[continued from The Dwarves of Stonebriar. read alongside The Grand Whirligig: Interlude.]
The rustling approach of autumn is a dreary time indeed in Windwhistle Forest.
The multicolored explosion of the great oaks quickly passes, leaving them angry and skeletal.
Great lowering banks of ill-humored clouds push each other across the sky, blotting out the sun for days at a time as they search out prime targets for the foul weather to come.
And just beyond Windwhistle rise the grim and hoary Rockjaw Mountains. There the first frosts chill the flanks of mighty Stonebriar, making of it a filthy and inverted icicle.
But inside that great tower of cold stone, in the monumental sweltering kitchens of the Dwarves' Chief Cook Gertie Thistlebottom, two young girls scrubbing away the remains of spicy Dwarf sausage and rinsing away the dregs of stout Dwarf ale welcome autumn's gray return with open arms and hopeful hearts. For soon, they know, will come the Good Word that will free them from their labors -- a message that Dwarf Rodney even now steps into the steamily cluttered confines of the kitchen to deliver with his customary stoic warmth:
"We'd best be going, Miss Olwen, Miss Brat. Time for the Grand Whirligig."
Brat's eyebrows disappear beneath limp bangs. She uses the back of a soggy wrist to scratch her nose, leaving an unpleasantly soapy streak behind. She sneezes.
"Well, s'about time!" The sturdy stein in her grip is dropped unceremoniously, landing with a nerve-jarring (but not QUITE stein-smashing) crack. "F'I wanted ta wash up all day, I woulda stayed where I started! Hmph."
A brightly patterned turban bobs up and down behind a pile of pots and pans that threatens to topple over even at the minute breeze caused by Rodney's entrance. Olwen's sweat-streaked face pokes out from around the mound of metal moments later, revealing her rosy cheeks and bright smile.
"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" she cries in delight, doing her best to cover up for Brat's surly attitude. She tugs the turban from her head and the apron from her waist in one quick motion, dropping them in a damp pile on the spotless floor.
"Are we to leave today, Rodney?" she asks, her hopeful smile never ceasing. "I told the other kitchen dwarves that we were to go with you on another trip, but they didn't believe me." Olwen casts a quick glance around the busy room, as if trying to see if they were being watched. "I knew you'd come back!"
"There's no one leaving today, at least not while clumsy oafs like yourselves are dropping things all over my nice clean floor!" Bert Alewig, vice-head-chef, stuck his head up from the boar he was readying for roasting. "By now you should know where steins go after the washin', and little miss there ought to know there's a perfectly fine hook to hang up aprons at!"
And then his glare turns to Rodney. "What's this with you taking my workers away? I need all the help I can get keeping this mountain of gluttons satisfied!"
A veteran of the mightiest tirades of the inimitable Barnabas Rumbleburg, this outburst elicits from Rodney nary a blink. "Aye, y'need the help, right enough... but ye'll be needing honeyed puffcakes as well, for the Yuletide Feast, and the year to come besides. And these lasses here are under contract t'help deliver'em."
Rodney eyes Bert thoughtfully. "Come to that... we'd Tobbo Skettlebrim for a cook, but he's taken ill and shan't be going. P'raps ye'd be of a mind t'take his place, then?"
Bert's eyes opened wide. He wasn't on rotation to go on to the Grand Whiligig for another two years! "Ahh... that would be fine. Good. Yes." He grinned. A chance to get out, to get away from his damn family and his goody-two-shoes brother! He cleared his throat. "I'd be honored. Thank you."
He then turned to his two former charges. "Well? Let's not keep the group ready! Get your things together and let's go!"
Olwen, half-bent-over to guiltily retrieve her apron, snaps back to attention once more. "Yes sir!" she cries, scampering over to a corner of the huge kitchen. Inside is a little package of clothing and other odds and ends; all packed up as if Olwen had been expecting this trip for quite some time. She slings it over her shoulder before returning.
"Will Mister Barnabas be there, Rodney?" she queries, smiling nervously. Her cheeks turn a slight shade of red and her voice drops to the barest whisper. "If you ask me, I think he's still a little upset at the whole giant incident."
"HE'S upset?!" Brat flares, wiping her damp hands off on her slacks. Splashes of questionably clean water adorn her front, indicating her scorn for any apron-like apparel. "If he - or YOU, fer that matter - even thinks 'bout bein' mad, I'll skin 'im - an' you - alive!"
Her scattered rant complete, Brat's arms find themselves in stubbornly crossed position. "Hmph."
"Aye," Rodney concedes with a nod of his bearded head, "Barnabas was none to pleased about all that. He'll not be coming, but that's not the why of it -- he's hard at work on the Yuletide fireworks and says he simply couldn't get away.
"And speaking of being away, we'd best be off, ourselves."
The small Dwarf leads the group down to the massive garage where sleep all the clever steamcraft of Stonebriar. They pass row after row of the hulking iron monsters, including the steam sleigh that brought them hence nearly a year before. Rodney nods and waves at several of Barnabas Rumbleburg's crew as they putter about its chassis, oiling and shining, readying it for its first winter run.
At the far end of the row nearest the huge hangar doors at the mountain's base, they reach their objective: a tall horseless carriage of gold and silver, much smaller than the steam sleigh and sharing with it only the same basic tricycle design and flatbed car pulled behind it. It seems on the whole a more jolly craft, even given the steam sleigh's annual Yuletide decor. Unlike the sleigh, the carriage's steam engine sits toward the back, smoke already curling from its crenelated gold smokestack as the crew prod the craft awake. A long bench runs high along the front with the driver's steering wheel before it, while below and behind it is passenger compartment complete with plush red couches. Dwarves in tan coveralls load the flatcar with supplies, among them Rumples of the barrage balloon crew.
And waiting for them in front of the carriage with arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently is Barnabas Rumbleburg, sporting a black derby and burgundy waistcoat with gold watch chain. "About TIME you laggards showed yerselves!" he growls.
Rodney blinks -- quite the display of surprise for the impassive little Dwarf. "Didn't think ye were comin', Barnabas."
Barnabas harumphs. "Well, I certainly hadn't _planned_ on it. I've a mountain of rockets yet to be powder-packed, blast it! But... well, word came down from the Foreman. This's to be a mandatory vacation, on _his_ orders. He... *ahem*... got the notion that I've been under a strain. Claims it's making a _grouch_ of me, if ye can credit it..."
A low rumble cuts off further conversation. A second craft rolls up beside the carriage, one that easily (appropriately enough) dwarfs it. In general outline, it resembles a long oval dome of thick metal plate, wheels below, smokestack and periscope above, and ring of cannon ports around the midsection.
It chugs into position just ahead of the steam carriage and stops. A hatch opens at the top, and a small group of helmeted young Dwarves smirk down at the carriage and its occupants below.
Barnabas grumbles to himself when he sees their commander.
"Ho, there, Orwen!" Brodrick guffaws, slapping the armored Dwarf beside him on the back as he nods down toward Barnabas and company. "Seems we're to escort not just the cracker-dwarves, but your kitchen-dwarf brother as well!"
Orwen grins widely at that. "Ho, Bert! Defeated any man-eating cakes, yet? Slain any ravaging salads? Been keeping the world safe from undercooked hams, I see!" Orwen and several of his pals apparently find this the height of dwarven humor, and begin to laugh uproariously.
Bert clenches his teeth, and just gets in the *unspeakable* steam-carriage. But as soon as he's out of his brother's sight, he just collapses into the first seat he finds.
Olwen backs slowly away from Barnabas, and takes refuge in the meagre shelter provided at Rodney's side. It could just be paranoia...but Olwen has a funny feeling that Barnabas hasn't quite forgotten about Jumbrick and the witch. She swallows nervously.
"Who's he, Rodney?" Olwen whispers to the little dwarf, nodding her head toward the rather loud new arrival. While she had grown used to the great machines of the dwarves of Stonebriar, this new contraption brings a chill to her spine. "And what is that?"
As Olwen backs away, Brat stalks over to Barnabas and squints up at the new arrivals. She crosses her arms, feeling... oddly reassured that Barnabas _will_ be included in this latest trip, after all. Not that she has any preference either way, oh no.
"Hey!" she hollers up at them, drawing forth one of Mistress' many strange curses. "Who the hell're you?"
"No need t'fear, Miss Olwen... or t'shout, Miss Brat," Rodney assures them. "The craft's an iron turtle, and the Dwarf up top's its captain, Brodrick, who ye met when ye first arrived at Stonebriar. It (and he) is t'be our escort through Goblin country."
"Aye, he's the right of it!" Brodrick calls, sneering down at Brat. "So ye'd best mind yer manners, human wench! And with any luck," he adds, turning to Olwen, "we might have a chance to put paid to that Giant of yours that caused so much trouble last year, and his hag of a mum, too!"
Brat scowls and falls into a heated mutter. "...show you a wench, y'ugly goat..."
Olwen winces at the tactless reminder. "We can...only hope..." she mutters, head bowed to hide her flushed cheeks.
"Enough of yer time-wasting blather!" Barnabas gripes, climbing the stepladder into the carriage's cabin. "Ye'll not find Hags nor Giants in the Stonebriar craft stable, so let's be off!"
Olwen wastes no time in scurrying into the comfortable confines of the cabin. She does her best to sit as far away from Barnabas as possible. The window draws her attention away from the bustle caused by the rest of the passengers filing in.
Olwen's fellow human settles in as far from _her_ as she can manage, making herself comfortable near the surly dwarf.
"How far away is the Grand Whirligig?" she asks thoughtfully. "And are we going to be attacked by Goblins again? I rather didn't like them...."
"About a 'alf-days journey away," a familiar voice says, "And 'hopefully the goblins'll stay further away than that. No one likes 'em - they don't even like each other!"
Slouching into her seat, Brat yawns widely. "Well, it's not great, but s'better than bein' stuck in a kitchen again... Wake me up when we get somewhere..." She shuts her eyes and tries to ignore everyone else in the cabin.
"Heh, nothin' like a warm reception." //Should let ya sleep through the Whirligig.//
Rumples shrugs and heads off to find Olwen, who, he is sure, will be a bit more enthusiastic and less sleepy.
With a whistling rush of chill autumn air, the massive doors of Stonebriar swing open before them. Iron turtle and steam carriage alike cough and grumble to life, the former leading the latter out of their stony crib and down the slopes of the mountain, into the waiting arboreal arms of Windwhistle Forest.
"Well, now," rumbles Rumbleburg to the human girls as he settles into the plush apolstery, "I can't say as I know what use Rodney expects ye to be on this merry jaunt. What d'humans know about Gnomes these days?"
Olwen, smiling happily due to the excitement of their method of travel, doesn't seem to mind the jibe. "Everybody can do _something,_ sir," she replies mildly, looking around the cabin. "If...giant riding...wasn't my talent, then I'll just have to find something else that I'm good at." Her cheeks colour slightly.
"Even Brat can do something useful," she whispers conspiratorially, leaning forward in her seat. "Even if she doesn't want us to know about it."
Barnabas *harumphs* at the notion. Despairing of intelligent conversation, he reaches into his scaly navy-blue SOMEthing-skin bag and withdraws a golden hand sized clockwork gizmo of unguessable purpose. He cradles its bulbous base in one hand while tinkering with the tube-laden column rising from this base with a small screwdriver. He makes a great show of devoting his full attention to this project.
"I shouldn't worry about yer Giant riding skills, Miss Olwen," Rodney offers. "Seems to me ye did fit job of it. Ye just need a Giant with a less disagreeable Mam."
Barnabas grumbles at this, apparently forgetting that he's no longer listening.
Olwen cocks her head to one side, as if mulling over this new revelation. Perhaps the whole episode with Jumbrick was _not_ her fault! //If old Nettie Carbunkle hadn't shown her ugly face, I would have made a right grand giant-rider!//
She smiles brightly. "Maybe we can find another giant, who'll be more likely to help us out! Maybe he'll be able to take care of those goblins we met that one time...and we won't need that big metal contraption to protect us...."
Her smile fades in the face of the silence that ensues. "Or...maybe we'll just stick with the metal contraption..." she mumbles, bowing her head slightly lest she catch Barnabas' gaze.
Which is, of course, a very good idea.
*****
The trip progresses uneventfully through the leafy green twilight of Windwhistle.
Well, not _totally_ uneventfully.
At one point Barnabas curses fitfully when a spring shoots out of the device with which he's tinkering. With a sound like a cricket coughing, the little machine fills the cabin with a mist the color and cloying fragrance of lavender. The windows are promptly opened wide.
This later proves to be a mistake when the warrior Dwarves in the iron turtle begin their midmorning ale toast. Flecks of dark amber windblown foam drift through the window, as do the grating strains of some Dwarf opera. The words are in Old Dwarvish, and so are indecipherable to Olwen; however, based upon the singing alone, the storyline must have something to do with a large walrus being beaten to death with a meat tenderizer.
*****
Hours later, Rodney gently shakes the shoulder of the sleeping Brat. "Ye'd best wake up, Miss Brat," he says. "One o' them villages you were keen on's not far ahead now."
Brat, who miraculously was not awakened by the earlier chaos, yawns hugely. She makes great show of stretching her arms over her head. Her spectacle is so dramatic, one might believe that she was never asleep at all, and merely wishes to convince current company of the opposite.
Whatever her earlier state may have been, Brat is immediately receptive to Rodney's words. "Village? s'it a big one? How much longer 'till we get there, huh?"
A strange expression crosses Brat's face.
It takes a moment for the company to recognize it as actual, pleasurable anticipation. One might almost call it a smile. Almost.
"Not so big as all that, no," Rodney concedes. "A smattering of cottages, mostly. But there's some fine food t'be had there, mind you."
"Aye, and no doubt you'll be wanting a king's supper, since ye've seen fit t'sleep clear through the day!" Barnabas growfs.
Rodney ignores him. "We'll be rolling in in about an hour, as you'd reckon it," he continues. "Just in time for supper. Best ye not have yer eyes full of sleep when we meet our hosts for the night."
*****
*fwoooOOOOOOOOOT!!*
An hour later, the steam whistle of the iron turtle proclaims the Dwarven convoy's arrival at the village. Started dogs bark at the two mechanized apparitions in defense of Home and Master, while dozing cows stumble to their feet and flee to the far sides of their pens.
The villagers, by contrast, look up from their fields and crane their necks from windows to witness the return of these once-a-year wonders. Eyes gleam at the thought of the miraculous Dwarven trinkets to soon be had -- and all for the price of a few tubers and fruits!
[merging with The Grand Whirligig: Interlude.]
The two Dwarf vehicles grumble to a halt at the side of the road. The Dwarves in Rodney's steam carriage clamber to the ground, Rodney himself offering to help Brat and Olwen down. The soldier-Dwarves in the iron turtle merely gaze down at the milling peasants below from the hatch atop the turtle with a mixture of condescending amusement and suspicion. Barnabas grunts as hefts a gold box half his size from the back of the carriage with one short arm.
Rodney looks from a nearby cottage to the iron turtle's contingent and rubs his chin. "P'raps the lot of ye'd best wait in the turtle?"
Brodrick's voice rises to the crest of the torrent of off-color Dwarvish protests that follow. "Oh, we lowly Dwarf troops aren't good enough t'mingle with the Human-folk? Is that the way of it??"
"Not at all," replies Rodney, unruffled. "I just thought p'raps ye might wish t'spend yer time on the hunt for Goblins on the outskirts. The place is rife with'em, ye know."
"GOBBOS!" Brodrick exclaims. "_That's_ the stuff, eh, men? Let's waste no time, then!"
Brodrick and his troops plunk back down into the turtle and clang the hatch shut behind them. Farm-folk scatter as the craft reawakes from its short nap and wheels forward out of town and into the woods beyond.
"Axe-brained laggards," Barnabas snorts.
"Maybe the goblins will eat them up, foul mouths and all," mutters a small voice from Olwen's general direction.
That done, Rodney leads the group through the milling villagers -- exchanging waves and promises of trades with them, and soon -- toward the cottage of one Granddam Moll.
"Oh, my..." Redren mumbles to herself as the dwarves begin their less-than-stately progress toward Moll's cottage. The figures of Rodney, Barnabas, and Brat particularly catch her eye, and she gasps in acknowledgement.
"Mister Barnabas, sir? Rodney, sir?" she asks, approaching them slowly. "I am Redren. Do you remember me from the Christmas Party? Rinaldo hired you to bring fireworks for the gathering, and we met while you were there."
"Hullo, Miss Redren," says Rodney. "I do indeed remember you. You helped Miss Brat unload the firewords, didn't ye?"
"Aye," growfs Barnabas. "Almost dropped th'Screamin' Phoenixes, as I recall..."
"I have grown less clumsy, sir," Redren says, blushing furiously. She had forgotten about that episode. "Though I'm sure that a dwarf such as yourself would have far less difficulty in carrying heavy things like that around."
Redren nods at the coinage which he carries so easily, and idly hopes that he doesn't expect her to take it from him. "Are you simply here to trade, sir? Or are you simply passing this way while travelling to another destination?" She smiles. "I don't see any fireworks in your vehicle, so I assume you're not going to another party."
Rodney nods. "We're off to a party, right enough, though this time it's for a bit of a working holiday. My Granddam is the Great Baker of the Gnomes, you see, and it's the time of the Grand Whirligig. So, this time o' year I pay her a visit, and fetch a load of Granddam's honeyed puffcakes while I'm about it."
Bert walks up to the group, having watched the other vehicle exit the group. "Good job, Rodney. Thanks." He notices Redren. "Well, who's this raving beauty, then?" He speaks with a gentle smile on his face - somehow recognizing someone else who doesn't quite fit in.
Redren has the grace to lower her eyes momentarily, but does not seem particularly embarrassed. She smiles politely at Bert. "My name is Redren, sir," she replies. "It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance."
"So... I understand Ivan's the man to see about buying a bit of produce. Can you introduce me? I'd like to get things under way before the brute squad gets bored."
"And *I'd* like to be quit of this package!" Barnabas grumbles, his unwavering grip on the box casting doubt upon his complaint. "S'not getting any lighter!"
"Right enough," Rodney agrees. "Let's get about it, then." He leads the way on up to Moll's farm house.
Redren follows, quite prepared to help the dwarves with their business. A tentative smile even reaches her lips as she finds herself among old friends, and she exchanges a few words with Rodney about the health of Ivan's produce as they make their way to Moll's doorstep.
Rodney nods politely at the information she offers, happy to hear that Old Ivan's vegetables remain as excellent as they ever were.
Olwen, on the other hand, has no interest in bargaining. She looks about the village for several moments, searching for something to occupy her time, until her gaze falls squarely upon the dwarves' vehicle once more. She marches over to peer in the window at Brat.
"So here's a town," she says, jerking her head toward the buildings. "You gonna stay?"
Brat eyes the village and scowls. "S'not *much* of a town -- Rodney had that right. But I s'pose it'll hafta do. I'm done doin' th'dishes, I can tell you *that* much!"
She opens the door and hops down, doing her best not to meet Olwen's gaze in the process. "Now, listen: I'm *not* gettin' all misty-eyed about this. I got things t'do, and you do too, I s'pose. No hard feelings, right? The redhead's th'one I met at th'party -- why dontcha hook up with her? She'll have more time t'look after you, I'll bet..."
"Hmph," Olwen says, looking away from Brat. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much! And I imagine that that girl will have more time for me and the rest of the dwarves, too. And she won't complain when she has to help, either!"
Her acidic words--as acidic as Olwen gets, that is--make the younger girl pause. She sighs. "I'm sorry, Brat," she says, lowering her gaze. "Good luck, whatever you end up doing."
Brat offers her a small smile. "Yeah, well... you, too. And... if y'come back this way, maybe I'll see ye then. Th'way my luck's been, I'll prob'ly still be here..."
And with that, she turns and walks away, presumably in search of a warm bed for the night.
Upon reaching the door of the cottage, Rondey gives it a couple of thick-knuckled raps. "Granddam Moll? It's Rodney. We've the device ye requested."
From inside the neat cottage issues the untoward sounds of hurried steps and wood scraping on wood, the rustle of fabric and excited mutterings. A pause, silence, more mutterings accompanied by a childish giggle.
And suddenly the dutch door bursts open, and there stands Moll. But not Moll as Redren had left her that morning, in her clean and mended, but decidedly worn, working frock. Oh, no. -This- version of Moll wears a dress of froth and strawberry stripes. The bodice is laced tightly, pushing all that had, through course of nature, migrated south to squeeze itself up under her chins. Her cheeks are redder than could be accounted for by excitement, and in...two large spots, one on either side of her nose. And atop her head, unsuccessfully covering a mass of white ringlets where her simple wimple had once lofted, is a tall bonnet composed of lace, frippery and...is that a bird? So tall it is that she has to stoop to clear the upper door casing.
"RODNEY!! You're here!!" she exclaims, giggling and blushing. "I vow I didn't expect ye for a fortnight yet, and me all in my working kit! You should have warned me, you should!" She fluffs her impossible curls. "I'd have got cleaned up for ye!"
"Hello, Moll. There's hardly th'need for that. I've made this trip since well before ye were a babe in your dear mam's arms, and ye've been a lovely site every time I've seen ye."
The redness that Moll had applied to her cheeks now blended perfectly with the pleased flush of her skin. It must surely look incongruous to anyone viewing this exchange to see Moll so flustered and simpering. But for the age-whitened hair and leathered skin, she had all the appearance of a budding adolescent in the throes of her first crush.
Old Ivan, who was just coming in from the barn, simply blinks once. This process requirs the space of time it would take most men to assess a situation and come to a conclusion. Which, in fact, is precisely what he is doing.
"Dwarves is here, mother," he observes, quite unnecessarily.
"Awww...g'wan with ye!" she protested happily to Rodney, apparently heedless of Old Ivan.
For his part, Ivan seemed to bear Rodney no ill will. It was to be supposed Moll's feelings were of long standing. But, after all, she had taken Ivan for her man, and not Rodney. Whether because of unrequited feelings or some taboo of their culture, who could say?
Indeed, Rodney's dead-pan delivery of speech would do nothing to make anyone suppose he could feel anything but a distant, fatherly fondness for this old-woman-child. But if Ivan felt any irk at seeing his woman flitter and fuss over the presence of another man, it kept hidden deep inside him.
"Hello, Ivan," says Rodney, offering his hand. "We've brought th'clockwork water pump." He gestures toward the crate Barnabas carries.
Ivan takes the dwarf's hand without hesitation--except that which is natural to his hesitant way of doing anything.
"Aye, and I'd best be about setting it up, too, if we're t'be off by the morrow..." Barnabas adds. He ambles around to the far side of the farmhouse with his package, muttering to himself all the while.
Ivan watches without comment, merely nodding his head once, and then shuffles off to assist Barnabas. It was always so hard to know what Ivan was thinking.
Then the fairy flits up over Moll's shoulder from inside the cottage. She waves and chimes merrily to Rodney, then blushes and performs a midair curtsey.
"And a pleasure it is t'meet you, too, Miss Willowdew," Rodney replies to her with a small bow. "Rodney, at your service. A shame we missed ye at the Yuletide celebration."
"Why, you can understand what she's saying!" Redren exclaims in delight. She looks down at Rodney, her face betraying her surprise. "How can you do that? She chimes so prettily, but we've never been able to actually understand what she's trying to say!
"It's not so great a feat as all that, Miss Redren," Rodney replies. "She's faerie; we're faerie. Just diff'rent breeds, is all."
"Oh, and it's a lovely name, Miss Willowdew," she says, looking back up at the little fairy. "May I call you that?"
The fairy clasps her hands and nods enthusiastically, flitting down quickly to kiss Redren's cheek before resuming her hover near Moll's shoulder. She gives Redren a short happy chime.
Rodney nods and turns from the fairy to Redren. "She says yer most welcome to call her 'Miss Willowdew', or 'Willowdew', or even her given name, 'Brandymead', as ye like," he translates. "And she thanks you for saying that her name is pretty, and that she thinks 'Redren' is a pretty name too, even prettier than th'flowers she picked for Moll, although they were pretty, too, and so is Moll's name, and she hopes that Moll liked the flowers, and Moll has a lovely home."
He stops to take a breath.
"A fairy's thoughts move triple quick, and their tongues move even quicker," he explains.
"Yes... long heavy thoughts would weigh them down so much they couldn't fly... or so my Granddam said."
"Now, Granddam Moll," he continues, presenting the taller Dwarf beside him to the woman, "this Dwarf here is Bert, from the kitchens of Stonebriar. Might he have a look at Ivan's produce? He's our expert on the subject, this trip."
Moll, reluctant to be handed off from Rodney, nonetheless does as is expected of her.
Bert gives Moll a friendly grin. "Hello, Granddam Moll, I'm very pleased to meet you. Shall we?"
Moll nods, removing her bonnet. She looks the slightest bit crest-fallen as she leads Bert to the storage area in the barn where Ivan has collected his harvest. "This here is what my husband brung in this season." She glances back at Rodney, running her fingers through her white curls. They begin to uncurl themselves immediately at this abuse. "Only the best for our best customers," she assures Bert...but there seems something lacking in her delivery.
"I'm sure," Bert says to Moll, already beginning to make a quick assessment of the harvest. The Dwarves have been buying from Ivan for many a year, and the solid relationship between the two has lead to a level of trust from the Dwarven kitchens that makes inspecting Ivan's wares almost unnecessary. Other than the fact that Kitchen Dwarves like the vacation.
She moves away to let him examine the offerings, sitting down on a bale of straw with a sigh. "You take yer time, now," she adds.
Bert nods absently, concentrating. No reason to do a bad job, even if it is largely unnecessary. But one can never know what accidents may have happened since Ivan stored the harvest, so Bert carefully surveys it.
As he continues his thorough review, Moll gets up and quietly goes into the snug little cottage. When she emerges, she is in her "normal" clothing. Clean, serviceable, well-used, and designed for comfort and utility, not to point up her various positive features, had she any.
She deliberately slips in and out when the others are distracted, so as not to call attention to herself. Then she sits down on the bale again to await Bert's pronouncement.
After an hour or so, though, he is satisfied, and says so. "A fine batch as always, Granddam Moll. You and your husband do a fine job indeed."
Moll, smiles a bit. "Not I, Master Bert," she corrects him softly. "My man does all the work 'round here. He's a good man, is my Ivan." Her gaze wanders off into the middle distance. "A sight too good for me, an' all," she adds under her breath.
She gets up from the straw bale. "Well, let's to my kitchen, then. They'll be expecting a meal when they gets in. You can enjoy a bit o' drink whilst we wait for t'others, an' I'll get supper started."
*****
The small group convenes in the kitchen as the setting sun begins its evening painting of the horizon in warm hearth tones. Barnabas has long since assembled the clockwork water pump and has instructed Ivan in its use, warning him that it must be wound every four months and drained before a freeze. That finished, he had gone off to join the three other Dwarves in Rodney's troupe in trading the odd Dwarf-trinket for local wares.
Only the sporadic cannon fire from somewhere deep in the woods disturbs the evening's peace. The Dwarves in the farmhouse pay no heed to the sound -- whether this illustrates their faith in the fighting prowess or in the overactive imaginations of their Goblin-hunting brethren is anyone's guess.
"Ah, now that's a fine smelling meal on the fire, and no mistake!" one of the Dwarves -- a bushy, brown-bearded fellow -- enthuses, sniffing the kitchen air with wide nostrils. "What might that be a-cooking?"
Granddam Moll looks up from her pots as they enter. She smiles, glancing at Rodney and then looking away quickly. "It be supper, of course," she replies with a small chuckle. "And you be in my way!"
With that, she shoos them out into the other part of the cottage, where they might have room to settle. There, all manner of tasty little nibbles have been laid out. Not delicately, on precious china plates, and not artfully in the shapes of butterflies, but good, solid food on pewter and lots of it.
Moll winks at Old Ivan as he passes. "Ale's in the accustomed place," she whispers.
Dwarves, like most species, are the subject of many everyone-knowses. For example, "everyone" knows that Dwarves love above all else to tinker, mine, eat, and drink. It just so happens that in this case, everyone, for the most part, is correct. So it is that Moll's guests take a heavy toll on her snacks before dinner proper is served. Once it is, the Dwarves confound any attempts at conversation for several minutes as the get down to business.
But then the ale starts to take effect, or at least the _idea_ of the ale. One Dwarf pauses in the midst of the meal to fetch a keg of strong, dark Dwarf ale and offers a sample to the humans. With the necessary caveats regarding the average human constitution, of course.
Then out come the pipes. Rodney offers Ivan a stout packet of pipe-weed. "That's all I can spare on the outward trip," he says. "There'll be more on the return, fresh from the Gnome's fields, if ye like."
The requisite smoke ring competition begins. Barnabas proves to be a true master in both quantity and quality, although Rodney's rings have a certain appealing whimsical style. Brandymead Willowdew, who at first had wrinkled her dainty nose at the Dwarf-smoke, now makes a game of darting through the rings.
Olwen seems thoroughly enchanted by the little fae creature. She sits near Redren, watching Brandymead's antics mutely, as if by speaking she might startle her.
"A fine meal, and no mistake, Moll," Rodney offers. Then he turns to Redren, idly puffing on his pipe. "On yer own now, are ye? Where might ye be headed?"
Redren smiles and nods politely. If the heady smoke seems to get nudged away from her and young Olwen by stray puffs of wind, it's hardly noticeable. "Yes, sir," she says. "Granddam Moll and Ivan were kind enough to take me in for a few days so I could get myself straightened out. I fear I might be taking advantage of their hospitality, however..." she blushes and looks down at her hands.
"Do you think, perhaps, that you would have a job for me aboard your train?" she asks when she looks up once more. "I work hard, and I picked up enough songs and ballads from father to be of some use to you on a cold evening."
Barnabas snorts around his pipe. "Ye'll have t'do better than foolish Human ditties! Dwarves haven't the time for such wastrel nonsense.
"Gnomes might, I suppose," he sniffs, turning his attention back to his smoke rings.
Rodney tamps the ember of his pipe as he eyes Redren thoughtfully. "Miss Brat seems t'have decided t'stay put," he says. "P'raps ye'd like t'take over her position as caretaker of Miss Olwen, there?" He gestures toward the young girl with the stem of his pipe.
Redren looks over at Olwen, measuring her up. Olwen looks over, startled at the scrutiny, and straightens her shoulders, as if by doing that she might make a better impression upon her. She smiles shyly.
Redren smiles warmly at the younger girl and pats her shoulder affectionately. She looks back to Barnabas. "If that's what you need, sir, then I'll be happy to help. She doesn't seem as if she'll be any trouble, and I'll teach her some basic lessons at the same time. It'll be my pleasure. Will that be satisfactory?"
"S'not up t'me," Barnabas counters. "It's Rodney's jaunt, and not my idea. The whole thing's a great load of foolishness, aside from the puffcakes and gems..."
"Aye, satisfactory it is," says Rodney, after Barnabas's grumps have tapered off.
Redren smiles and nods politely, doing her best to ignore Barnabas' grumbling. For some reason she had had the idea that dwarves were always friendly and kind: obviously they were just as moody as humans were! She's hard pressed not to giggle.
Willowdew flits down from her ring-play to chime and gesture at Rodney, pausing to zip over to Olwen, lightly pat her nose, and zip back to finish her thought.
"Aye, I can see as it wouldn't hurt t'have you on that job as well, Miss Willowdew. Don't suppose ye'd take much of the provisions, too."
Olwen gasps, delighted, and nods. "Yes, please, Rodney! She can stay with me, even, if that's a help. Would you like that, Miss Willowdew?"
Willowdew nods eagerly.
The girl tentatively holds out her hand for Willowdew to land on, should she choose to do so.
The fairy smiles warmly at the young girl. She does, indeed, flutter over to alight on Olwen's hand with a little pirouette. She sits herself down on the side of the girl's palm, dangling her legs off the side and beaming up at her hostess.
"That settled, we'd best be turning in," Rodney suggests. "We've a full day's travel ahead before we see the Dancing Hills." He taps out his pipe and sets about cleaning the bowl.
"Have ye thought more about some Gnomish pipe-weed seed, Ivan?" he asks. "And might there be any goods we could fetch you t'drop off on the return trip, Moll?"
Ivan puffs his own pipe thoughtfully for a long moment, seeming to think about the question as though it had been put to him for the first time. "I do believe," he said at length, "that there's room to try a crop over on the west quarter." He nods. "I think I'll give it a try, if it's all the same to you, Rodney."
Moll doesn't look at Rodney. She keeps her eyes fixed on her cleaning up work. "Nothing for me, Master Rodney," she says. Then she looks over at her husband. "I've got everything I need right here."
Rodney nods. "It's off t'bed, then." He rises to his feet, picking up his dishes as he does so and carrying them into the kitchen.
After a significant look from Rodney, Barnabas follows suit and nods for the other Dwarves to do likewise. "I've not tested the heater on the clockwork pump," he mutters by way of explanation.
*****
The following day dawns bright and crisp as a fresh autumn apple. In partial payment for their hospitality, the Dwarves invite Moll and Ivan to breakfast rather than the other way 'round. The village fills with the savory scent of spicy Dwarf sausages on the skillet.
Perhaps it is this delightful enticement that lures the Iron Turtle back into town, wheeling along with all the enthusiasm of its non-metallic namesake. The bleary-eyed Dwarf soldiers shuffle into the farmhouse to break their fast, halfheartedly muttering about the great hordes of Goblins they blasted to Kingdom Come overnight.
Rodney's crew loads up Old Ivan's vegetables into the steam froster in the floor of the carriage. "We'll likely pick up a second load on the return trip," he explains. "Th'Gnomes will be wanting to trade for some o'these, no doubt. So there'll be honeyed puffcakes and pipe-weed seed as payment, and Gnome-wrought gems, if that's agreeable."
*****
Final business transacted and fond good-byes said -- just good-byes, from most of the Dwarves -- the iron turtle and steam carriage smoke and grumble to life. They roll out of the little hamlet with an escort of waving farmers and into the dawning day. Willowdew gives Moll one last kiss on the cheek before flitting hurriedly after them.
*****
"So," Barnabas says to Redren, breaking the general silence in the carriage as everyone just enjoys the ride, "I s'pose _you've_ more Gnome-lore than the other wench?"
Redren smiles politely, but ends up shrugging. "What I know of gnomes was mostly gleaned from when I first met you, sir, at Mister Rinaldo's Christmas Party. I imagine that Olwen here knows more than I do about them, having lived with you folks for a while. Is that right, Olwen?"
The girl in question looks back from her vantage point near the window. Olwen shakes her head. "All I know is that the dwarves go at this time of year to fetch Rodney's grandmam's honeyed puffcakes. She's a gnome. What else is there to know?" She looks over at Barnabas, mildly confused. "Nobody ever told me any stories about gnomes when I was at Stonebriar. Nobody much talked to me there, anyhow."
"Hmph," Barnabas growfs. "'What else is there t'know?' she says. Well, ye'll find out soon enough, I suppose. There'll be dancing and eating and tomfoolery aplenty. Human wenches should take right to it."
Willowdew flits between Barnabas and Olwen, wagging her finger at him and chiming angrily before alighting on Olwen's shoulder and patting her cheek comfortingly.
"_Fairy_ wenches, too," Barnabas mutters, crossing his arms and looking out the window.
*****
The road presses onward and downward from its pause in the nameless little hamlet, gradually descending from the roots of the Rockjaw Mountains to more gently rolling country. The Windwhistle Forest proves more tenacious than the mountains, although the haughty firs do give way grudgingly to the more earthy oaks and maples. The travelers even espy several melancholy willows holding somber court over a gurgling stream in a shady little valley, the songs of a frog chorus doing nothing to cheer them.
Then the woods grow less dense, the sunshine more persistent. The road makes a final lazy turn around the base of a hill, there to take on a small lily-dappled river as a traveling companion. The hills ahead stand almost bare of trees, covered instead with whispering grasses and bobbing yellow-white flowers. A faint salt tang kisses the air, and gulls circle and cry overhead.
Jolly red roofed cottages of sandstone and timber dot the landscape beside well tended apple orchards and fields of wheat. The Gnomes themselves bustle about here and there, singing or whistling as they hang bunting and banners and raise small flags in festive fall colors. (One large banner hung between two buildings reads "Willkommenes Rodney und Dwarves!")
The Gnomes are a Dwarf-like people, but about a head smaller on the whole. The men wear stockings and lederhosen or dungaree overalls; the women, sensible but merry dresses. All favor bright yellows and greens, but all wear tall conical hats of the same cherry red as the roofs of their homes.
Most of the town's population seems concentrated on a tall hill in the near distance, where tents and pavilions go up even as the travelers watch. Smoke pours fitfully from a brick oven like small volcano, and an errant breeze carries mouthwatering scents of baking apples and breads down the hill.
At the very top of the hill, a truly huge individual in a primitive fur tunic carefully hangs little seats on a wheel-shaped scaffolding nearly as large as himself. Barnabas shakes his head and mutters under his breath at the sight of him.
The driver of the steam carriage sounds the carriage's whistle, and the driver of the iron turtle follows suit. Gnome heads turn their way, and a great cheer goes up throughout the village. As one, the Gnomes drop what they are about and rush down the hill to greet their guests.
The seat-hanging Giant doesn't join them at first, instead pausing to sniff the air with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes widen, and he grins a great toothy grin.
"JUMBRICK SMELLS OLWEN!" he declares happily. He strides down the hill in five long legged steps to join the welcoming committee.
"Olwen, dear, don't stray near the giant," Redren says, putting out a restraining arm to stop Olwen from leaping out of her seat. The younger girl looked back in frustration, but couldn't shake Redren's grip on her collar. Instead, she pointed out the window, and stuck out her lower lip in a pout.
"But...Redren!"
Keeping a firm hand on her charge, Redren exits the cab with the other dwarves, and leans over to whisper to Rodney. "I assume the giant is a friend of yours?" She looks up at the rather foul-smelling beast looming over them. "He seems...excitable."
Gears grind and squeak as one of the cannons ringing the iron turtle tracks upward to point square at Jumbrick's chest. Brodrick's helmeted head rises from the dorsal hatch at the peak of the metal beast.
"Now *here's* fine hunting!" the soldier-Dwarf proclaims with a grin, staring up at his prodigious target. "We'll give'im a shot t'the gizzard, lads!"
Jumbrick blinks in surprise, his mental gears moving considerably more slowly than those in the iron turtle. Too slowly to tell him to move, in fact.
"You vill do NO zuch ting!"
It's a formidable voice that gives this warning -- the firmly chiding voice of nannies and nursemaids everywhere. Its source is a plump, aproned little Gnome woman pushing to the front of the crowd. She is nearly as wide as she is tall, with wrinkled, rosy cheeks and eyes creased with several lifetime's worth of laugh lines. Right now, though, her hands are on her hips, and her eyes are cold and hard as Dwarf-picks.
"Zis child is our guest, az are _you_," she continues. "UND, ef you vant to be velcome in mein village, you vill BEHAVE." She punctuates her statement with a nod like the crack of a lash.
Brodrick swallows. He turns about, taking in a whole town's worth of scowling Gnomish faces.
Then he clears his throat and sinks back down into the turtle, clinking the hatch shut quietly behind him.
A second nod for good measure, then the woman's scowl vanishes before a smile like a golden autumn sunrise as she turns her attention to the steam carriage and its occupants -- to one occupant, in particular.
"RODNEY, mein sveet boy!" she cries, joyfully opening her arms to him.
"Hallo, Granddam," he replies, climbing down from the cabin and leaning over to accept her welcoming embrace.
Watching from the window of the steam carriage, Willowdew smiles, sniffling and dabbing at the corner of her eye.
"Achtung!" a tiny voice squeals, "Dwarfen _und_ fairies!"
An innumerable swarm of gnomish children, each no bigger than an over-fed housecat, bounce about like popcorn.
"The dwarves are here! Dwarfen da!"
"A fairy too!"
"An elfen!"
"A Fee-ee!"
Willowdew flits out of the carriage, hovers just long enough to take in her surroundings -- and establish that the Giant is no threat to little Olwen -- and lands neatly to sit on Redren's shoulder. She smiles warmly at the milling Gnome-children.
One little one makes it over to Redren and Willowdew in the midst of all of the rush. With big wide eyes behind even bigger spectacles, she stares up at the two.
"Velcommen! Vhere are you from? Did et take you long to get here? Vill you be ztaying long? Vould you like zometing to eat? Vhat do you like to eat? Do tey have honeycakes vere you're from?..."
Willowdew nods and beams with pleasure as she listens to the Gnomekind's litany. At last, someone who knows how to speak properly!
Questaor's eyes light up as the fairy moves about. So many questions, so little time to ask! And where to start?!?!?
Behind her, a little voice pipes up, "Oh no! Don't let Questaor talk to tem! She'll _never_ stop and we'll never get a chance to zee the fairy!"
Questaor turns around and, with only the briefest pause in her investigation, promptly sticks her tongue out at the speaker, giving him the raspberry.
Redren pauses for a moment to regard the little gnome, and can't help but smile at her inquisitiveness. She kneels down, feeling a little awkward at being so tall--at barely five feet, Redren had never thought of herself as being tall before--and ponders the questions.
"I am from a cottage near a river," she begins, after taking a deep breath. "To your other questions, no, because the dwarves have a very fast carriage; I don't know how long we'll be staying; no, but I thank you very much; I like to eat my friend Annwyl's apple flan; and no, they do not have honeycakes where I come from, though I hear that you have plenty of them here!
"Now, tell me, did I get all the questions right?" Redren asks, amused. "Or did I forget one?"
Questaor thinks for a moment and then brightens. "No, you anzered all of tem and all on the firzt try! Only mine techer has done tat before! Vhat's apple flan? Et zounds like zomething tat flew but didn't make et...but I didn't tink tat applez could fly...." In the middle of her train of thought, she is suddenly derailed by another little gnome barrelling into her. As Questaor squawks a bit about not expecting him to run into her, Ishenqizizition (OOC - Qiz for short) replies, "No vun ever expects the gnome Ishenqiziztion!" Now we finally see the one to whom Questaor gave the raspberry. He sticks out a chubby little hand to Redren & Willowdew and bows so low his nose brushes the ground. "Velcommen!" he shouts.
Chased by a harried-looking young woman, the children hop and zip. The ribbons they'd been weaving only minutes ago become streamers, trailing through the air and through the dust, fluttering from snags on the iron turtle and wrapping around the skirts and legs of Rodney and his granddam.
"Please, kinder!" the young woman implores the squealing herd, "Remember - 'With dignity and grace.'"
She reaches to nab a little nipper attempting to scramble up the side of the tank. Missing him, she turns to tug a tiny bloomered leg from underneath the vehicle. Teacher and student, ribbons and dust all tumble backward onto the grass.
"Dignity," the woman says sternly into the bright eyes of the child now seated on her chest, "dignity and grace."
They both burst out laughing.
Olwen, meanwhile, takes advantage of her guardian's distraction, and jerks free from Redren's grasp. She takes a running leap for Jumbrick, and with the ease of much practise, clambers up his tunic and to his shoulder. She grins and pats his cheek affectionately. "Hello, Jumbrick! Your mam isn't here, is she?"
Jumbrick shakes his meaty head fiercely, coming close to knocking Olwen from her perch. "JUMBRICK SNUCK AWAY FROM MAM," he explains proudly. "JUMBRICK IS FRIENDS WITH GNOMES NOW. GNOMES GIVE HIM GOOD TOOBERS AND FROOTS!"
A pause, as the young girl sniffs the air. An even brighter smile crosses her face, and she reaches over to hug Jumbrick's ear. "And you smell so nice now, too! What happened to you?"
The Giant's cheek reddens. "JUMBRICK LIKES TO PLAY IN BIG SALTY LAKE," he says, pointing back the way he'd come. "JUMBRICK'S MAM DOES NOT LIKE TO COME AROUND BIG SALTY LAKE," he adds, almost thoughtfully.
Bert Alewig climbs down from the steam carriage and walks towards the giant and his diminutive passenger. "Goodness! So, this is the giant you mentioned back in the kitchens, Olwen?"
Olwen peers down at the dwarf and smiles. She pats Jumbrick's ear lightly, as she would to a pet, and settles herself more firmly on his shoulder. She's not going anywhere for a while.
"Yes," the girl replies, eyeing him warily. She tilts her head up proudly. "Nobody believed me back in the kitchens, but I was telling the truth! Jumbrick's my friend, and now we can be back together again."
Bert laughs. "Well, little one, you must admit most little girls don't have giants for friends. It's good to meet you, Mister Giant."
Jumbrick bends over -- carefully, so as not to cause Olwen to fall -- and gives the kitchen-Dwarf a rattling *SNIFFFFFF!*
"DWARF SMELLS LIKE FOOD," Jumbrick observes curiously.
Bert weaves back and forth from the force of Jumbrick's nose, trying to keep his feet under him. Unfortunately, he fails, and tumbles to the ground. He lies there for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. "Ah. Well. I'm a cook. Which means I cook food, but am _NOT_ food. In fact, I'm Bert, Mr. Giant." He's not absolutely certain if the Giant cares if Bert uses 'Mister', but with anything that size it doesn't hurt to be polite.
Jumbrick scratches his cheek as he ponders this new information.
"GNOMES COOK GOOD FOOD FOR JUMBRICK," he says at last. "WILL BERT COOK GOOD FOOD FOR JUMBRICK, TOO?"
"Ahhh," mumbles Bert for a moment, still getting used to the idea of talking with a Giant. "Maybe. We'll have to see what happens. I haven't been here before, and I'm not sure what's going to happen."
Zip! From between the giant's toes a tiny gnome flashes, only to collide with the thick knees of a dwarf alighting from the steam carriage.
"What th-!" Barnabas sputters.
The tot falls back wide-eyed as a classmate tumbles from the carriage onto the shoulders of the dwarf.
"Wha-! Blast it! Git off!!"
Quick as a skink's wink, the dwarf is beset by clambering children. Two girls sing and skip, entangling the maypole of his legs with his own bootlaces. The accidental rider on his shoulders upsets his derby and tumbles, clinging to a handful of beard.
Barnabas fusses and stumbles about helplessly under this Gnomekinder onslaught. "Watch yer-! HO now! Ye little-! By the Great Foreman! Ye'd best mind yer-! I've a mind to-! *Blast* it!!"
One boy, Otto, the notorious imp, climbs the back of dwarfen trousers to slide one hand beneath the dwarfen waistcoat for a tickle, poking the other hand into Barnabas's pocket in search of dwarfen treasure.
"Enough, enough!!!" he huffs, plucking Otto from the back of his pants like a plum from a tree and setting him down in front of him. "Now see here...!" he chides the lot of them... then pauses, glancing furtively about.
The children freeze in totlish horror, ready to dart away.
He reaches a stealthy hand into his waistcoat, and pulls out a generous handful of fine Dwarf-crackers* that he distributes with clandestine efficiency. He gives Otto a quick pat on the head.
[*OOC: little pull-string firecrackers -- lots of noise and confetti :)]
Then he straightens both himself and his waistcoat and puts his derby soundly back onto his pate. "Now... *off* with ye!" he demands, shooing them away and clearing his throat officiously like any respectable adult recently quit of troublemakers.
Like gnats the kinder flee to reconnoiter at a safe distance. In the center of a huddle they all stare down at the prizes in their hands. One pair of daring fingers grasps a loose string and yanks.
POW! The cracker fires and, with squeals and giggles, gnomekinder scatter like the bloom of a bottle rocket. Crack! Pow! Pop! Confetti and streamers fly.
Otto watches. He tucks his own cracker slyly into his pocket and strolls grandly away.
Willowdew's lips pout prettily at the sight of poor Questaor's collision. She flits down to Qiz, gives one finger of his proffered hand a quick shake, then flutters over to the Gnome girl and helps dust her off as best she's able. She chimes _her_ answers to the kinder's questions, and quickly sings off a string of her own.
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