DWARF IN A HOLE

“SAVING... SAVED.”

As the dwarf pulled away from the blank book’s pages winding down, he found himself surrounded by his flock much as he’d been the moment he hoisted himself up into the steeple. And the dwarf fell to his knees and wept once more, embracing his creatures one after another--some, multiple. Even Funguayou he greeted with a light heart. It’d seen to his beasts while away--two days and two nights. Perhaps he’d thought too harshly of the dwarfen funguay, mused the dwarf. He unslung his bag and lit its pipe without it even requesting, to which it expressed great gratitude in between smoke. Meanwhile the dwarf, in producing the striker, realized he’d no idea where his pickaxe had gone. He didn’t think he’d even brought it to the emerald chamber. So it must have been still in his suite, he hoped. The dwarf’s thoughts quite ahead, he knew he’d need to return to the dwarfen ruins below and realize some sort of staircase and tunnel connecting it and the steeple. But before even this could happen, the roof demanded more immediate attention. The dwarf was in remiss to know he’d need delay this. The dwarf thought of Doctor Mallow. It rot in its cage--the same fate he’d suffered. He thought of The Ponderous One, its writhing bark no doubt in agony. The Ponderous would continue to suffer in a pained existence known only to Locust and Doetrieve--and what would become of the latter due to such knowledge? All this the dwarf wrestled with as his hands stayed busy off the fur of his flock. Eventually he retired to a pew and bent forward, locking his fingers focused on nothing. He did not notice Funguayou taking a seat beside.

“Well, none of the hogs were vexed, but my shroom sure got sweatin’ earlier, buddy. Great big storm pours through one hole and a great big shriek shoots up out from the other. Before any of us could react, Waspig dove like a rock. I was worried, yes, that you’d come back and beat me to death for my inaction. To have you come up from the hole... I’m not holding back, dwarf, I know a few things from you and the doctor. Well, I’ve known about the dwarfen relocator. Or, at least, I had a hunch. No one carves runes like dwarfs carve runes, dwarf. But to my word the doctor knew nothing of it until you sent him down that way, likely. I should’ve said something sooner, buddy, I’m sorry. But has there been a dull moment, really? For me, sure, sitting pretty with the boarbugs, the mudkip, and the mosquitos--ceaseless pests. While you, you go, go, go. Always moving. Why don’t you try some of this herb? Now that’s really something I missed: working flint. But hold on, I’m sidetracked. You’ve gone two nights before showing up again. And you came out the hole! Old man down there, was he... you know? Buddy, change my mind, I don’t want to know. And I’m not trying to hold out on you, honest. Listen, the doctor’s been in a shady deal. Recall the elfen captain? Locust set his own tree up, and Mallow helped him do it. That’s right... come again? You already know all this? Enough with the tight lips, then! What’s happened? Where’ve you been?”

The dwarf informed Funguayou of all that had passed since setting out from the steeple two mornings ago to trapping Locust and his henchmen beneath the cottage. As he got this far, the true realization of two full day’s passing washed over the dwarf. A storm and sun had come and gone since clumsily sneaking into the elf’s relocator--since Doetrieve’d made the offer to accompany the dwarf on a house call. Would he be there now? Would they, still? Funguayou, somewhat annoyed at having the explanation suddenly dropped, tugged at the dwarf’s thick arm. But he shrugged the gesture, got up from his chair, made his way over to the barricaded church entrance, and began the dismantling.

“Hey! Hey! What’s this, you’ve gone rude, dwarf! Where are you to now? You don’t really think Locust’s still in the cellar, do you? What if he’s broken free and awaits you? Who will light my pipe? Dwarf, are you listening?”

But what he recalled, the dwarf only did much later, enroute. For the dwarf, the shift in clarity was so stark he did not realize he ran. Attempting to slow the feet below that blew past earth and trail, instead an overwhelming wave of dysmorphia beset the dwarf. His limbs resisted one order after another, their own minds formed like that within his dwarf gut. Wind rushed into his cheeks. His beard split in two, each half alternating with the other in flailing its master. His eyes squashed to a squint, tears streaming and whipping rivers through the air. Arms keeping pace, fingers balled to fists, the dwarf soon beheld the silhouette of the cottage before the setting sun. Only seconds later he was all the closer, and time truly seemed lost as seconds more the dwarf was just before the door. One massive foot plunging in front of the other, his dwarfen matter rewound the events to clarity. Just before having rearranged the barricade, the dwarf pointedly asked Funguayou about “ADRENALINE TECHNIQUE”.

“What’s that? You’ve gotten to thirty already, have you? In ‘athletics’? That’s very common--sorry, buddy, not what I meant. You’ve reason to be proud, such a milestone’s a sign of maturity. For most, that’s all it is as well. Obviously you and I know what adrenaline is, but ‘adrenaline’ isn’t that. Recall the pulp heroes you read of and their abilities, their traits I’ll describe as like a lever. They flip it and beams of light gun from their eyes. You flip it and your body’s gonna work itself into a fervor. And you won’t be able to do it again so soon. And I follow, I follow. You want to the cottage fast, don’t you? Onto the right idea, dwarf. But it’s taxing. Don’t underestimate what most don’t bother with for that very reason. True, you’re dwarf. That makes a difference. But you’re not infallible. Make sense? My throat--dwarf, before you go...”

Bursting through the cottage’s entrance, the dwarf crashed to the ground in a heap of wood chips and chunks, trash cementing the fall as far less than graceful. Rug burn bit his face bad, and he rolled over groaning in agony. As his lids shut and reopened, a blurred figure came into view, shoulder length hair hovering above.

“Weren’t sure ‘ow long you’d keep me waitin’, dwarf. Di’n’t know ‘ow you’d enter, either, seems.”

Smiling at Doetrieve, the dwarf’s lids drooped in anticipation of sleep. But it did not come. Heart beating wildly, lungs pumping, he could not maintain the face of relief long. Relief, thought the dwarf--Doetrieve really was safety. The dwarf was exhausted but at ease. Still dwelling, the elf in the room continued.

“Whats this? ‘Adrenaline’’s clear as day ‘cross that beard. You look smashed, dwarf. Can’t be yer first, can it? Looks so, I’ll say. You followin’ little fella? Nod.”

The dwarf nod.

“Right, well, ‘e’re’s it all laid out. When the boys came a-runnin’ amok frenzied about some stout interloper, well, I thought myself deserted. Figured I’d go on an’ check out the funguay’s place then alone to see if you were givin’ it to me straight. An’ sure enough, found Locust an’ Giltgrief an’ Sowsmith, all three just like ya said. Freed ‘em, a’course. The captain just about soiled ‘imself when he first glimpsed me but collected ‘imself fast enough. Seemed grateful. But yer right, dwarf, there was somethin’ off. Shoved me aside an’ went riflin’ wildly for what I bet were those gems. An’ such’s safe and stowed away, worry you not. ‘E was certainly sour over it on the way back. Ah, it just slipped my mind. Dwarf, he’s set the fungus to hang. Bright an’ early on the ‘morrow. Now dwarf, I ain’t normally sheddin’ no tear for the likes of it. But ‘e might be the only one who can save The Ponderous. Bet Locust knows if he goes, so does that chance. Blessed Ponderous you showed up, dwarf, really. Just about night soon. You catch your breath a second more and we better head on out: we’re breaking that fungus free. Whaddya say?”

The dwarf nod and let the side of his face fall to carpet...

Wind tickled the thick hairs of the dwarf’s beard--it was as if he’d activated ‘ADRENALINE’ once again. But the arc felt wrong; his face kept being blown at angles. The motion made him nearly ill--he choked it down and opened his eyes to a vast expanse of stars. The dwarf realized his hands were wound around something--someone: Doetrieve--facing forward. The wind rushed from below as their trajectory fell--he knew the two of them then atop a creature and saddle. Though the all encompassing night covered much in darkness, the stars closest burned themselves the hardest, shadows and light burring into one another across the plains of green traveled. But the color was not that of earth: catching glimpses through holes in foliage, the dwarf pegged his traveling self to be dancing across the great forest’s roof. And the mode of transportation: jumping spider.

The dwarf hollered.

“What! What!” yelled back Doetrieve, body contorting wildly to control his reins. The dwarf compressed the elf’s organs in abject terror. It was one thing to be mindful of the spider and its aid without visual acknowledgement. It was another to be atop one, and with no clothes no less. The bristles were not especially jagged--rather, the dwarf felt as if he were atop a soft mound of grass. This was a small comfort, but he could face nowhere but his lap to avoid sight of the bending of eight appendages. For the rest of the trip the dwarf kept his jaw locked, the rest left to Doetrieve.

Many soarings and descents later, the three shot over the tall walls of the elfen settlement and landed in an obscure thicket. It took several pats to his shoulder before the dwarf released Doetrieve, and the latter helped the former off the unsettling ride. Daring a glance, the dwarf forced a comparison between its eyes and that of Waspig in order to keep sane. The elf, having gathered the uncomfortable state of his stout guest, took his hand suddenly and jerked it below a pedipalp. The dwarf’s eyes shot wide and a second hand rushed in time to stifle another scream. Carefully, Doetrieve angled the limp limb so as to let, what the dwarf would later come to learn, the spider smell him. Its multitude of eyes studied the dwarf with a sense of frightening perception. The dwarf resisted losing himself to hyperventilation, breathing deep and low.

“She’d be flickin’ ‘airs at you if she di’n’t like ya. Bet the day ever comes she sets eyes on Locust, thas ‘xactly what she’ll do.”

She, wondered the dwarf, hand released with much anticipation. And as if reading his frazzled mind, Doetrieve answered.

“Paris. It’s a dusty name. But I keep ‘er safe.”

The dwarf nodded, came to a slow stop, and stared at the elf as if to communicate: now what?

“Reckon I’ll hang this saddle up and Paris’ll skip on into ‘er cave. Morning’s soon--time’s wastin’. Let’s bust a fungus.”