CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Backed into a corner, the dwarf’s head bumped the shelf of preserved vegetables and wrapped loaves. He scooted himself and glanced as if to behold the same potato once rolled in another life. Doctor Mallow strode through the kitchen, its mushroom head bubbling, its jaw unhinged and swaying. With many sickly hands it grasped the dwarf’s scurrying legs and dragged him out from the pantry. He yelled for Waspig, but his voice failed to find it. Down the ruined chapel’s hall the funguay, with molten cap, dripped and dragged the dwarf. Into the auditorium it swung the dwarf onto his back. Again he cried for his pet to no avail. And with a grasp of the dwarf’s beard his limp body sailed down the long hole into death.

The dwarf awoke on his side, silent, church tile cool, night temperate. Waspig slept beside a pile beneath glass featuring the bulk of scarred Pistol and the mud of Speedy--it had recently ceased much of its flow. Near an undamaged pew--one of very remaining few--rested longer haired--frayed--Bathiel. Near it, Cath, with locks just as wild, appeared at first awake, its thin eyes seemingly searching. But the dwarf watched and continued in no other fashion until he pushed himself up and stumbled forward for a closer glance. It really did rise and deflate in deep slumber, he conceded. And even with its master close it did not stir. The dwarf admired its sight and looked for Blissey, that sight so similar but smaller than Waspig, and its twin Mustard. He found both resting atop the pulpit joined by what appeared to be a miniature sized them. Its difference was six legs and a cap.

How?

It was horrible enough it existed at all, argued the dwarf, but far worse is to concede a roof to. But he was not so cruel he’d stir the creature and shoo it away for it, indeed a creature, could return to its busy master in the morning. The easy going reception lulled the dwarf into thinking a resuming of sleep would come fast; he lay awake for hours. On his side his sole ear perked and picked up its unique sounds of sleep, quizzical growling and mewling, regardless of his wishes. The dwarf would ask for bedding as recompense. He dragged himself back up and out the church, first hovering by its entrance, blinking, heading for the river after. He passed his crops and paused. Seeds demanded planting, chided the dwarf; the current yield would not go long--what survived. He shook his head and stomped away from the issue to the loud, clean water. The dwarf drank and rest on his bottom, an absent hand submerged. He felt along smooth pebbles and fished one up and glanced it over before half-heartedly tossing the rock ahead. He observed between trees the stained glass of the steeple, greens and yellows especially prominent. On the other side of that glass, thought the dwarf, his flock slept. Beneath it, especially. They came and went daily by the dwarf’s efforts, the reconstructed entrance’s second miniature flapping both ways with hardly rest. He was responsible for their feeding, and he had leaned on the doctor and Funguayou in ensuring so. The dwarf nearly bolted up from the shore to grab his pick and get to work, but his hand returned to the water and it cooled his enflamed spirit. And he didn’t wish to wake them.

A sickening squeal rang, but not from the church. Again it sounded, and so similarly to his pets, he stood and chased after the noise with fervor. Down the river and past several trees and cliffs the dwarf dashed until coming to the biggest of his lain traps, web with dark rings within having managed what was none else but a wild pigsect, its size a little more than Waspig’s, its eyes just as many, its horns long and curled. It struggled in the very middle, wrapping itself further and sealing its fate, the latter a certainty without the dwarf’s intervention.

The dwarf hesitated. His stomach growled. None other trap had brought fruit. No birds caught, no frogs further encountered, the option of such a sizeable source of meat presenting itself so easily weakened his resolve. He thought of his refusal of pork through childhood. What would his younger farmboy self say? The dwarf’s head lowered. He badly hungered. His fists clenched and one drew up as his arm wiped at his face. He took out his knife and began slicing at the web to free the hog with barbed end. Its twisting horns freed, the still mummified capture, muffled, screamed and thrashed. The dwarf managed a position capable of keeping the bug’s body still enough, and he carefully, fighting minor spasms, slid the knife through, dismounting as the cut finished, the Waspig-like freed. It rose into the air with its wings for but a moment before collapsing through air. It looked over the dwarf from the ground and shot away down the cliffs into the forest. The dwarf’s stomach berated him...

“Dwarf!” cried Doetrieve. “I haven’t seen you in some time.”

Welcomed into the walls, the elf took his guest past one fully finished set of barns and two more in construction, another dining hall seemingly absent. The one which jutted over rocks stood erected still, Doetrieve insistent at least one stayed. Having used it as cover once, the dwarf felt attached to its existence, enjoying it far more than the restaurant associated with vomit. Leisurely the dwarf and captain walked atop an unseen trail, vines woven even in the remote corner they found themselves in. A day of few clouds, the sun brought sweat to them both. As they tread, for the dwarf, new territory, he couldn’t help notice a few decaying trees, branches sagging, and dying grass, yellow and brown.

“So that is how your face came to bear such lacerations. If I’d known... but I follow yer gaze, friend. Yessir, it’s unfortunate, but none’s surprised. Only reason this settlement exists at all is the discovery of The Ponderous--His death makes this whole endeavor pointless now, don’t it? And some have gone home. But many stay, and reckon I’m staying, and we’ll figure somethin’ out. Yes, to answer your question, dwarf, we’re not abundant in our stock either. Crops are failing--not all, some. But there’re butchers in Nasteze, have ya yet been? Actually,” spoke Doetrieve, his feet stopping, “Why are you still on this island? You’ve no interest in sailing to meet The Curious One?”

The dwarf, looking at elven eyes, scratched his bald head.

“Well, none will rush you. The Curious is in no danger, ain’t goin’ nowhere. But will you follow His words in the end?”

Cicadas chirped on the remains of bark.

“If you do, perhaps He may know of a way forward for us. You’ll ask Him, won’t ya? I can continue our domestication of spiders for meat and milk, but my darned hair is frayed solving the plant rottin’ crisis. Only Lord Moth is communicatin’ with me, and he says The Curious cannot be spoken to, and The others too have no wisdom to share. I’m scared, dwarf. You think yer hungry? See us in three hundred days’ time. And, in any case, you won’t accept spider yourself?”

The dwarf’s stomach growled. But he shook his head.

“Yer foolish. Hungry an’ foolish. Come, I’ll feed you something, but if you’ll have no pigsect and no arachnid, what will you do for meat?”

The two’s trail encroached upon the lake. Gazing it over, the dwarf turned to the captain.

“What? Fish? Not here. These’re sacred koi and batfish, dwarf. So I s’pose I know what ya feel, but no. Nasteze, however--yes, or you could rent a rod there and try the beach yourself. It goes for quite some length. But we’ve none here, we don’t fish. This way to dine, now, get a move on!”...

Pouch full of seeds and biscuits, the dwarf returned to the chapel in the mountains in the late afternoon, sky then a single color. He found his pick and began pecking the earth again, expanding his farm, planting his elfen gifts, digging new trenches for flow.

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 44”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 45”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 46”

“FARMING SKILL INCREASED TO 8”

“FARMING SKILL INCREASED TO 9”

“FARMING SKILL INCREASED TO 10”

“FARMING SKILL INCREASED TO 11”

Sun nearly gone by the end of his work, the dwarf wobbled and fell to the ground. He stared up at the peeking stars. And he would have lay there and fallen asleep had a sudden snap not jolted the dwarf awake. A high pitched squealing burst from a thicket of trees the dwarf stomped towards along the river, and there he found a set trap with rabbit jammed through, a large single horn on its head weighing its lifelessness down...

“COOKING SKILL INCREASED TO 11”

While the flock ate kibble--of a dangerously low stock--the dwarf dug into his coney. It was unbelievably delicious, the meat having had reached a blackening on one side and light fry on the other, a jars of corn cooked in what little fat remained, elfen biscuit alongside. And it was as he ate dinner he recalled lunch with the captain and his words:

“You’ve done much for us, so forgive my pryin’ an’ questionin’, but I can’t drop it. Dwarf, why you? What’s this ‘son of man’ talk of? Aren’t you a dwarf? How d’you know The Ponderous? How’d ya know what you knew to ‘elp us? And an entire fleet of arachnids--how? How? Reckon not a lick of this makes sense. Ya don’t make sense. An’ now that I really put my noggin’ to it, why haven’t you told me your name?”

Throughout the impassioned series of queries the dwarf chewed in silence. Having swallowed, he still could not provide an answer, instead performing as earlier, scratching his hairless dome.

“Know what, forgive me. I dishonor meself. The Ponderous would be grave were ‘e hearin’ all this talk. Forget all I asked, but ‘old on. Do me this, dwarf...” said Doetrieve, gravely. “How do us elfs escape what’s coming?”

It was after dinner, Dwarf’s plate clean, when he had a realization. Into his cowskin pouch the dwarf reached and retrieved a faintly glowing pearl. And running to the pulpit with pickaxe in hand, the dwarf relocated and was back within hours. Satisfied in his work, he came over to Waspig on its side and ran his hands through its hair. The dwarf felt tired and awake. With food becoming so critically low, the dwarf could not pass idle days by resting. But with a full stomach he slept through the night.

By early dawn the dwarf rose, tool again in his hands.