Questaor finishes dusting off and listens carefully to the little fairy. She laughs with the delight to have found someone as curious as she! But just as she draws breath to answer:
"Kinder, KINDER!" chides the Great Baker gently. "Our guest hef had a long journey, und vee must let zem _breathe_! Zere vill be time enuff for your questions later! Run along to zee kitchen now, und my azzistant vill give you zum cookies und milk!"
Qiz is instantly off like a track star, dodging others in the race for the first cookie. He zips around obstacles, and even uses a rainbarrel for a lauch pad as he races for the kitchen. He disappears inside, but it appears that he might not have been able to stop completely, for crys of "Stop!" followed by the crashing of many pans were soon heard after his entrance.
"Cookies!" "Cookies!" "zee kitchen!" Childish cries echo around the crowd in a chain reaction. Tots nearest the Baker pause long enough to hug her legs in grateful glee before zipping full-speed up the hill toward the baking pavillion. Like ants done with their work, children emerge from crannies, hop from perches and dash from their posts to converge in a single line headed for the gently smoking ovens.
Questaor is still standing still, looking back and forth between the little fairy and the kitchen. The dilemma of choosing between the two puts a crease in her forehead. Finally, her eyes light up. Looking up, she asks, "Vould _you_ like un cookie, mizz fairy?"
Which presents Willowdew with a dilemma of her own. Now she looks from Redren to the kitchen, and her little tummy rumbles like a cricket.
She holds up a finger in a silent plea for patience before zipping back down to Redren. Smiling sheepishly, she pantomimes eating and drinking and gestures toward the top of the hill.
That done, she kisses Redren's cheek and flits back up the hill to join Questaor.
Bert, apparently done with the Giant, watches the fairy fly off. He grins at Redren. "You seem to attract the extremes, don't you? A miniature Fairy, and a Giant. What next?"
Their teacher scrambles up from the grass. She brushes her clothing, removes half-made daisy chains from her hair and sets her hat aright. "Now," she says quietly, "Class, please proceed to ze festival kitchen." Though she's blushing crimson, she follows the children sedately up the hill.
Questaor gives a loud whoop of joy and waves at Redren before trying to break the landspeed record for gnomekinder in search of cookies. Her brakes are much better than Qiz, though, for she stops right before entering the kitchen. Catching her breath and making sure the fairy is following, she enters the kitchen as regal as a queen entering her court. This lasts for all of two seconds as the pair make it farther into the kitchen. Questaor skips past gnomekinder munching on various kinds of cookies, up to one of the women pulling out a tray of chocolate-chip cookies right out of the oven. Giving the wide-eyed innocent look known by instinct by children in every world and reality, she asks, "May ve have un cookie?"
The young Gnome sets her tray on a nearby table and wipes a blonde curl from her forehead with a cloth. She smiles down -- and up -- at the pair with the smile of one born maternal. "Ya, of _course_, mein leib!" she says. "But you must be careful! The cookies are just out of zee oven!"
She searches up a plate and quickly scoops onto it three steaming cookies for the girl with a wooden spatula, following it up with a large (for a Gnome) glass of milk.
Then she eyes Willowdew and taps her chin thoughtfully. "A crumb vould be a whole cookie for you, mein leib," she says, "but vhat shall vee use for your cup?"
Willowdew chimes a suggestion, and the Assistant Baker smacks her forehead. "Ach! How zilly of me! Of _course_! You vill find zome over by zee barn, yonder."
The fairy flits off in the direction indicated. She quickly returns, holding a freshly plucked purple cup-shaped blossom of a foxglove plant. This she uses to scoop milk from the pitcher, then settles down to rest beside Questaor's plate on the table. She samples a crumb and beams her pleasure at her Gnomish hostesses.
Questaor munches on the cookies, making sure there's enough milk for each one. Soon, however, she notices that she and Willowdew are now surrounded by many gnomekids, who are silently watching the fairy eat and drink. Questaor starts to giggle a bit at their solemness. The giggles soon turn into full blown laughter in a very short time. The laughter quickly spreads through the rest of the kinder until the whole bakery is rocking with laughter.
"Und _now_," she says, smiling broadly as she waddles up to Redren, Rodney in tow, "who is ZIS lovely vun?" She stands up on tip-toe and reaches up to lightly squeeze Redren's cheek." Velcommen, dear! Iz zee kind on der Giant yours?"
Redren blushes and curtseys politely at the gnome's attentions. "My name is Redren, ma'am. And that's Olwen..." she pauses to peer up at the girl who is now happily braiding strands of Jumbrick's hair so that it will stay out of her face when she's sitting on his shoulder.
"Gutentagen, Redren! I am zee Great Baker der Gnomes," she says proudly, "but please, you vill call me 'Granddam', ya?" She squeezes Redren's cheek again with a grandmotherly smile.
Redren sighs. "No...she's not mine. Are you sure she'll be all right up there? He doesn't look very safe...."
"Oh, neeein, neeein," Granddam replies, waving off her concerns. "Jumbrick iz a sveet, sveet, boy. He vill not hurt zee little one."
"I'm okay, Redren!" Olwen shouts down at her, waving her arm wildly until she almost slips off Jumbrick's shoulder. With a deft movement, she hauls herself back into a more stable position and goes back to her work on his now-clean hair.
A sigh escapes Redren's lips once more. She looks back to the gnome. "I'm sorry...she's really very nice once you get to know her...do you want me to get her down?"
"No need for _zat_," says a new, jolly voice. "Let zee kinder hef her fun!"
A white-bearded Gnome with elaborate magnifying spectacles pulled pack on his head and a bewildering array of small hammers, picks, tweezers, and more exotic tools tucked into his yellow-green apron ambles up and bows. "Gutentagen!"
Granddam lightly *thwaps* the newcomer on the back of his redcapped head. "Henk!" she scolds. "Vhere are your _manners_? Hef you no _name_?" She smiles apologetically at Redren. "Zis is zee Master Jeweler der Gnomes, dear vun."
'Henk' mutters and straightens his hat, but he smiles when he looks up again at Redren. "Ya," he agrees, "but you may call me 'Grandda'. Zat is much easier to zay, ya?" His eyes twinkle merrily, akin to jewels themselves.
"Hallo, Grandda," says Rodney, accepting the Jeweler's firm handshake. "We've a good many tools and such t'trade for your work-"
"Rodney, *Rodney*!" the Granddam chides warmly before Grandda can reply. "You hef been too long amongzt zee Dwarves, ya? Now iz not zee time for bizness und verk!" She turns to face the crowd, arms spread wide as if to hug the lot of them. "Now iz zee time for zee GRAND WHIRLIGIG!!"
A great cheer goes up from the milling Gnomes, and a red cone-cap or three are even tossed into the air. (And deftly caught, of course.) Granddam and Grandda march side-by-side through the crowd's midst with Rodney close behind, and the Gnomes quickly fall into step behind them. It's not an orderly procession, precisely, but it does have its own queer grace, with the songs, jigs, and capers of individual Gnomes blending into a jolly whole like a red-capped carpet of joy climbing the hillside. Even the soldier-Dwarves are caught up in the moment, spilling out of the iron turtle to join the general merriment with an appalling lack of good order.
"'Too long amongst the Dwarves,' she says," grumps Barnabas, grudgingly bringing up the rear. "Harumph!"
A white-haired gnomish matron nods sympathetically at his elbow. "Our Great Baker, ze liebchen, zumtimes speaks before she t'inks. I hope you von't let it affect your judgment uf our little community."
Barnabas grunts noncommittally.
Without looking at Barnabas, she forges on with the conversation, "Vell, it now falls to my pleasure to velcome you, Sir. I am Granddam Frostig and this is my family." She turns behind her to a middle-aged couple followed in close order by a train of young gnomish women and men all walking proudly in procession.
"Barnabas Rumbleburg, at your service and your family's," the Dwarf replies formally, doffing his derby.
"Son Earl und Opal, granddaughters Kwartzen, Ruby, Emreld, Diamant, Perle und Kluempchen, nephews Mitte und Klein und..." She pauses long enough to wave up the hill toward the direction of the baking ovens, "zumwhere in that embarrassing display of kinderschule muddel runs our little Otto."
"Aye," Barnabas nods, looking up the hill. "Seems there's a good deal of children being heard hereabouts -- *loudly* -- and not just seen, as is proper. Nice t'see *some*one here appreciates good order!"
"Indeed," Granddam Frostig joins him in sympathetic disapproval. She turns to look behind them and her entire entourage follows suit. With a frown furrowing her tiny brow, she watches in stiff silence.
Rumples gets off the train and looks around curiously - and, it must be admitted, somewhat sleepily: it appears that the half-grown dwarf had been napping in one of the quieter sections of the train, judging by the state of his wrinkled clothes and blinking eyes.
Quickly, he tries to dash in back of the train, hoping that no one will see him...
"Ho, there, deckswabber!" calls a burly soldier-Dwarf straggling behind the general horde. "Where might ye be going? Straighten yer wrinkles and join the party! There's ale and food t'be had, and aplenty! Or are ye too good t'be seen in the company of Stonebriar's Finest?" He arches a bushy brow, arms akimbo, as he awaits a suitable answer.
"Err..." Rumples turns around and looks up at the very strong and rather annoyed-looking dwarf. "I was goin' ta - uh, freshen up a bit. For th' ladies." He grins at Olwen.
Jumbrick smiles and waves down at Rumples. "LITTLE DWARF SMILES AT JUMBRICK," he observes to Olwen. "LITTLE DWARF MUST BE NICE DWARF, LIKE DWARF WHO WILL COOK FOR JUMBRICK. NOT LIKE BAD DWARVES WHO KICK JUMBRICK AND HIT HIM WITH HAMMERS."
Rumples looks up - and up - and up and the giant. His mouth works soundlessly a few times, but nothing seems to come out. Finally, a placating smile spreads over his face. The dwarf figures this is the best way to deal with someone whose eyelash is probably larger than his entire body.
Giggles rise from the female contingent of the Frostig clan, only to be stifled under Granddam Frostig's icy glare.
The soldier-Dwarf looks up at the giggling and blinks. A very male-ish grin grows on his face at the sight of the lovely Frostig Frauen.
Rumples chuckles.
"Well, now, 'swabber," he says, removing his ash can helmet and brushing back his charcoal hair. "P'raps ye've the right thought, at that! Come along, then, and let's see to this 'freshening up', aye?" Keeping one eye on the ladygnomes, he takes Rumple's arm in a firm grip and hauls him off in the direction he'd been heading in the first place.
The teenage dwarf nods. He needs no further encouragement and fairly dashes off with the soldier-dwarf. If 'dashing' is what you call being yanked along by the arm.
The soldier pulls Rumples up short behind the steam carriage. He reaches into a pouch at his belt and draws out a silver flask. "'ere, now! THIS'll do for th'ladies, 'swabber!" He doffs his helmet, pouring a liberal amount of a spicy brown liquid into his dark locks. "Theeeere... THAT's the stuff..." he sighs, working it into his scalp with his free hand. Then he unhinges his breastplate to slap a bit on his chest, and follows it all up by taking a manly swig of the stuff. "AAAAAAH! By the Great Foreman, but that's fine!" he proclaims.
"Here y'are, 'Swabs," he adds, pushing the flask into Rumples hand. "'ave a go!"
Rumples looks at the jug. Then at the soldier. Then at the jug.
Tentatively, he dabs a bit of - whatever it is - on his head. And immediately looks about, panicked, for the nearest vat of water he can put his head into. "What," he manages to stammer out, "*is* this? My head's on fire!" //It must'a burnt his gut out - that's why he can' taste it anymore.//
*****
Olwen giggles at Rumples' nervousness, and pats her mount's shoulder lightly. "Be right back, Jumbrick," she whispers in his ear. "I think Redren's nervous about me being up here, and I have to help the dwarves and the gnomes right now." With that, she slides down his shoulder with the greatest of ease, and comes to a thudding stop on the ground.
Redren does her best to loom over Olwen, but under Jumbrick's shadow, it comes out looking more comic than serious. "Olwen, please ask me the next time you want to clamber atop..." she looks up, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. "A rather large giant."
The younger girl opens her mouth to protest, but under The Stare of her guardian, she closes it just as quickly. A flush rises to her cheeks. "Sorry, Redren."
Satisfied, Redren nods. And smiles. "Thank you. Now. Shall we go help the dwarves? I think they'll be looking for us soon."
Nodding her agreement, Olwen grasps Redren's hand, waves a temporary farewell to Jumbrick, and the pair make their way after Barnabas, Rodney, and the gnomes.
Jumbrick reaches down and gently plucks Bert off his feet. "BERT WILL COME WITH JUMBRICK," he says, striding after the Gnomes. (Carefully, so as to avoid squashing anyone.) "JUMBRICK WILL SHOW BERT GOOD FOOD GNOMES MAKE, THEN BERT CAN MAKE GOOD FOOD FOR JUMBRICK."
Bert reacts to being picked up by the giant as calmly and as taciturn as any good Dwarf. That is, he manages to stop screaming after a minute or two.
Bert had never traveled by Giant before. The speed was pretty impressive, the Giant's strides making short work of any distance, but the odd swaying of Jumbrick's gait had a dizzying effect, causing the landscape to begin to swirl before his eyes. *Food. Food for Giants,* Bert thought to himself as Bert set him down with the Gnomes. And then, he half-remembered a story about a different Giant, and how he was fed. "Need... Paper..."
The tremors produced by Jumbrick's steps send Granddam Frostig tottering off her feet.
"Mine verd!" she peeps with one hand to her bosom, "That boy is so very energetic. I wonder that the village can survive it! Und bake und bake as ve might, (and ve do that very well, you know) however will he be fed?"
Her family all nod in silent agreement. "'Tis a shame we have no proper kit," she says, studying the dwarves and speaking clearly so that all might be enlightened by her thoughts, "Somezing fitting as a dwarfen village vould haf. Somezing to bake a great loaf of bread."
"Or broil a great number of goswald," her son muses.
"Oh, can you imagine? A tremendous copper for my Whirligig Fig Pudding?" his wife suggests.
Ruby murmurs, "Or my Cocoafpeffen Hassenberry Dream Klosse, as big as Jumbrick's head."
A Frostig cousin cooly directs their attention to the village school teacher. Having enticed several merry cookie munchers from the baking pavillion, she is standing at the foot of a wavering tower of precariously stacked children. They appear only somewhat likely to succeed at their task of draping the sides of a large cistern with festive streamers.
"With zat as your vahter supply, mine Aunt, I think you will be waiting for zat tremendous copper steamer for some time." As he finishes speaking, two topmost children tumble sqeaking and wailing into the cistern.
Willowdew flutters and fusses above the sputtering Gnomekinder until Jumbrick strides up and scoops them out. "JUMBRICK WILL TEACH LITTLE GNOMES TO SWIM," he offers, holding them in his palm at his eye level and smiling, "AFTER JUMBRICK HAS HIS LUNCH."
Willowdew traces a glittering spiral around Jumbrick as she flits her way up to his head. She hovers above the children and chimes worriedly.
Jumbrick looks shocked at her words. "JUMBRICK DOES NOT EAT NICE GNOMES!" he tells her.
She smiles with relief and zips over to kiss his cheek.
"Perhaps you are right, Klein," Granddam agrees. "Then again," she turns an admiring glance toward Barnabas and company, "Perhaps you underestimate our new friends. Their skills and ingenuity - ah," she shakes her head and raises her voice delicately, "They are known throughout ze world."
Klein and his brother exchange skeptical looks but keep their silence.
"Why, I doubt even a VaterVerks is beyond their abilities. If that is what they vanted."
"'VaterVerks?' Vhat is 'VaterVerks'?" Klein scoffs.
"A marvelous thing," Granddam assures him, "from the spring to the center of the fair, with vahterfalls and vahter courses, vahter wheels..."
"And a fountain?" Perle asks.
"Of course! An ingenious fountain. No doubt," Graddam Frostig nods curtly.
"Huh. No doubt," Barnabas grunts. "A waterworks? Child's work for Dwarves, and your copper oven, too! I'd not say 'no' t'bargaining on it -- holiday or no -- but I've not the dwarfpower for the job along. Unless ye think ye can talk such work out of those cannon-headed laggards!" He glares at the soldier-Dwarves clumsily prancing and cavorting up the hill like Gnomes in weighted boots, their heads bobbing above those of smaller Gnomish throng.
Granddam Frostig purses her lips and studies the tomfoolery with a skeptical air. "Herr Barnabas," she says, "you present us vit' a most challenging challenge. Yet, I feel certain, if vaterverks (not to forget the giant copper oven, the likes of vich has never been seen) is child's verk for Dwarves; zen surely coaxing verk from laggards is child's play for Frostigs."
She gathers her kinfolk around her and instructs each in crisp, minimal words. In turn she waves toward the merry-making Dwarves, Jumbrick the Giant and the open hillside. With a smart clap of her hands, she sends the bulk of her little family to their assignments. And, judging by the grins on their faces and the hop in their steps, they are eager to be off in the crowd.
Turning to Barnabas, she says, "Dwarfpower on ze vay. Ve shall see vaht child's verk looks like vhere you are from, Herr Barnabas." Her smile has both the size and the smugness of a cat half-snoozing on the roof of her dominion.
Quaestor wipes the water out of her eyes and shakes a bit off. "Tank you, Jumbrick! Villowdu hazn't zeen you eat before, zhe couldn't know you like te Baker'z bunz te bezt!" She turned to Willowdew, slightly soggy but gaining vocal speed. "He once ate te entire day'z verk of ze bakery but ven he realized vat he had done, he karried almost an entire forezt back to the ovenz to make up for it! Ve have enough vood for two vinterz now! Ten one time when the mill wasn't verking, he took zeze two huuuuge stonez and.." As she tries to show how big the stones were, she accidently falls back into the cistern.
The Granddam clucks indulgently as Jumbrick plucks Quaestor from the cistern a second time, this time setting her down not far from where he'd deposited Bert. "Ze kinder get *zo* exzited during ze Whirligig," she says to Redren. Then, to Olwen: "Perhaps you vill vant to play wis zem, ya? Zere is *zo* much to do!"
She turns to address the throng as a whole. "Az most of you know -- although zome of our guests, perhaps, do not -- during zis celebration, vee vill be zelecting zee Great Baker und Grand Jeweler for zee next year!"
Thunderous applause and cheering from the Gnomes.
"I vill now go to mine own baking tent to begin mine recipe! I am zure my entry vill be no zecret to any of you," she adds with a wink.
"HONEYED PUFFCAKES!" shout the Gnomes as one.
"Ya, vell," she replies demurely, "you never know. Perhaps I vill surprize you all zis year!"
Scattered giggles and guffaws.
"I believe zat zis year, zee Grandda has no challengers for his station, but zat he has created a verk nonezeless! Iz zat no zo, Henk dear?"
Still more applause.
"Ya," the Grandda replies, "Und it iz almost complete. But, az there iz no hurry, I vill prezide over zee festivities for a vhile. UND... zee tapping of zee kegs az vell!"
An *avalanche* of applause and whoops of approval, none more enthusiastic than those of the soldier-Dwarves.
"Zen I vill leave you to it!" says the Granddam. "Zere vill be games uv skill, und treats to eat, und singing und dancing und magic und zo much more! Az zee Great Baker, I ask zat you all enjoy yourzelves!"
Amidst a final round of applause, the Granddam turns to Redren. "I vill be in my baking tent if you need *any*ting, mein leib. Rodney, vill you zee zat she has a gut time?"
Rondey nods. "There's lots t'do, Granddam has the right of it," he tells Redren. "What might ye like t'do first?"
Redren opens her mouth to reply, but is forestalled when she feels a tugging at her wrist. She looks down to see Olwen, who is looking, concern written in her features, at the group of kinder who are retreating to where Jumbrick stands near the kitchen. She frowns minutely.
"May I go with the kinder, Redren, since we're not needed here? Please?"
The older girl smiles and nods, and, as if released from a lead, Olwen sprints off across the intervening space, her cloak flung out like a pair of green wings behind her. Before long, she is lost among the throng of gnomes which mill about the field. Redren tilts her head up to see where she went, but can't find her.
Instead, her attention is drawn by a small, but ever-increasing, group of gnomes gathered near the outskirts of the clearing. She takes a step in that direction, sensing...something...but turns back to Rodney before going any further.
"What's that over there?"
Rodney follows her gaze to a Gnome standing atop a stump easily twice his height. He wears a Gnome-hat and voluminous robes of slate blue and brown that leave him looking a bit like a small cone-shaped tent. His beard is gray streaked with white, but his blue eyes are bright and sharp as a clear summer sky as he gestures and speaks to the Gnomes gathered around his stump.
As they watch, he doffs his hat, waving a hand over the opening and muttering. A rainbow leaps from the hat, arcing over the crowd and ending at a small storm cloud that rumbles and spritzes the audience with a shower of gumdrops. The Gnomes cheer and applaud.
"That?" says Rodney. "That'd be Meinhard the Magnificent."
Questaor tries wringing out more water from her clothes but gives it up as a lost cause as the girl comes running up. She introduces herself quickly as the other kinder start milling around. Soon conversation starts up on how many honey puffcakes would be made this year. Then the conversation goes into how many puffcakes would be eaten by a single kinder this year!
"Oh," Redren replies, perplexed. She moves a little closer, wishing to get a better look. Though small for a human, she still stands leagues above the shorter gnomes, and thereby makes her interest rather conspicuous.
A gumdrop hits her on the nose, making her blink and shake her head, startled. //I've certainly never seen magic like this before,// she muses, turning the bit of candy over in her hands. There are no elemental magics tied to it, as far as she can tell. Indeed, this would all seem like a well-planned trick of the eye, except that there was just something about the Magician...something that _was_ magical.
"What makes him so Magnificent?" she asks Rodney in a bare whisper, not wishing to attract any more attention than she already has.
"A reasonable question from so magnificent a beauty," a white-blonde Frostig cousin interrupts. "Mitte Frostig at your service, Fraulein. Sweets?" He proffers gumdrops like the one bounced from her pretty nose.
"No, thank you," Redren replies with a smile, either unaware--or uninterested--in his first compliment. She makes a little bow of respect, unsure of what customs go on in this kind of place. "I'm Redren, and you probably already know Rodney, here, right?"
"Aye, we've met," says Rodney, not taking his eyes from the show. "Hullo, Mitte. Your Granddam's well, I trust?"
"Aye, Rodney," Mitte grunts, eyeing Rodney.
Across the crowd, Mitte's cousin Kwartzen laughs gaily as she reaches to gather gumdrops from between the dancing boots of a couple of jolly soldier-dwarves. Nearly trodden upon, she draws back with a little gasp.
Elsewhere various Frostigs seek Jumbrick, Olwen, the dwarf in charge of provisions and any soldier-dwarves they can catch up to. In particular, little Perle struggles to follow the path of Rumples and his companion with the aromatic flask.
"He's a magician," replies Rodney, "and a good one, by all accounts. That's Magnificent enough, I'd reckon."
Meinhard lays a finger on the side of his nose and winks. He vanishes in a shower of sparkles, reappearing atop the gumdrop storm cloud. The audience cheers.
"He taught that trick to a Human living away north in an Elf-colony." Rodney asides to Redren. "Gets a great deal of use out of it roundabout Yuletide, I'm told."
Above them, the gumdrop shower tapers off. Meinhard reaches into his hat and pulls out a fistful of glitter, casting it at his feet. It drifts down through the cloud and coalesces into a cherry-red slide that spirals to the ground. With a whoop, Meinhard jumps down into the cloud and slides down the slide. The cloud vanishes with a *pop* behind him and the slide disappears as he passes.
He lands on his feet not far from Redren and Rodney and bows, to the delight of his audience.
Rodney joins in the general applause.
Meinhard looks up and grins, self-conciously straightening his hat. "Guten tag, Rodney, und velcome back to zee Dancing Hills! Zo gut to zee you again! (Und hallo, Mitte! Gud luck to your Granddam in zee contest!)
"Danke, Meinhard. I am sure the best will prevail."
"Und who is zis lovely leib?" he adds, turning to Redren with a merry twinkle in his eye. "She iz a special one, ya?" He winks knowingly as he offers Redren the chocolate rose that has somehow appeared in his hand.
Redren smiles back and takes the rose, touching its petals lightly as she does so. A flush rises to her cheeks, and causes her to laugh at the strangeness of the whole situation. "I'm Redren, Magician Meinhard," she says amiably, not noticing--or perhaps just ignoring--Mitte's discomfiture at the magician's presence.
"That was quite the show you put on, back there! I've never seen anything like it!"
"Oh, zat was not so very much," he replies, waving off her compliment despite a pleased smile. "But I zank you, Redren, for zuch kind verds. Perhaps vee might 'talk shop' later, ya?"
Rondey's brow furrows, looking from Meinhard to Redren and back. "'Shop'?"
Meinhard blinks, then nods to himself. "Aaaah, I see. Vell, old fool zat I am, I hef said too much, perhaps. I vill allow zee lady to speak for herself, if she vishes." He winks at Redren again and smiles.
Redren's jaw clenches anxiously as attention is drawn back to her. It has hardly been any time at all, and yet she would be forced to tell them already?
"Just a little magic, here and there, Rodney," she says, smiling as honestly as she can. Redren shrugs and spreads her hands to show exactly how helpless she is, when it comes to things like that. "I don't like to rely on it very much, for fear that it will fail me when I am counting on it to pull through."
Rodney nods. "Makes sense enough."
"Ya," Meinhard agrees. "Not even zee finest magicians should rely only on zer magic. Zee easy vay iz not alvays zee best. It can soften zee hands und zee brain, ya?" He taps his hand and temple with a sagely nod and wink.
"Ach, but do lot let an old Gnome's rambling foolishness keep you! Where ver you going? Not zat it matters: -every-where you vill find joy und happiness at zee Whirligig!"
"So it seems," Redren replies, relieved at the change of subject. She wasn't sure, but she had a feeling that neither the dwarves nor the gnomes were used to anything but frivolous magic. Her powers...well, they had never been used for anything really benign. It was better to just stay quiet and hope they didn't pursue any more questions.
"I really should be looking for Olwen," she continues, standing on tiptoe to peer fruitlessly over the crowd. Redren sighs. "I suppose she'll be all right, what with the giant looking out for her."
"Herr Jumbrick? Oh, ya, he iz a good boy. He vill keep her safe."
"Speaking of which...are there any _other_ interesting people around here who I should be warned about?"
At this, Meinhard laughs so hard he threatens to topple over. "-Varned-? Oh, nein, -nein-! You von't find anyvon to be -varned- about... but zere are many interesting vuns, indeed. Hmmm..." -- he eyes Redren, stroking his beard thoughtfully -- "...perhaps you vould like to meet a fine friend of mine? His name iz Kestrel, und he should be by any time now..."
As if the mention of its name were a trigger, a tiny brown and grey raptor darts into their midst, chirruping its greeting between wingbeats. It seems to hover for a moment, deciding where best to perch, and then takes the opportunity to land on Rodney's cap. The kestrel blinks pointedly at Meinhard in hopes of having its crest scratched, seemingly oblivious of the man-in-miniature who is dismounting from its back.
Meinhard looks up at the little falcon and laughs. "If you vant a scratch, Rainving, you vill heff to choose a lower perch." He raises a hand as high as he's able -- which is just below the bird's feet on Rondey's cap -- and futilely scratches the air to illustrate.
The blonde-haired rider tips his wide-brimmed hat to Redren in greeting, before sliding down Rodney's hat to land on his shoulder. He sports leather breeches, a matching vest, and a shirt which, under the dirt, might once have been white.
Rodney takes all of this activity about his head and shoulder in stride. "Hullo, Kestrel," he says to the little man.
Kestrel grins, and thanks Rodney for his assistance with a series of bell-like notes.
He motions to Redren, and says something in the same lilting, tinkling language that Willowdew uses, although his voice is a little deeper.
Redren peers, curious, at the little fae. A fond smile touches her lips. "Why, he's just like Willowdew, but without the wings! What is he saying, Rodney?"
"Not just like your Willowdew, but close enough, I s'pose," Rodney concedes. "He says he'd like t'know who ye are and why you're here."
Jumbrick listens eagerly to the words of the Frostig assigned to him. He picks up the little Gnome, nodding excitedly. "JUMBRICK WILL HELP GNOMES MAKE BIG OV-" The Frostig's urgent shushings cut him off. "JUMBRICK WILL HELP," he concludes.
He scoops up Bert and "his" Frostig as he steps across the fairground to the Frostig pavilion. "BERT WILL HELP GNOMES, TOO," he assures no one in particular.
Meanwhile, the Frostigs after the soldier-Dwarves find their quarries -- including Bert's brother, and the Dwarf with Rumples in tow -- making for a gaily painted tent with the words "Schäumenden Gebräu" written in graceful script above the doorway. The loud laughter and the earthy aroma of barley and hops coming from within render translation largely superfluous.
Rumples balks at the entrance to the tent. "What're we goin' in here for?" he asks. He frowns, and peers into the aroma-filled tent. "There aren't any lady-folk in there." //An' I 'ave a feelin' that Olwen would stay away from 'ere, too.//
The soldier-Dwarf laughs and slaps him on the back. "We're here for a taste of the Gnomes' Foaming Brew, swabber! And the lassies'll be along directly, no doubt, once they know where t'find all the finest lads!"
Rumples frowns, and wonders if the soldier-dwarf hasn't had a little too much drink already. He stands there, undecided.
"Ha," says a golden-haired gnomish maiden from beneath the soldier's left elbow. "Und perhaps you would be so kind as to point out the finest lads?" Her voice is cool, but her eyes sparkle with laughter as she pretends to search the crowd.
Rumples breaks free from the soldier-dwarf's grip. "'ello," he says to the girl, and grins mischeviously. "I don' know where the lads are," he says, "but I'd be willin' to bet my grandsire's ax that they're where all the pretty lassies like you are." He blushes furiously at the end of this small speech.
"Ha! See, lad?" laughs the soldier, one-handedly shaking poor Rumples around the neck. "The lassie's've found us already!
"Bill Cleaver, you're humble servant," he says, bowing to the Gnome lass with a doff of his helmet.
Though she lifts a hand to hide it, the girl smiles and blushes in turn. Regaining her composure, she curtsies. "Perle Frostig, Herr Cleaver. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Oh." Rumples smiles shyly. "'m not a Cleaver, miss Pearle. 'm a Stiltskin."
"Eh... I think she means -me-, swabber," Bill offers.
"Oh," Rumples says in a barely audible voice. It is, indeed, possible for him to turn redder than he already was.
With a sly smile toward Rumples, she strains on tiptoe to survey the crowd once again. "Though I know your folk are mighty verkers, I was unavare of your silver-tongued charm. Your companion half makes me forget my task."
"What was it?" Rumples asks. "Maybe I could 'elp?"
"Would you, Herr Stiltskin?" Perle looks at Rumples with sudden interest. "Could you? If you vould, that vould be so, so lovely. I, I..." In growing excitement, she fumbles for the right words, then pauses to think. "I'll be right back." In the next moment, she's gone.
"Ha!" Bill Cleaver laughs, slapping Rumples on the back. "I think she -likes- ye, lad! Be proud! A Gnome-lassie's eye's not an easy thing t'win!"
Rumples grins, and waits impatiently for Pearle to return.
Rumples grins. Her task could be jumping off a troll-bridge, and he'd gladly do it. He waits impatiently until Pearle returns, forgetting all about the soldier-dwarf and beer-tent.
Soon the Dwarves fully intermingle with the many jolly Gnomes already seated at the long wooden tables inside. Each holds an ornate tankard filled with Schäumenden Gebräu: the Gnomes' legendary "foaming brew", an ale of such richness and potency as to rival gold itself in the hearts of the Dwarves.
Indeed, it is with remarkable speed that the soldier-Dwarves are moved to song. Brodrick climbs atop a table and begins the swaying ditty, with the other Dwarves -- and the Gnomes, when they learn the chorus -- joining in. Feet stomp and tankards slosh as they sing:
"Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Fill up your cups
With Gnomes' Foaming Brew!
May your coin-purse be heavy,
Your worries be few,
Your cup overflowing
With GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
"I once knew a lass
Name of Gertie McGroo -
She grilled a fine sausage,
She stirred a fine stew,
But no finer thing
She ever would do
Than filling my cup
With GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
"Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Fill up your cups
With Gnomes' Foaming Brew!
May your coin-purse be heavy,
Your worries be few,
Your cup overflowing
With GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
"I once had a love
That was golden and true!
I asked her to wed,
But she said we were through.
She had found another,
But I'd found one, too:
A fine hearty mug
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
"Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Fill up your cups
With Gnomes' Foaming Brew!
May your coin-purse be heavy,
Your worries be few,
Your cup overflowing
With GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
"So craft you fine baubles,
And engines that spew,
And cannon and axe-blades
To run Goblins through,
But far craftier he
Who finds captain and crew,
And sets sail on an ocean
Of GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
"Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Gnomes' Foaming Brew,
Fill up your cups
With Gnomes' Foaming Brew!
May your coin-purse be heavy,
Your worries be few,
Your cup overflowing
With GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!"
*****
I was down on my luck,
My plans all fell through,
My engines did not work,
My gaskets all blew.
But my foreman he said
"Lad, don't be blue,
just pour y'self a mug
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!"
My father's a drunk
My mother just won't do
My brother's a cook
Cuts meat for the stew
My family's only dwarf
I am, it's true
Console me with a pint
Of GNOME's FOAM-ING BREW!
Oh, Witches are evil,
dried-up magic shrews:
A Soldier must face 'em
and the Goblins too
With sword, shield, and helmet
with courage to do
what we must to earn
Our GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
Well lovers are many,
But friends they are few.
And if you have any,
They're gone with the dew.
But one friend I tell you
Will always be true...
Just get you a stout pint
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
Our song has gone on,
And lasted the night.
Our tenor’s unconscious,
And nothing rhymes right!
So when verses are rare,
And inspirations are few…
We all need a new mug
Of GNOME’S FOAM-ING BREW!
Are thoughts getting rusty?
You can't think things through?
It seems like there's nothing
You can't misconstrue?
When your brainbox is stove up
From intake to flue,
Just pour in two more pints
Of GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
Ooooh,
They call it Gnomes Foamin' Brew!
And gnomes that refuse it are few!
I'll hush up mah mug,
If ya fill up mah jug
With that ol' Gnomes Foamin' Brew!
Drinking songs ramble
With verse upon verse
The subjects get wierder
And each rhyme gets worse
As we struggle for meaning
When there's none in view
Let's share another round
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
[And a Gnome replied:]
Schäumenden Gebräu,
Schäumenden Gebräu,
Ja, dass schmeckt gut, die
Schäumenden Gebräu.
Sei' sie immer gezund,
Und hab' immer genug,
Und haben Sie ewig die
Schäumenden Gebräu!
**Gnome's Foaming Brew,
Gnome's Foaming Brew,
Yes, it tastes good, that
Gnome's Foaming Brew!
May you always be healthy,
And e're have enough,
And always have plenty of
Gnome's Foaming Brew!
--Rough Translation**
Our Nexan's a Writer
With Monsters galore
Joe Black stands for Law
Shows evil the door
After a long day of guns
The Ranger heads to
His local bar and a mug
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
Scribe is a wordsmith
To whom none can compare
Characters developed
while she sits in her chair
Between that and her garden
of Whysteria too
She could use a chalice
Of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
And John's a fine bloke
With a Dwarf-bearded chin,
And anime visions
To make us all grin.
His cool cat, LeChat,
Says, "Milk? No, thank you --
Just pour me a saucer
of GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!"
My feet have gone achey
I may have the flu
And luck is quite flakey
but what can I do?
When I'm in the pit
and covered in goo
I reach for my glass
of GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
The barrel is empty,
Our drinking is done.
The barman does tally,
But our money is none!
We duck from his onslaught.
Ho! What has he threw?
A newly breached barrel
Of GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
Battles they come
An' battles they go
Humans ha' the sword
Elves ha' the bow
They can take my axe
But a fight they'll really rue
Is if they take my mug
Of GNOMES' FOAM-ING BREW!
Roses are perfect
For romancing a girl
Even daisies when given
can cause lips to curl
But if romancing me
This advice I give you
Do not give me flowers
But GNOME'S FOAM-ING BREW!
*****
Mitte Frostig drains half a tankard and sloshes half the rest across the table he's dancing upon.
Trying to catch the eye of a barmaid, he spies the shining white head of his grandmother bobbing through the crowd outside the tent.
"Yikes!" he wails and hops down into the less conspicuous crowd, who are making a strong attempt at stomping the ground into oblivion.
"Now, vhere did that lovely Redren go?" he asks the nearest dwarf.
*****
Olwen turns, surprised, as she is approached by a bright-eyed little gnome. She leaves the berry tart that she had just been about to dig into, and instead offers it to the Frostig instead. She smiles brightly. "Hello! Did Redren send you to look for me? I'll give you this if you don't tell her where I am for a little while."
"Oh, ya," Otto nods repeatedly and shakes his head at the same time. "Your secret is safer than a double-safe thing. I vould never tell." He's still nodding when he stuffs most of the tart into his mouth.
He frowns into his hand, now full of sticky crust. Casting his eyes about the crowd, he reaches up on tiptoe to pluck the cap from the head of a laughing infant who dangles in a knapsack behind her mother. Otto places the pile of crusts atop the baby's round head then pops the cap back into place.
"Ach," he says confidentially to Olwen, "tart bones should be always be given a proper burial. Don't you think?"
"I didn't think tarts had bones until now," Olwen replies, looking after the child with interest. She then grins at the little gnome and seems just about to reach out for his hand before remembering its condition. Instead, she tips her head in greeting. "My name's Olwen. You're one of the Frostigs, aren't you?"
"Ya," Otto concedes, licking off his his fingers and looking around the crowd restlessly. With a sudden bright smile, he says, "Olwen, do you like newts?"
A voice pipes up behind Olwen. "How do you know itz a newt, Otto?" Questaor pops into view, offering the others some chocolate chocolate-chip cookies....
"Newts?" Olwen looks shocked for a moment. Her mother had never allowed her to play with wild animals...but then, she wasn't at home anymore. She has a funny feeling that Redren would object, too, but then, Redren wasn't there, either.
"I love newts," she says with a mischevious grin. "Where are they?"
*****
"Oh..." Redren chuckles and reaches out to offer the little fairy the tip of her finger in greeting. He takes it politely in both of his hands and gives it a little shake, making Redren smile with delight.
"My name is Redren," she says. "And I'm here with the dwarves to pick up their honeycakes. I was supposed to be looking after a girl named Olwen, but she's disappeared. Have you seen her?"
Kestrel seems to think hard for a moment, even going so far as to reach up and thoughtfully stroke the white feather in his hat. Then he seems to stumble upon something, tugs on Rodney's ear to make sure he's listening, and chimes his answer.
Rodney listens to Kestrel's chiming and nods. "Says he saw Miss Olwen with a few Gnomekinder heading down to the riverbank to play."
*****
Otto takes two cookies, takes a big bite through both at once then tucks them into his pocket. "I'll show you," he asserts firmly.
Hurriedly wiping crumbs and berry syrup onto his tiny white shirtfront, he grasps Olwen's hand. He assures them, "This is going to be fine." With that, he pulls Olwen nearly off her feet.
Questaor sighs and plunges into the crowd after them.
They run full speed, hopping and zigging between the legs of adults, to duck between the walls of noisy tents. "This is going to be _so_ fine," Otto repeats over his shoulder as they run.
A small voice can be heard behind them. "Zorry, fraulen! Pardon, zir! Excuse _me_, frau! Watch it, kind!!"
At the bottom of the hill, they careen around the corner of a cottage and, having left the crowded faire behind, make a headlong beeline across the road. As they drop over the road's far shoulder, their feet pound a narrow beaten footpath which disappears into thick foliage growing along the river.
Screeching to a halt, Otto turns and grins, panting for breath. As if in a cave, they are enclosed by the grasses and shrubs, wildflowers and willows that grow with roots reaching into the river. Below their feet, the riverbank is firm, well-worn earth.
Questaor screeches to a halt as well, but spends a few moments huffing and puffing. "Otto...*wheeze*,it iz no wonder *pant* you need *gasp* zo much zugar!"
"Here." he declares. "Lots of newts here."
Turning, he throws himself down at the brink of the water and plunges his hands into the river's muddy bottom. Hands full, he scrambles up awkwardly then presents his prize for inspection. Both hands are overflowing with soft, brown mud. And the mud, or something in it, is moving.
"See?" he nods confidently, "Newts."
Questaor gives the handfuls a close eyeballing. She cocks her head at Otto with a slight frown. "It lookz to _me_, Otto" she states. "Like a handful of moving mud."
For a moment Otto only glares in silence, then he shrugs. Tossing one handful back into the river, he carefully pulls open his green velvet jacket and pours the other handful into the inside pocket. "Suit yourself," he says.
He then reaches back into the pocket and extracts a single dollop of mud with a delicate thumb and forefinger. Eyes challenging Questaor, he stoops to dip his hands in the river. When he holds one hand aloft this time, a tiny mud-colored, smooth-skinned lizard dangles from his fingers. It writhes around to cling to his thumb and smiles at Questaor; studying her with friendly, liquid eyes.
When Otto releases his hold on its tail, the newt runs around to stand atop the back of his hand and stare at Olwen. Then, with a start, it quickly circles Otto's wrist twice and disappears up his sleeve.
Otto wiggles and laughs. "I told you. Newts."
"Oh, it IS a newt!" cries Olwen in delight. Without further adieu, she plunges her hands into the water near the shore, to pull of a mound of dripping mud. It makes its way down her arms, staining her tunic when it reaches her elbows. Her efforts do not go unnoticed, however: after an anxious pause, little mud-coloured blobs begin to make their leisurely way up her arms and onto her shoulders.
"They're cute, but dirty," the girl announces, as one sodden salamander peers at her with soft brown eyes (few people realize the close relationship that salamanders and newts actually have). A newt joins it, and they tussle for the premier position until Olwen pulls them apart. She dips them both into the river before placing one on each of her shoulders.
A flurry of wind chimes and a trail of sparkles mark the arrival of Brandymead Willowdew.
She circles Olwen's head twice before zipping over to hover above Otto's wrist. Lifting the hem of his sleeve, she peers after the newt and confuzzledly scratches her little blonde head. Then, dropping the sleeve, she flits up to Otto's eye level and chimes curiously to him.
"Otto, this is Brandymead Willowdew," Olwen says, nodding towards the little fae. The now-green newt peers with great curiosity at the new arrival, although the salamander seems more inclined to look into Olwen's ear. "What's she saying?"
Otto grins. "She wants to know where it went." He wiggles inside his jacket and extends his other hand. The newt walks calmly out onto his palm, flops on its belly and yawns.
Questaor shakes her head. "Nuh-uh, Otto. She asked vhat you _do_ wit ze newts!" The little gnome makes a face. "You should see him in class wit zem...Gertrude Struezel had to go home every day for a veek because of newts in her hair.... But you should have zeen Otto's face when he vound one in hiz milk the next day!" She giggles.
By all appearances, Otto is unamused. He glares at Questaor. He looks at the newt. He looks again at Questaor and considers his options.
Questaor relxes a bit, perhaps to be more prepared to dodge. She gets a large smile for such a small face. "Who do you zink helped Gertrude get ze newts, Otto?" she asks sweetly and far too innocently.
*****
When they next see Perle, she is across the crowded room. She stands at the end of a long table. And though most of the table is occupied, the benches she guards have been cleared and the table before her has been set with a large, frothing pitcher, mugs, a china tea service and a few other items. Perle herself climbs up to stand on a bench and motions to them.
"Mr. Stiltskin!" she shouts, "Mr. Cleaver! This way!"
Rumples wastes no time in getting to the table. He raises an eyebrow at the tea-service, which looks as beautiful and fragile as a soap-bubble. "'m 'fraid to *breathe,*" he whispers to Bill.
"Pearle," he says with a short little bow, and grins. "Thank you!"
*****
"She's safe, then," Redren says to herself, satisfied. "Good. They won't let her get into too much trouble, I imagine."
Rainwing, unconcerned about Redren or anyone else, for that matter, leans over to nudge Kestrel with a wingtip. The fairy turns, startled, and confers with the little kestrel for several moments using little chirps and squeaks. They seem to understand each other perfectly.
When Kestrel turns back to Rodney and Meinhard, he cocks his head in curiosity. He gestures towards the baking tents, and chimes a question to them.
*****
"You are most velcome, Herr -" she pauses and smiles, "You are most welcome, _Rumples_."
Perle wordlessly offers the dwarves their choice of brew or tea.
Rumples grins and, perhaps for the first time in his life, finds nothing to say. When Pearle offers him coffee, he nods wordlessly. When she offers him tea, he does the same, and drinks neither.
Despite the raucous celebration, Perle moves with efficient grace to serve her guests and then herself. The one still thing in a room full of revelry, she draws no attention to herself as she sees they never reach the bottom of their mugs.
Eventually she sips her own tea, sets the cup in its saucer and places her hands in her lap, waiting expectantly.
"Tell me about your home," she says, leaning forward, "Do they love the water there? The sea? The rivers? Do you?"
Bill leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers over his belly and sighing contentedly. "Ah... the water? Well, there's a lake or three about, and rivers in the forest. But Dwarves generally keep to busy to be mucking about in'em.
"But I confess," he adds, pausing to close his eyes and take a long, smiling whiff of the salty air, "the sea _does_ do wonders for a Dwarf's constitution!"
"Of course, it does!" Perle blurts out. With growing excitement, she turns to Rumples. "And you? Do you have a love of ze water?"
"Well," the dwarf [Rumples] says, finally finding his voice, "There aren't many rivers where I live...'cepting the Chrys. 'ey call it that," he explains, "'cause even the deepest parts - ya can see right through to the bottom. Hundreds 'a feet deep you look down, but ya can still see the little silverwhite fishes dartin' bout on the bottom, like stars." After this unexpected outburst of eloquence, Rumples turns quite red and stares at the edge of the pristinely white tablecloth.
Resting her face on one tiny fist, Perle sighs happily. "Oh, I would love to see zat. It sounds ... vunderbar. And I knew you would understand. The water, like your Chrys, it is ze most beautiful -- deep and fascinating. And mysterious, ze best and most perfect riddle. Ze first time I saw you, I knew."
Realizing she had run out of words and was simply staring at Rumples, she blushed.
"Uhh," Rumples says, staring at Pearle with an open-mouthed grin.
"And you, Mr. Cleaver!" Perle shouts awkwardly but soon warms to her subject, "You are so right! The sea does make us strong!" With a hearty shake of her fists, she asserts, "Ze sea is strength itself. Ze _crashing_ of the waves. And ze size of it! And ze power!"
Swinging from side to side as she speaks, Perle nearly tumbles from her chair.
"Well," she says, blushing furiously, "this is _exzactly_ why I am sure you two will appreciate my plan."
With an air of serious business, the little gnome unrolls before them a large parchment covered from edge to edge with schematic detail, much like a map. In the lower left corner, in large, fine letters are the words: Whirligig Waterworks, Arkitekt: Perle Frostig.
"Of course, I am not a professional. And I am sure there are flaws, but..."
Glad to have something to distract him from the complete unknown of proper tea etiquette, Rumples jumps out of his chair and rushes around to lean over Pearle's shoulder, and look at the parchment. "Ooh," he breathes in wonder. "This is 'mpressive, Miss Pearle!" He points to the bucket-system, the water-scooper, and the gurgly-pipes with amazement. "How'd ya think 'a all this?"
Bill nods, eyeing the diagram with an expert's appreciation. "Aye, it's a fine piece of thinking, and no mistake. I'd no idea Gnomes could be so handy with a blueprint! Why, given a Dwarf or three, ye'd have this up and pumping in nothing flat, no doubt!"
Rumples nods. "I'd be glad 't help, Miss Pearle!" He grins, then blushes. "What made ya think 'a such a thing? Th' gnomes havin' water troubles?"
*****
Dwarf and Gnome follow Kestrel's gesture to the crowd of Dwarves -- and one Giant -- gathered near the Frostigs' tent.
Meinhard strokes his beard thoughtfully. "Zomething fishy?" the magician says. "Oh, I vould zink zat zee Frostigs are merely showing off zere cooking apparatus to our guests. Zee Granddam iz a proud voman, you know."
"Asides," Rodney adds, "Of all the Gnomes, Barnabas'd find Frau Frostig's company most agreeable, I'd warrant."
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