Us Gnomes Stick Together

pdmac

 

 

Skeeter stood at the end of the bridge connecting Ynys Bari to Ynys Denligh, wondering if the tale was true. Old Alvyn Wrenchman said that there were islands that actually rose up out of the ocean, that gnomes once traveled on ships that used the wind and sails to make them plow through the water from one island to another. What old Alvyn said next had to be stretching the truth. He said the airships gnomes now used were little different from the ships back then.

Skeeter shook his head, trying to imagine a gnomish caravel hoisted by a large gas-filled envelope, thrust forward by two whirling propellers at the back of the sterncastle, bouncing along on top of the water. What sane captain would want to do that? The water would just slow him down as well as bounce the ship and cargo all over.

Besides, why would anyone want to sail on top of the water when they could sail high above the water like the birds in the sky? And why would anyone want to go below the floating islands anyway? Life was perfect right here. Well… almost perfect.

That’s why he was here, studying the bridge.

He had admired the bridge from the moment he learned that his great-great-great-grandfather Jebido Bolthead had built the first bridge connecting the two islands. While his father claimed it was an engineering feat, others pointed out that there wasn’t much engineering involved.

“That might be true,” his father admitted, “but it took his genius to make it happen.”

Grandpa Jebido had convinced the skeptics that the two islands could be brought closer together. After all, they were less than a quarter-mile apart.

“They’re floating islands,” Jebido had pointed out. “Sure, they tend to stay in one spot, but that doesn’t mean they can’t move. All we gotta do is move one.”

When asked why they needed to move the island in the first place, Jebido answered, “Us gnomes gotta stick together. There’s gnomes there; there’s gnomes here. Don’t see the sense of living apart.”

His solution was simple – ropes and winches.

When Skeeter asked why didn’t they just use airships with ropes attached to the island, his father explained that airships hadn’t been invented yet.

“So how did they get the rope across?”

“Cannon,” his father proudly said. “After they spent almost a year making two ropes as thick as yer wrist and just about as long as this island, Grandpa Jebido rigged up two cannons that could fire spear-like projectiles. Attached the ropes to ‘em and fired ‘em off. Took a couple o’ tries to get the powder load right. First three shots fell short. But, on the fourth try, hoo boy! Once folks on the other side dodged out the way, they wrapped the ropes around fifty of the stoutest trees they could find. When they finished, they sent a pigeon across tellin’ us they were ready. Well, Grandpa got them winches turnin’ by riggin’ up a pulley system, each pulley with big teeth in ‘em like in a gear clock.”

“How many gnomes did it take to pull the rope?”

His father slapped his knee and laughed. “Just about everyone who lived on this island. They’d pull and pull and inch by inch the two islands started movin’.”

Skeeter loved the tale so much that it was his favorite bedtime story, especially the part where it took nigh two weeks to pull them closer until they were so close that you could just about reach across and shake hands.

That was when the tremors started.

“Ya brought it too dang close,” the island council exclaimed, wringing their hands.

“So, what did they do?” Skeeter asked, repeating the same line with the same fervor.

“Well,” his father said with a knowing smile, “Grandpa told ‘em to hush up ‘cause he got it all figured.”

“It’s the gas below mixin’ and interfering with each other,” Jebido explained. “What we gotta do is build a spanner bridge.”

“A spanner bridge?” Skeeter asked on cue.

“Yup,” his father answered. “First, he built a wooden bridge to connect the two islands, but in the center, he had sections like giant corkscrews. That’s when the fun began.”

“How did they twist the screw?”

His father burst a laugh at the telling. “Tied ropes around themselves and attached the other end to one of the levers.”

“And jumped right off,” Skeeter announced, filling in that part of the story.

“Hoo boy, that had to be a sight,” his father guffawed. “All them gnomes jumpin’ off the bridge.”

“Weren’t they scared?”

“Course they were. That’s why the ones that did are remembered for bein’ so brave.”

“Did any die?”

His father grew solemn and nodded. “We lost two brave gnomes then, but Grandpa pushed the island away just far enough that the tremors stopped.”

“Then what happened?”

“Why they built a permanent bridge and it’s been there ever since. Folks called Grandpa a genius and a hero. And when they saw that it worked so well, they did the same thing for the other four islands close by. That’s why we only use airships for the islands too far away to be pulled closer. But what do we learn from all this?” His father narrowed his gaze and smiled at his son.

“Us gnomes stick together.”

That’s why Skeeter was here today to study the bridge.

For hundreds of years, the connected islands had enjoyed a tranquil peace and prosperity unequaled in their history. But that peace was threatened, for one of the islands was sinking.

They discovered it a month ago when someone noticed cracks in the masonry. Thinking it a result of age, they repaired the cracks and thought little more about it… until two weeks ago when the cracks reappeared, worse this time. Surveyors took measurements and experts were called. The result?

The island, the biggest island, was sinking.

According to the experts, based on the severity of the cracks, it would probably be only a few months before the island sank all the way down to the ocean to float away to who knew where?

“It’s running out of magairite,” one expert opined.

“No, it’s not,” another expert countered. “It’s because of the additional population that’s adding weight to the island and pushing it down. All we have to do is move folks to the other islands and the problem is solved. Remember, the simplest solution is more often the right one.”

“We’ve offended the gods,” a cleric intoned, “and this is the result.”

Ignoring him, the experts continued their debate, finally settling on reducing the weight by having everyone on the island cross a bridge to another island, When nothing happened after five days, the experts regrouped.

“Definitely a problem with the reduced amount of magairite,” they expostulated.

“What’s magairite?” a young gnome asked.

“It’s the gem that acts as a catalyst with the caliche of the islands,” an expert loftily replied.

“What’s a catalyst and what’s caliche?”

The expert narrowed a frown at the young gnome. “Don’t you have someplace you need to be?”

“No, not really,” he cheerily answered.

“Humpf, well, I don’t have time to explain it all at the moment. If you’re really interested, come by my work.”

“That still doesn’t solve the problem,” a council member from the sinking island moaned. “What are we going to do?”

“We dig up magairite from the other islands and bury it here,” another expert suggested, which caused a round of hysteria from the other island councils.

“That would cause all the other islands to sink,” the councils cried out.

“Whatever happened to ‘Us gnomes stick together?’” Skeeter asked.

“We do,” an older gnome replied, “but in this instance, it makes no sense for the many to suffer for the few. Besides, they can always move to one of the other islands. That’s gnomes sticking together. I say let it sink and be done with it.”

Quite naturally that did not sit well with the residents of Ynys Denligh.

“What about getting magairite from somewhere else?” Skeeter interrupted.

“Other than these islands, the only other source of magairite is Ynys Malfor,” an expert replied, which sent shivers through the crowd.

“That’s where the Tynelings live,” a voice wailed.

“They’re vicious giants, headhunters and cannibals,” another voice added

Skeeter’s face hardened. “Suppose someone was able to bring back some magairite? What would do with it?”

“We dig a hole and bury it,” one expert answered.

“How far down?” Skeeter narrowed his gaze at him.

“Uh… as far as possible.”

There was an awkward pause before another gnome spoke. He was an older gnome with bushy white brows and a thick white beard that fell nearly to his belt buckle.

“That’s not gonna work. The reactions that cause the gas to provide buoyancy and stability occur far below the surface… too far for us to dig We’re gonna need someone to take the magairite and toss it into the cauldron of reactions to stabilize the island until we can come up with a better plan.”

“But that… that’s suicide,” a gnome sputtered, “on two accounts. We need someone either brave enough or stupid enough to get the magairite from the headhunters then fly over the side of the island and down to where he can toss it into the churning inferno. Who’s crazy enough to do that?”

“I will,” Skeeter answered.

A stunned silence evaporated to cheers and whistles until the elder gnome pointed out, “He’ll need a crew. Can’t sail the airship by himself.”

After a thick silence engulfed the crowd, a voice called out, “I’ll go.”

A tall gnome by gnome standards pushed through the crowd, followed by muted voices saying his name, “Torgil Iron-Sprocket.”

Torgil was two handspans taller than Skeeter, with a full thick dark brown beard that went to the middle of his stout chest. Where Skeeter had the glow and exuberance of a gnome just entering his adult years, Torgil had the look of a gnome used to working with his hands, bending metal to his will… a strong, brave and fearless gnome who, despite an appearance of sober reticence, some said could also be bit reckless.

“Thank you, Torgil,” Skeeter said with heartfelt appreciation.

“That only leaves seven more,“ the elder gnome said.

When no one else stepped forward, he sharply shook his head and growled, “I’ll go.”

“What?” many in the crowd mocked. “You’re an old gnome, Cormun. How can you help?”

Several others called out that the only reason he volunteered was because he was old, that this was a suicide mission and he just wanted to be remembered for being brave. Yet a few others were conscience convicted and three more stepped forward, effectively silencing the crowd.

Folding his handing over the top of his ornately carved cane, Cormun slowly scanned the crowd. Ticking his head at Skeeter, he said, “This lad’s right. Us gnomes stick together. At least we used to. We’ve grown soft from living the good life… no dangers, no outside interferences, just us going about our daily lives enjoying the blessings of peace and prosperity. But now there’s a danger and a problem, it seems like it’s every gnome for himself. I said we’d need seven more, but if we use one of the old scout ships, the five of us can do the job.” He cocked an eyebrow and curled a lip. “Then the rest of you can go back to pretending none of this is your business.”

If his words were meant to cause guilt, they failed miserably as the crowd cheered the rescue team. Rolling his eyes, Corman beckoned the others to follow him. Twenty minutes later, they stood in front of a large storehouse next to Cormun’s cozy home with a high-pitched roof of polished bark.

“Wait here while I fetch the key.”

Another twenty minutes later and Cormun ambled out the bright red door, a thick iron padlock key in his hand. “Forgot where I put it. Been a while since I was in there.” He handed the key to Skeeter. “Here. You go ahead and open it.”

Admiring the ornate scrollwork on the handle, Skeeter inserted the key into the lock, which easily popped open. Opening the door, he led the way into the dark storehouse.

“Unbar the main doors there,” Cormun commanded, “and let some light in.”

Torgil and Skeeter lifted the crossbar off and swung open the main doors. Sunlight flooded into the storehouse.

There in the middle of the storehouse, propped on eight boat stands of varying heights, rested a gnome-sized brigantine scout ship… a very old scout ship.

“You want to sail in that?” one volunteer exclaimed, suddenly having second thoughts on the whole affair.

“Yes, Warvyn,” Cormun proudly replied. “She may not look like much at the moment, but she was the fastest scout ship in her time.”

“What? A thousand years ago?” Warvyn stared at the relic then cocked an eyebrow at Cormun before relaxing and chuckling. “Good one.”

“Good one what?” Cormun replied, puzzled.

Warvyn continued chuckling, shaking his head. “You had me going for a while. Where’s the real ship?”

“This is it,” Cormun answered with a frown.

“Very funny,” Warvyn said, tilting his head back and looking down his large bulbous nose at him. “Where’s the real ship?” Craning his neck to take a quick scan around the storehouse, he tsked. “It’s not even in here. Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The ship.”

“It’s right there.” Cormun poked his cane at the vessel.

“C’mon Cormun,” Warvyn said, starting to get tired of the joke. “You’ve had your fun, but enough’s enough.”

Cormun twisted his head to frown at Skeeter. “What is he talking about?”

“I think he thinks you’re not serious,” Skeeter said, “that this is a prank.”

Understanding swept through Cormun and he scrunched his face in anger. “At a time like this, do you actually think I would make jokes?”

“But… but,” Warvyn lamely replied, “this ship ought to be in a museum. Can it still fly?”

“It’s really not that bad Warvyn,” another gnome interjected. He was a slender forest gnome from Ynys Muhr. Unlike his city cousins, he was clean-shaven with curly strawberry-blond hair that came to his shoulders. Tall for a forest gnome, he was still a handspan shorter than Skeeter.

Warvyn shot him a ‘don’t-be-daft’ look. “Really, Jerbo? I’ll give you 10 shillings if this can fly.”

“I don’t think we have a lot of options,” Torgil stated. “No one’s going to volunteer their precious ship with the possibility of never seeing it again.”

“Sure, there is,” Warvyn pooh-poohed. “I bet I can find another ship in less than half an hour.”

“Go ahead,” Torgil replied. “While you’re wasting time looking for another ship, the rest of us will get to work on this one here.”

Two hours later, a frustrated Warvyn shuffled back into the storehouse only to be surprised at the improvement in the formerly dilapidated airship.

“No luck, eh?” Torgil said, knowing the response.

“I can’t believe it,” Warvyn moped. “Not a single gnome had a ship we could use.”

“Forget it,” Skeeter said from above, leaning over the port railing. “We’re almost finished here. While the decking might not look brand new, it’s in good shape. But the engine and mechanicals are all smooth and in excellent shape.”

Warvyn stepped back to study the airship. Brigantine in style and design, its length, not counting the bowsprit, was about twenty-five gnome paces, with a beam about ten paces. The engine was below deck, just forward of the quarter deck. Three large propellors gave it speed: one mounted behind the quarter deck and the other two mounted on extended metal arms on opposite sides of the hull, the drive chains looping around the drive sprockets then disappearing through holes in the hull. The hull, originally painted barn-door red, had faded to the color of rust. Shrouds connecting the hull to the air envelope unfurled over the rails and down to the floor, waiting to be connected to the envelope, which Jerbo and the other gnome carefully unrolled on the ground.

“You gonna stand there and gawk or you gonna help?” the other gnome asked. He was a young gnome like Skeeter, with dark wavy brown hair and like Skeeter, smooth-shaven.

“Leave him be, Nimble,” Cormun spoke up. Leaning forward in his chair and resting his hands on the top of the cane, he stared directly at Warvyn. “He’s not sure he’s going with us.”

His jaw jutting out, Warvyn objected, “Who said I wasn’t going with you? I just said we needed a reliable ship.”

“And you can always blame the ship if we fail,” Cormun replied.

“We can’t fail,” Skeeter said. “They’re depending on us.”

“Forget the ship,” Jerbo interrupted, his gaze focused on Warvyn. “What about the Tynelings? We’ll be lucky to get out alive.”

“What do you know about Tynelings?” Cormun asked.

“They’re headhunters and cannibals and offer gnome sacrifices to their gods,” Jerbo replied in a rush.

“How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows the stories,” Warvyn answered for him. “Not only are they cannibals, they’re huge, giants ten times the size of us.”

“Bosh,” Cormun scoffed. “Those are just stories.”

“Do you know what they look like?” Skeeter asked.

“No one does,” Cormun said. “The island is at least a five-day voyage to the northwest. No gnome has sailed any farther than our own islands in over a hundred years,”

“How do we know how to get there?” Jerbo asked.

Cormun answered with a knowing smile, curling his fingers for them to follow as he shuffled over to an oak cabinet against the far wall. Sliding out one of the wide slender draws, he pulled out a map from the bottom of the drawer and placed it on top. The others crowed around to gaze in wonder at the vellum, faded to a dull tan.

“These are our islands.” Cormun pointed to a cluster of six islands on the right side of the map. “This one is Ynys Bari.” He then traced his finger to the left across the blank space on the map to another island about the size of Ynys Denbigh. “This is Ynys Malfor.” He poked a finger at each location. “From here to here is a five-day journey one way. Ten days round trip with however many days on the island. We need provisions for at least two weeks.”

Silence settled for a bit as each pondered the trip to Ynys Malfor until Warvyn broke the quiet.

“What’s the plan once we get there?”

“Go down and get some magairite,” Skeeter answered.

“Just like that,” Warvyn said, snapping his fingers. “Hi. Give us your magairite. Thanks so much. Bye.”

“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Cormun said. “For now, let’s get this ship afloat and stock up.

Provisioning the ship was the easiest part for once word got out, everyone wanted to contribute for the privilege of saying they had provided for the intrepid voyagers. Gnomes dropped off foodstuffs, ale barrels, live pigs and chickens – enough food for Skeeter and company to be away for months, far more food than the little ship could carry. Cormun finally had to corral Ynys Bari’s Burgomeister to place guards near the storehouse to shoosh good-intentioned gnomes away.

When departure day came, crowds surrounded the scout ship, newly painted its former barn door red. Thanks to the generosity of another gnome, the former patched and repaired gas envelope had been replaced with a gleaming silver one that extended beyond both bowsprit and stern.

The Burgomeister gave an inspiring speech wishing them a safe and successful voyage, commending them for volunteering, and thanking those who contributed to the endeavor. Impatient to be gone, Cormun smiled with only his lips and waited to give the command to release the docking lines. As the Burgomeister droned on thanking each particular family or individual, Cormun’s patience evaporated and when the Burgomeister paused to catch his breath, Cormun called out,

“Release the docking lines.”

Before the Burgomeister complained that he wasn’t finished, the grounds-gnomes released the lines and the airship floated into the sky.

“There,” Cormun grumphed. “That’s done at least. Heed to boys. Set a course for Ynys Malfor.” When they stood and stared vacantly at him, Cormun uttered a long-suffering sigh, realizing he was the only one who knew how to sail this ship. Oh, they had practiced at the various stations on deck, but that was in dry harbor. Now that they were aloft, it became painfully clear that none of them had ever been higher than a ladder.

As the ship drifted higher, Warvyn went below and started the engine, causing it to cough and sputter before catching. With the engine running, he engaged the drive chains to drive sprockets and soon the propellors whirled, pushing the little ship away from the islands.

Skeeter was the first to understand Corman’s importance as both navigator and pilot and had paid close attention to Cormun’s instructions. By the second day out, Cormun felt comfortable enough to let Skeeter navigate while he slept.

By day three, Jerbo commented, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but with nothing but water as far as the eye can see, I’m glad I’m an earthbound gnome.”

“Me too,” Warvyn readily agreed.

“We still don’t have a plan,” Torgil reminded them, his mind on the future.

“We’ll decide when we get there,” Cormun said with a frustrated sigh, repeating the mantra of the past several days. “We know nothing about the place or the environment or the Tynelings. We’ll know better when we’ve had a chance to scout it out.”

“Still like to have some idea,” Torgil grumbled.

Apprehension and nervousness grew as the fifth day’s dawn rose bright and clear. Jerbo, posted as forward lookout, scanned the horizon with a spyglass, sweeping a tight angle to the front. Several hours later, his efforts were rewarded when he called out,

“Land ho!”

Cormun immediately powered up the engines, tilting the wing flaps at the same time, pushing the ship higher in the sky. Too soon they were circling high above the island, a mountainous affair, heavily forested.

“We need to go lower,” Skeeter commented, shivering in the cold altitude. “All I can see are trees and some lakes.”

Cormun tilted the flaps and the ship began its descent and was soon edging the island perimeter as they searched for signs of inhabitants. Yet signs of life eluded them.

“Surely someone has to live close to the edge here,” Jerbo said, “like they do at home.”

By the time they circled the island, the sun had dipped below the horizon, the last bits of light fading to evening. Cormun powered the engines to gain altitude and soon the ship was high enough to crest the tallest mountain.

Picking a thickly treed crest, Cormun said, “We stay here for the night. Nimble, go ahead and tether us to something solid below.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Nimble saluted and hustled forward to toss a thick tether line over the side. Waiting until it hit the ground, Nimble swung over the side and slithered down, the rest of the crew leaning over the railing to keep a look out.

As Nimble disappeared into the darkness below, Jerbo mumbled, “Suppose there’s no one on this island, that the stories were all wrong?”

“We’ve just started,” Skeeter replied. “Give it a chance.”

They felt a tug on the tether line and leaned over to see Nimble climbing back up the rope.

“What’s it like down there?” Torgil asked.

Nimble shrugged. “It’s too dark to see much of anything.”

*

It was during the second watch, Warvyn’s watch, that the ship nearly capsized when someone or something gave the tether line a hard pull, causing Skeeter and the others and everything else not secured to tumble across the deck to whack against the portside railing.

“Cut the tether line,” Cormun yelled.

Torgil scrambled forward, knife in hand when another yank caused him to tumble sideways. He would have fallen overboard had not Warvyn grabbed him by the trousers. At the same time, Skeeter crawled to the helm, grabbed hold of the wheel, and hoisted himself up to power up the engines and adjust the flaps to prevent whatever it was from dragging the ship down to the ground.

The yanking continued on the tether line as Torgil struggled forward, finally grabbing hold of the rope and furiously slicing until the last strands of line broke, immediately freeing the ship which jerked upwards.

Skeeter swore he heard a high-pitched cry of surprise.

Safely aloft, their hearts pounding, they readjusted and secured supplies as they searched the skies for possible intruders.

“Well, at least we know something’s down there,” Nimble remarked with understated nonchalance.

“Think of the size of the creature to pull our ship like that,” Warvyn exclaimed. “Thank the gods that it didn’t pull all the way down.”

“What do we do now?” Jerbo fretted. “They know we’re here.”

“We regroup and explore more to see if we can find a spot to land,” Cormun said.

“Are you nuts?” Warvyn blurted. “They’re giants. They see us and we’re dead.”

“We’re gnomes,” Cormun shot back. “We use magic to get what we need. You do know how to use magic.”

“Of course,” Warvyn replied, unconvinced.

“Good,” Cormun grumbled. “Instead of whining about how big they are, think of spells we can use to trick them into giving us what we want.”

“Illusion spells,” Nimble brightly added. “I’ve been practicing a dragon one.” He began laughing. “Tried it out on Orrlyn. Made him pee in his pants. Boy was he mad, but he’s such an easy target. That gnome’s afraid of his own shadow.”

Cormun nodded and smiled. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Creative ideas. They have giants down there? We make them think we’re giants... or something else to give them second thoughts.”

“We still need to figure out how to get the magairite,” Skeeter pointed out. “We’ll need some sort of reveal spell, something that will make them show us where it is.”

“Good idea,” Cormun agreed, impressed with Skeeter’s coolheaded approach. “For now, let’s all get some sleep.”

“I’m too wound up to sleep,” Warvyn said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

*

Skeeter woke when Torgil poked his shoulder. “Your turn.”

Rubbing his eyes and standing, Skeeter frowned as dawn rimmed the horizon. “Why’d you wake me so late? The sun’s coming up.”

“I wasn’t tired and figured you all could use the sleep. I’ll catch a nap while we’re searching for a place to land.”

Skeeter glanced down at the others, curled and tucked into bedrolls, sound asleep. Cormun lay on his back, snoring softly.

“You want to sleep now or are you up for acting as lookout while I pilot us lower to look for a spot.”

“I’m good,” Torgil answered, stepping around his sleeping companions as he headed towards the bowsprit.

Striding to the helm, Skeeter flipped the engine switch, feeling the hum vibrate the ship. Deciding the best course of action was flying low, he adjusted the flaps and angled the ship on a gentle descent, leveling out fifty feet above the shoreline.

Nimble was the first to waken, yawning and stretching before scooting out of his bedroll to walk over and stand next to Torgil.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he commented.

“Too restless to sleep,” Torgil shrugged.

“See anything yet?”

“Nothing much. Looking for a clearing to make it easier to get in and get out.”

Silence settled for a bit as the two gnomes concentrated on the landscape before them, a thick forest of pines and hardwoods that came right up to the edge of the island.

“We’ll probably have to go a little higher,” Torgil pondered out loud. “Can’t see much of anything at this level.”

“If we can’t find a spot, we’ll have to tether like we did last night while some of us go aground, which means someone will have to stay with the ship.”

“I recommend Cormun,” Torgil said without hesitation. “He may be the smartest one of us, but he’s not as fast as the rest of us. And I got a feeling speed is gonna be important.”

“You got any magic up those sleeves of yours?” Nimble said with a smile.

“I’m counting on our talent to make ourselves invisible.” He made quote marks with his fingers. “A good gnome always knows how to not be seen. We use that skill and add in a couple of diversionary monsters and hopefully we’ll be able to get what we need and get out before our illusions are discovered.”

“Hopefully.” Nimble turned when he smelled the aroma of eggs cooking and saw Jerbo laboring over a metal box full of sand in which a small fire provided enough heat to cook the eggs in the cast iron skillet. “I’ll take mine sunny-side-up,” he grinned.

“You’ll take yours scrambled like everyone else,” Jerbo shot back.

“What kind of outfit is this?” Nimble moaned in feigned annoyance. “Next you’ll be telling me we have to go to some island populated with giants to fetch some mineral to save the world.”

“There,” Torgil shouted and pointed. “Right there.”

A wide meadow opened up in the midst of the forest. Wildflowers in golds and reds and blues rippled in the wind. Curiously, a low split-rail fence edged the side of the island as though reminding whoever that it was a long way down to the ocean below.

“That’ll do,” Cormun called out. “Hold ‘er steady, Skeeter. Everyone better get something to eat now. It may be a long time until the next meal.”

All too soon, Skeeter maneuvered the ship to hover above the meadow. A single tether line dropped to the ground.

Cormun called them together. “Climbing up and down ropes was easy when I was a younger lad, but I’m not as young as I used to be, and besides, I’d only be a hinder. Since one of us has to stay with the ship, we all know it has to be me. That said, we’re not leaving until all of you are back on board.”

“No gnome left behind,” Skeeter resolutely added.

“Right,” Cormun said with a brisk nod then inhaled a slow deep breath. “Us gnomes stick together. Alright then. Let’s get this over with.”

Torgil led the way down the rope. The four gnomes had no sooner touched the ground when the forest in front of them shook, followed by a cacophony of weird sounds.

“Get ready,” Skeeter commanded.

The branches parted and a giant creature looming high above them pushed into the clearing.

“Now,” Skeeter yelled.

Immediately, illusionary dragons and monsters swirled in the meadow.

A chorus of terrified screams erupted followed by the giant falling face-first onto the ground, the head tumbling off to the side.

“What the –” Torgil sputtered, looking down at the prone ‘giant’, a scarecrow of a creature stuffed with straw.

Nimble boldly strode over and pulled some of the straw from the neck where the head once perched. “I hope all our giant slaying is like this.”

Frowning, Skeeter strode past the tall mannequin and headed to the edge of the clearing. “We’re not here to harm anyone. We need your help. Please.” When no one answered, he repeated his plea. “Please. We need your help.”

Silence met his appeals. Turning around he made a slashing sigh at his neck. “Nix the monsters.”

Waiting as the others broke the illusion spells, he turned back to the forest. “They’re not real… the monsters… just like your giant. They’re not real. Will you help us?”

“Who are you?” a voice called out.

“We’re gnomes. I’m Skeeter. Who are you?”

There was a pause before a small creature stepped into the clearing. He stood a little shorter than Skeeter and wore dark green tights tucked into leather boots. His dark brown leather vest covered a short-sleeved shirt, revealing tanned and sinewy arms. His long auburn hair was held back by a leather headband, revealing pointed ears.

“We’re halflings. I’m Pimstoke. Why are you here?”

“Halflings?” Torgil blurted.

Ignoring him, Pimstoke focused on Skeeter. “Why are you here?”

Skeeter studied him a moment before announcing their real intent. “Magairite, We come from the gnome kingdom five days travel to the southeast. We live on islands like yours. One of our islands is sinking and we need magairite to stop it. Will you help us?”

Pimstoke studied him for a bit. “How many more of you are there?” He ticked his head at the ship.

“Just one more, an elder gnome who has much wisdom.”

At that moment, Cormun leaned over the railing. “Halflings,” he exclaimed. “How wonderful. You can trust them Skeeter. They’ve a wide reputation for honesty.”

Flattered, Pimstoke dipped his head then turned to Skeeter. “We might be able to help you. But… there are conditions, essential conditions that must be agreed and adhered to. Otherwise, go back to where you came from.”

“What conditions?”

“I’ll explain in a moment.”

“What about the giants?” Warvyn interrupted.

“Giants?” Pimstoke frowned then relaxed in a grin. “There are no giants. That,” he said pointing the straw-stuffed scarecrow, “was just to scare you away.”

“What about the giant that yanked on our ship last night,” Warvyn countered.

“Oh that?” Pimstoke snorted a laugh. “That was us. Took about twenty of us to get any weight to it. Figured we’d have some fun. Figured we’d yank on it a while and give you a scare. Caught us by surprise when you cut the rope. Banged up a couple of us pretty good. Got three still with the apothecary.”

“That was you?” Warvyn said, somewhat disappointed. “You nearly capsized our ship.”

“Didn’t mean to. Just wanted to have some fun and give you a scare at the same time.”

“Conditions” Skeeter interrupted.

“Ah, yes,” Pimstoke thoughtfully nodded. “Why don’t you all come feast with us and we can talk about it. Bring the old one with you.”

Immediately on guard, Skeeter replied, “Can’t. He’s too old to slide down the rope and get back up again. Also, we need someone to stay with the ship.”

“You can set it on the ground here,” Pimstoke said, waving a hand at the meadow. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Even if we could,” Skeeter explained, “we’d still need someone to stay with the ship. Someone has to monitor the engine.”

“Engine?”

“The machine that makes the propellors move.”

“Propellors?”

“Those things.” Skeeter pointed to the propellors slowly spinning at the sides of the ship.

The branches parted and another halfling stepped into the meadow, a very attractive lady halfling, dressed much like Pimstoke whose immediate deference told Skeeter that the lady was someone of importance. Her long blond hair was held back with a braided leather band. She smiled at Skeeter, her emerald green eyes scrutinizing him.

“This is Skeeter, Lady Kithzina.”

“So I heard.”

Skeeter was immediately smitten for her voice was like a gentle zephyr.

“What brings you to our fair land, noble gnome?” She took a step closer to him, her perfume, the bouquet of lilacs, lazily wafting and surrounding him.

When Skeeter didn’t answer, Nimble frowned at him only to see his entranced face mesmerized by the lady halfling before him.

“Magairite,” Nimble said, breaking the spell.

“Why do you need magairite?” she sweetly asked.

“Their island is sinking,” Pimstoke explained, “and they flew her to steal some of ours.”

“No we didn’t,” Skeeter snapped, surprised at Pimstoke’s about-face. “We brought money to buy what we needed.”

“What good is gnome money here?” Pimstoke scoffed.

“So,” Nimble calmly said, “halflings don’t use gold?”

Skeeter saw the flash of surprise, along with a flicker of greed, cross the halfling faces. He turned his attention to Pimstoke. “You said there were some conditions. You do realize that now that we know who lives here, we could simply return with a gnome army of thousands of airships and take what we wanted. It would be a war of annihilation. Is that what you want?”

Kithzina’s face hardened. “Who are you to come here and make demands?”

“I merely point out the obvious. We came peacefully, looking to trade gold for magairite. But he,” he thrust a finger at Pimstoke, “accused us of being thieves.” Spinning around, he headed back to the tether rope, curling hand at the others. “C’mon. We’ve seen enough.”

Marching back to the ship, Nimble grinned and whispered to Skeeter, ”Nice one. A war of annihilation, eh? We’d be lucky to get another scout ship to come with us.”

Jerbo had tether rope in hand when Kithzina called out, “Wait.”

Skeeter turned, his arms folded across his chest. “Yes?”

“Careful,” Nimble whispered out the side of his mouth. “She’s using some sort of magic.”

Skeeter replied with a quick nod.

“Will you meet us halfway?” She took a step forward.

“Stay here Jerbo,” Skeeter ordered as he and the other two marched towards the halflings.

“Why not come to our village for a feast and we can talk this all out like civilized beings,” Kithzina said with a warm smile.

Skeeter felt the same entranced feeling as before and purposely steeled himself against it. “Because we don’t have time. One of our islands is sinking. We’ve been gone for six days now. Who knows how much farther down it’s gone? If we don’t return quickly, it may be too late.”

Pimstoke cocked an eyebrow. “Your kingdom is falling apart and yet you threaten us with invasion?”

“It’s not a threat,” Skeeter coldly answered. “It’s a fact. Yes. One island is sinking. There are still five more where we can resettle amongst other gnomes if necessary. We prefer to save the island.”

“Why?” Pimstoke asked, realizing the halflings were in no position to argue. They would have to bluff their way to get what they wanted.

“Homes and livelihoods and memories are there.”

“And so you flew all the way here to save your island,” Kithzina said.

“Yes.”

“There are still conditions,” Pimstoke interjected.

“Name them.”

Pimstoke turned to Kithzina who gave him a regal nod.

“First,” he said, addressing Skeeter, “we are willing to give you the magairite in exchange for these following conditions. First, no one must know that halflings live here, that there are no giants like you believed. The tale must stay the same that giants rule the island.”

Skeeter looked back at the others who nodded in unison. They were willing to stretch the truth to get what they needed. Warvyn was already thinking of a cover story.

“OK,” Skeeter replied to Pimstoke. “We agree. Second?”

“Once we give you the magairite, you can never return.”

“Suppose we need more?” Skeeter argued.

“We will give you enough to last you far beyond the lifetimes of your great-great-grandchildren.”

Surprised, Skeeter nodded. “Agreed.” Assuming that was it, he was about to thank him for the magairite when he realized Pimstoke wasn’t finished.

“Anything else?”

“Yes.” Pimstoke narrowed his gaze at him. “One of you must stay here as a guarantee.”

“But… but,” Warvyn burst. “That means never going home again.”

Pimstoke folded his arms. “Those are our conditions.”

Stunned, Skeeter blinked in weight of the demand. To never go home again… to never see family or friends ever again. He looked at the other gnomes whose looks told him they too weighed the consequences of accepting the terms. Part of him reasoned that Cormun was old. Maybe he would volunteer to stay. After all, it wasn’t like he had many years left and the rest of them here were younger gnomes. Yet, he knew he couldn’t ask Cormun to do that. He had as much right to live out his years with family as the rest of them. Then for some unexplained reason, an abrupt peace settled over him and he turned to Pimstoke.

“I’ll stay.”

“You will?” Warvyn blurted, relief washing over him.

“Are you sure?” Nimble stepped around to face him.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He stared past Nimble’s shoulder to look at Pimstoke. “Any other conditions?”

“No,” Pimstoke replied, impressed.

“Then we need to hurry. Each minute we spend away from the island, the further it sinks.”

“Why don’t we ask Cormun if he’ll stay,” Jerbo interrupted.

“The decision has been made,” Pimstoke firmly asserted. “Like he said, you’re wasting time. You all will wait here while we get you what you desire.”

The halflings disappeared into the forest, leaving the gnomes alone with their thoughts.

“Are you sure about this, Skeeter?” Nimble repeated.

“What choice do we have?” Skeeter answered with a resigned sigh. “We have to save our island.”

“What do we tell them back home?” Torgil said, stating the obvious. “What kind of story do we tell them, especially with you missing? We can’t say that you were killed.”

“Tell them I’m missing,” Skeeter replied, “that you don’t know where I am. In all the excitement of getting the magairite, we lost contact with each other. In a sense, it would be true, and your tale would not need too much expanding.”

Pimstoke stepped into the clearing, a small box of finely crafted silver in his hands. Kithzina and several other halflings followed behind him.

“Here is your magairite.” He held the box out to Skeeter.

“That’s it?” Warvyn harshly said. “That little box is supposed to last us for generations?

Skeeter opened the lid to gaze inside at the sparkling onyx-colored gems, each the size of a thumbnail.

“Your cities and towns will fade away long before you run out of magairite,” Pimstoke shot back. “Be thankful for our generosity.”

“How much gold do you wish in return?” Skeeter asked.

Staring intently at Skeeter, Pimstoke solemnly replied, “You have already given your word…and your life. Is that not enough?”

Exhaling a resigned sigh, Skeeter nodded. “Thank you.” He handed the box to Nimble. “You better get going.”

*

The last they saw of Skeeter was him being escorted into the forest by the halflings. The five-day journey back was a quiet affair, each gnome pondering Skeeter’s great sacrifice. They would write poems and songs about him. They would make sure his legacy never faded.

Still, they needed to concoct a well-thought-out story and spent the five days attending to the details of the tale, each one adding tidbits as necessary, ensuring all repeated the same account.

Their sober and somber reflections were swept aside for a time when they saw their home islands and the raucous crowds that gathered to welcome them home. The joyous cheers and shouts gave them an overwhelming satisfaction that they had saved the island, that their quest had been a success.

That lasted until Nimble, the first to disembark, presented the precious magairite to the lead expert, a middle-aged gnome with a salt and pepper beard that ended at the belt in his trousers.

Surrounded by other experts and the growing crowd, the gnome cleared his throat with the air of self-importance. Opening the lid, he dipped his head, impressed.

“Yes, well… I see you were successful. Turns out we were wrong. Discovered that two days after you left. It wasn’t magairite that we needed. It was merely a magnetic imbalance. Simply by expanding the bridge network connecting the islands, we’ve managed to correct the problem. Is everyone OK?”

Nimble’s jaw had dropped and he dumbly blinked at the expert.

“Are you OK, lad? Answer my question. Did all make it back safely?”

Shaking his head, Nimble handed him the box. “Skeeter didn’t make it.”

A wail pierced the air as Skeeter’s mom collapsed.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” the expert said. “He was a good lad. Well then, welcome back.” He turned and handed the box to an assistant. “Label it and store it with the rest of the minerals.”

*

Several weeks later, after the excitement faded and retelling the fable became a chore, the intrepid adventurers gathered at Cormun’s home. Cormun busied himself pouring mugs of cold ale before returning to the dining room and distributing the brew. He then turned to Nimble.

“You sure about this?”

“As sure as the sun rises in the morning.” Nimble lifted his mug and swallowed a satisfying gulp.

“But we gave our word,” Cormun reminded him.

“I know,” Nimble firmly answered. “But that was based on false premises. One’s word isn’t any good if it’s based on a lie. What we were told about our islands wasn’t true. Surely we can’t be expected to stick to the conditions based upon what we know to be wrong.”

“I say we steal the magairite and return it,” Jerbo said. “An even trade. Skeeter for the magairite.”

“One of the conditions was that we couldn’t return,” Cormun pointed out.

“We have to break that condition to rescue him,” Warvyn said, stating the obvious.

Cormun studied the faces of the younger gnomes, all with a look of determination… even Warvyn.

“You are all sure about this?”

“Yes,” they answered.

“Then I think Jerbo is right,” Cormun said. “We take back the magairite. An even exchange. We’ll need all the illusions and stealth we can muster because they won’t be happy if they discover us again. That could put Skeeter’s life in danger.”

“We have no other choice,” Nimble said. “We can’t leave him there. Remember, us gnomes stick together.”

 

THE END