Forage
Contentedly humming a tune, he worked the forest soil with gnarled yet gentle hands. The risk of frost had passed, so it was time to plant his precious seeds and seedlings. Good and wholesome work for a solitary soul.
With a bit of coaxing, crisp beans and carrots would soon grow, with squash and potatoes to last the winter. Bushes and trees kindly offered their fruit more freely. Such was the way of nourishing things; some were grown, some plucked, and some foraged for. Then there were those that required a little of each to yield their bounty. These were indulgences he granted himself. All such blessings, but they asked much from sore old joints made to bend and kneel and reach.
The late morning sun was warm to work in. Straightening slowly, he brushed the damp soil from his rough trousers, leaving smudges down his legs. He put a handkerchief to his forehead, sending a sprinkle of more soil from his bushy brows. Finding the mound of a stump that he liked to smoke his pipe on, he sat. He found the thick moss pleasing and sank his fingers deep into it, letting the cool moisture soothe his aching hands.
He remembered cutting down the old pine when its sagging threatened to crush the roof of his cottage. He’d been tormented by visions of being pinned beneath it, left to be eaten by beasts. That must have been almost thirty winters ago. Not long, to be sure. He had watched the tree grow tall and strong from a sapling only to see it grow old and weak.
Things that draw long, slow lines through time have a way of mattering more, Tomen thought. To those who live long, things must be very old indeed to mean much at all. Appreciating anything fresh or ephemeral requires deliberate intention, he felt. Fleeting things like greens, and berries, and his foraged Truffles must be enjoyed before they perished.
After a brief reprieve, it was time to prepare lunch, and he was pleased to have some nice meat. Wild boars had trod into his clearing to feast on the mushy autumn apples loosened by the thaw. His arrow had felled a healthy sow, yielding a bristly hide he wouldn’t wear or lie under, but plenty of flesh. It was roasting in its juices inside the cottage, and he smiled at the thought of sopping up the drippings with hunks of crusty bread.
The squat door swung heavily as he stepped into the earthy-smelling home. It was a modest dwelling, but there was room enough for his needs, and the hearth warmed it nicely. Beneath the cottage lay a cool cellar where preserves and supplies were stored. He descended the stairs after stopping at the washbasin to clean his hands. He struck a match to light an oil lamp he’d got from some men.
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Tomen had little interest in dealings with men, and never visited their villages. They rarely ventured this deep into his wood, and for many years their meetings were only brief and brutal. He’d made sure of that. There seemed to be so many more of them now, and though this displeased him, he had found a few trifles worth the trouble of occasional trade. For such short-lived creatures, men did devise some interesting trinkets. That which he desired and could not trade for, he would simply take, of course. Men could be quite aggressive about what they cherished.
Ignoring the spiderwebs snagging his face, Tomen took his roll of knives from the wall, tucked them under his arm. Ducking under the shackles and leg traps hanging from the joist overhead, he paused, hearing muffled cries from the back room above. Lunch would have to wait, it seemed. Fetching a crock of honey, meathook, and pail of milk from the morning’s visit to his cow, Lilabet, he went to tend to things.
Cracking the door, Tomen poked his head into the room. “Hello, my Truffles.” A puffy pink face looked up at him from where she sat on the darkly stained floor. She had been crying again. The other two viewed him groggily from a bed. “I bring some good milk for you to fatten with.”
He set down three tin cups on a small table. “It is bright and warm outside, but it is so dark in this room,” he scolded, reaching to open the wool curtains. Handing a cup of milk sweetened with a dollop of honey to the girl on the floor, he sat down at the foot of the bed. The two there shrank back from him, pulling their knees up tightly.
The girl sniffled as she took the cup, and then sipped from it slowly. “If you sit on the hard floor like this, you will bruise and ruin your soft flesh.” He looked over his shoulder to the other two. “You are not bruised?” The boy looked doleful, but the girl glared at him. That one concerned him, but only mildly. To these two he said, “There is boar meat for a meal. Turnips and bread too.”
Reaching down, he took the arm of the girl on the floor and put his thumb and forefinger around her wrist. He nodded approvingly. Then, placing the knuckle of his finger under her chin, he tilted her head to see her face. She squeezed her swollen eyes shut as he gently pinched her cheek.
Not for the first time, Tomen pondered the age of these things. How old were these? Ten years? Fifty? There was no way of knowing, but they were small, and my, they were tender. They reminded him of wild raspberries and summer butterflies.
He glanced at the heavy iron ring fixed to the floor, and the chains leading from it to the shackled ankles of each of the three. He bent to the girl on the floor, the one who had been with him the longest, and smoothed her corn-silk hair. He placed his broad hand at the back of her neck and in one swift motion, slammed her head against the floor.
As blood bloomed across the planks, the remaining children erupted in wails of anguish and terror. He’d learned not to hush them, for they would fall silent in their own time. It was quite a ruckus, though. Perhaps three at once is too many. Chiding himself as an old fool, he chuckled as he unshackled the limp little body and tossed it over his shoulder. He stepped carefully around the pool of blood that now mingled with spilled honeyed milk. That pained him. Lilabet was a good cow, and this was a disappointing waste of milk.
Collecting his meathook and knives on the way to the shed, the ancient dwarf paused to muse again on his indulgences. The centuries would be so dull without them. No, he was quite happy with his harmless delights. He dressed the carcass and hung it to cool, returning to his contented tune.
