hiding around the corner and heard everything. I wish they hadn’t.”
He crossed back over to her side of the room and put his arms around her. “I know what you’re saying, but perhaps it is better that they do know. We are in for some very rough times, assuming we survive the night. And now, with Hanz gone, our chances of mounting any sort of organized, grassroots resistance effort are essentially zero in our lifetime, but maybe someday … ”
“Saviar?”
“Yes dear?”
“What will happen to you?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That,” he said, “I cannot say with any certainty. You remember I said to you in the castle that there is, in the final analysis, a government to run, and one would have to think the Trolls would benefit most by having our political machine intact to keep things running, being as it would be the most efficient way to serve their ends. So I can’t think they would do away with all of us. But, I will confess, I came home thinking that if I had one night left, I wanted to spend it with you and the kids. The Old One knows I’ve spent enough time away from you over the years. Who knows?”
He threw up his hands in frustration.
“Well, maybe you could talk to Loquitar Coral. You know, convince him of the necessity of keeping the political machine running. Owners, after all, want their slaves alive, if not happy. The slaves die, and the owners are left to fend for themselves. What they want is our raw materials. Keeping the government apparatus in place is the best way to keep production up and the flow of the goods steady. Surely they must know that.”
“True enough,” he said. “But the problem with that line of reasoning is that it is rational, and I think back to something that Hanz said when we were dealing with a foundry owner down by King’s Port. The fellow was clearly out of his mind, and when we were discussing how to deal with him on our way back, I remember Hanz saying, ‘You can’t deal with an irrational mind in rational terms.’ I’m afraid that’s what applies here. Loquitar Coral is irrational, and to therefore expect rational discourse with him doesn’t apply.”
She moved towards the bedroom door, saying, “So be it. We will live for tonight. If it is to be our last together, we will live it as a family. Come now, wash up and we will eat.”
The sun rose lazily over the village of Kohansk. It being early spring, the village Gnomes were all still inside. Nobody got up much before 9:00 this time of year, as it was too cold to accomplish anything before then. Certainly nobody was outside. Ubri Gall, eight years old, was up, though. He was playing with one of the household cats under the kitchen table. He was using a spool of thread, which he had tied to a string, and was casting it out from his hideout. Every time he did, the cat would pounce on it and he would reel him back in. He repeated this several times, each time giving him more pleasure than the last. He heard his mother, Isandora, get up, and he stopped the game, feigning sleep. She moved to the kitchen table and peeked under it, smiling. “Hey there,” she said, “I know you’re awake. You shouldn’t try to trick your mother. She’ll catch you every time. Come on now. Help me to get breakfast ready for your father. Stir the coals in the firepit.”
Ubri opened one eye and stared at her, rolling it all around. She burst out laughing and reached under the table, hauling him out and up into her arms. “Oh, now that there is work to be done, you’re too tired, is that it?”
He hugged her with all his might. She set him back down, and he went to his appointed chore. For his entire young life, this kitchen had been his world. He loved the smells. He loved the sounds the huge spoons made as they clicked and clacked against the walls of the pots that his mother stirred while preparing the stews, the batters, and the soups. But mostly he loved it because it meant he could be with his mother. It meant everything to him to be her helper, and this was his favorite time of the year, before the guests arrived and his world was invaded by the extra kitchen help required to meet the needs of their establishment.
His father, Andar Gall, and his mother had taken a big chance before he was born by purchasing a rundown building in the center of Kohansk from an elderly Gnome named Eramotis Fith. They knew at the time that it would be years of struggle before they had any chance of making it what they hoped: A successful inn. But they had thrown themselves into their dream with that perfect combination of reckless abandon and all of the enthusiasm of a young couple in love with a vision. The only two things they had known when they had started out were that the structure itself was basically sound, and the location was ideal. Nobody else in town had thought so, except Eramotis Fith. Kohansk, at the time of the purchase, was a sleepy little village with barely enough of a population to keep itself going, but Emperor Night had already started cutting a road straight to King’s Port, and Eramotis had convinced them it was only a question of time before commerce began in earnest between King’s Port, Pyrrt, Kohansk, Soledad, Emperor’s Glen, Rattan, and the capital city of Vultur
a itself. This meant, of course, that the road would eventually be filled with merchants, and those merchants would need a place to stay and food to eat on their travels. And because the merchants were the ones that had the money, they knew if they provided a clean, well-kept place, served good food, and charged a fair price, they could do well.
So, over the years they had worked long hard hours building it up, and their dream was coming true. Each year had been better than the last. Now, every person in the village either worked for them or had a relative who worked for them, and Andar and Isandora Gall enjoyed the elevation in social status that goes with owning a successful business. He presided over the town council, she the education board. They were part of every happening in their town, from the childhood sporting events, to seeing that the local cemetery got mowed regularly. Theirs was a busy life, a work-a-day life. It was a good life.
Her thoughts drifted while she stirred the batter with which she would make her husband’s pancakes, his favorite. There was almost too much to be done in preparation for what would surely be their most busy season. Far too cold yet for the arrival of guests, they had time on their side, but the list of things that needed to get done was getting longer every day!
“Ubri, would you please cut me a slab of bacon?” she asked. He loved her voice. It was sweet and kind. When she spoke to him it made him feel like he was the most important Gnome in the whole of Vultura. In fact, sometimes when she spoke to him he welled up, her voice moved him so, although he would never admit that. That would be girly.
“Sure, Mom,” he said, and went out the door to the root cellar. The sun was fairly high on the horizon now, and the moons had gone to bed for the night; even so, he was miserably cold when he came back in.
“Are you all right?” she asked, rubbing his arms. “My goodness, I didn’t realize it was so cold, yet. Come. Stand here by the fire and warm up.”
Andar Gall entered the kitchen and Ubri rushed to greet him, almost bowling him over.
Andar carried him back and plunked him in his seat at the table. “You know, you’re getting way too big for me to carry any more. How tall do you think you are now? Six feet?”
Ubri laughed.
“Say, listen here,” he said. “We have a big day ahead of us. Today we have to journey to the woods. We can continue your lessons in wild plants.”
Ubri was suspicious right away. There was no way his father was going to waste an entire day teaching him about woodland plants. “Why are we really going?” he asked.
Andar laughed. “You don’t miss a thing, do you, boy? Okay, you got me. We’re going for wood. We need to bring back a wagon load, and as much Burnfast as we can find. Old Gnome Boddywick told me of a big patch of it down by Stanley Ridge. Do you think you can hitch up the wagon by yourself?”
“Of course I can, Father. I’ll do it right now.”
He jumped up and made for the door.
“Whoa there, boy,” his father said. “Slow down and eat your breakfast. Besides, it needs to warm up a bit. I can’t lose my favorite helper to the cold, now can I?”
Ubri returned to his seat and Andar roughed him around the head. “You’re a good boy, Ubri. This will be a day we will remember forever.”
During breakfast, Isandora asked if they would like to take Ubri’s friend, Bramwith, with them. Andar wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know,” he said.
Ubri suddenly looked sad.
“No, Ubri,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t like Bramwith. He’s basically a good boy. But his father has problems. Serious problems. It’s hard for me to go to his place, that’s all. Every time I do there seems to be some sort of ‘incident’.”
“That’s because he drinks too much,” said Ubri.
“Ubri!” cried Isandora, “Where did you ever learn such a thing? Not from us, you didn’t.”
“He does, Mama,” he said. “Spirits. That’s what he drinks. Spirits. It makes him crazy.”
“Now where did you ever learn about spirits?” asked Andar.
“You know,” said Ubri, “Around. It’s not like I’m a kid.”
After breakfast they hitched the team of bulls to the wagon and set off. Bumping along the roadway, Ubri asked, “Father, can we please ask his father if Bram can go? He would really like it, and besides, he could help us a lot. He’s a good worker. Please, Father?”
“As I said, Ubri, the problem is not Bramwith. The problem is his father and his problem.”
“The spirits.”
“Yes, son. The spirits.” He chuckled under his breath. Oh well, he was bound to learn of these things eventually, but he was somewhat surprised that he had learned it at such an early age. Kids today. They grew up a lot faster than he had, that’s for sure.
The bulls plodded along and they rode in silence, basking in the warm midmorning sunshine. The ground was starting to get some green to it and the buds were starting to peek from the branches of the trees along the roadside. Andar took a deep breath through his nose.
“Can you smell it?” he asked.
Ubri took the same breath and asked, “Smell what, Father?”
“Spring, son. You can smell it. It’s the most beautiful smell on Inam'Ra. The sweet smell of the countryside coming to life.”
Ubri repeated the breath. “I can smell it, Father. I can.”
“Of course you can, Ubri. Isn’t it the best of smells?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What, then, is a better smell than that?”
“Everything Mama cooks is a better smell.”
They both laughed. “Well, you may have me there.”
Ubri was delighted when his father pulled the wagon up short at Bramwith’s house. It was a severely neglected homestead, with the paint peeling badly, missing shutters, and a roof badly in need of repair. Andar looked about the yard and was further saddened at the junk scattered all about: broken wagons with missing wheels, a plow left in the ground, the blade rusting badly and the leather harness left to the elements, now rotting in the sun, and all sorts of unrecognizable debris.
Ubri seemed to not notice and hopped across the yard, looking forward to seeing his friend and asking permission for him to come with them. He made it to the porch and had to jump up to the deck because the stairs had all rotted out. He knocked on the door, then cocked his head when he heard the screaming.
“You rotten little boy,” came the yell from inside. Then he heard several whacks with what he figured must be a belt or whip or something. “Don’t you ever talk back to me when I tell you to do something. When I tell you to do something, I mean do it now, with no backtalk. Do you understand me?” Again the sounds of the whipping began, and Ubri could hear his friend crying out in agony and fear.
“Father!” cried Ubri. “Please come quickly. Father!”
Ubri’s cries were undoubtedly heard inside, because the sounds of the whipping stopped, and he heard Bram’s father call out, “Who’s out there? Who said that?” He appeared at the doorway just as Andar made it up onto the porch. Andar rolled his eyes as if to say, “I told you this was a bad idea.” Still, he knew it was probably best that they had stopped, from the sounds of it.
Bram’s father looked the picture of someone who has been drinking heavily all night. His clothes were filthy and disheveled. His eyes were bloodshot. His breath was disgusting. He leaned on the door in a manner that suggested he needed it to keep himself upright and croaked, “Ubri. What do you want? Go home now. Bram can’t play today. Go home.”
He slammed it hard, locked it, and walked a few steps away. Andar stepped forward, gently sweeping Ubri out of the way. “Ansten,” he said, in a loud but friendly voice, “It’s me, Andar. Andar Gall. Could you open the door please?”
Ansten started to turn back, but with nothing to support him he fell to the floor with a crash and lay quiet.
“Ansten,” called Andar. “Ansten!” Again he rolled his eyes and shook his head side-to-side
. “Bramwith,” he called out. “It’s Mr. Gall. Open this door please.”
Bramwith walked to the doorway, stepping carefully over his father. He was holding his back, clearly in a great amount of pain from the vicious whipping that they had interrupted. He unlocked the door, and Andar eased it open. “Stand back, son,” he said gently. “Let’s check your father and see that he’s not seriously injured.”
Andar checked him all over from top to toe and came to the conclusion that he remained unconscious from alcohol, not from injury. “I’m sorry, Bramwith,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” he answered. He continued to hold his back, looking like he was going to break down and cry any second. “I’ve had worse. Thank you for coming though. Criminy, I thought he was never going to stop this time.”
“How long has this been going on?” asked Andar.
“What do you mean?”
“The drinking and the beatings like that.”
Bramwith sighed. “Forever, Mr. Gall. Forever … ”
Together, they moved Bram’s father to his bedroom, but the bedclothes were disgusting, covered in vomit and stained with his urine, and Andar couldn’t in good conscience leave him there, so they moved him to the sitting room where at least the couch was slightly cleaner. Ansten never woke up for any of this and continued to snore softly.
“Jeepers, Bram,” said Ubri, “I don’t know what to say. We were headed out to get some wood, and I talked Father into stopping by to see if you could go with us. I’m sure glad we did. Holy moly, I’m glad we did. It sounded like he was killing you.”
Bramwith appeared to not hear his friend. He was staring at his father.
“Has he ever passed out like this before?” asked Andar.
“Oh sure,” said Bramwith. “Lots of times. Lots and lots of times. But never in the morning. You think he’s going to be okay, don’t you?”
