The Gully Dwarves

Chapter 11

With his headquarters no longer habitable because of rampant pyrite mining, His Bumptiousness Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Choice and Lord Protector of This Place and Anyplace Else he Happened to Notice, had moved his seat of leadership to an abandoned cistern behind the steeple tower of This Place. He was there, dozing on that ample seat, when Scrib brought Bron to volunteer for duty.

It wasn’t Bron’s idea. In fact, he had no idea what the idea was. Scrib had found him and said, “c’mon, le’s go see Highbulp,” and Bron had followed obligingly.

The descent to the bottom of the cistern was a bit harrowing, as the main access-a spiral of stone steps leading downward around the shaft-was temporarily blocked by throngs of gully dwarves with piles of rubble on every step. They were cleaning the gleaming baubles from the lesser stuff by smashing the ore with stones and throwing the rubble from the walls, to be picked up at the bottom after gravity had separated the trinkets from the chaff.

So Bron took the direct path, straight down the vertiginous wall. Scrib lost his hold on the wall twice, but Bron caught him both times. The second time, the muscular young Aghar flopped his teacher over his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way.

He still had Scrib on his shoulder, muttering and squirming, when he entered the august presence of Glitch the Most. Glitch was sound asleep, and beginning to snore. Respectfully, Bron pushed through the throng of gully dwarves gathering pyrite and kicked dust in his father’s face to wake him up. The Highbulp snorted, opened grumpy eyes and raised his head. “What you want, Dad?” asked Bron.

“Want?” Glitch blinked his eyes, and squinted. “Me?”

“Yep. You. What you want?”

“Leggo my foot!” Scrib hissed behind him, squirming upside down in the younger gully dwarf’s grip. “Lemme go!”

“Want stew, I guess,” the Highbulp decided. “An’ maybe a few fried snails.”

“Okay,” Bron said. He turned away and Scrib pounded on his back.

“Not why we came!” Scrib shouted, “Bron, leggo! S’pose to report for duty, not for stew!”

Confused, Bron stopped and dropped Scrib, who landed headfirst on the sandy stone floor. Bron turned and looked down at him. “Report for duty? What duty?”

Nearby, the Lady Lidda noticed the exchange and went to get Glitch some stew. If the Highbulp didn’t get stew when he asked for stew, he tended to sulk.

“Highbulp need a scout,” Scrib said, getting his feet under him.

Glitch blinked again. “I do? What for?”

“For see why Talls keep goin’ over This Place, up there,” Scrib reminded his lord and master. “Pay ’tention, dummy!”

“Oh,” Glitch said, sagely. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what Scrib was talking about.

“That’n easy,” Bron told his mentor. “Talls go ’cross up there ’Cause that where bridge is.”

“Talls up to somethin’!” Scrib said. “Ought to find out what.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How find out what?”

“Find out what?” Glitch asked.

“Somebody go see,” Scrib explained to Bron.

“Oh.” Bron scratched his head, then nodded. “Okay. Go ‘head an’ see.”

“Go see what?” Glitch demanded.

“Not me.” Scrib shook his head vigorously. “Bron go.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?”

“Why not what?” Glitch roared, bringing all the gully dwarf activity in the place to a screeching halt.

“Why not Bron go look at Talls?” Scrib explained. “Highbulp say go look at Talls, see what goin’ on. Right, Highbulp?”

“Right,” Glitch said, nodding. “Why?”

“Somebody ought to,” Scrib pursued. “Highbulp say Bron go. Right?”

“Right, Bron go look at Talls.”

“Already saw Talls,” Bron reminded them. “See ’em alla time on bridge.”

“But where Talls goin’?” Scrib pressed, becoming red in the face.

“Dunno,” Bron answered. “Wan’ me go see?”

Glitch had had enough. “Go see where Talls go!” he commanded.

“Okay,” Bron said.

“Okay,” several others nearby echoed.

Bron headed for the cistern wall, followed by dozens of other gully dwarves. Those who made it to the top on the first try trekked off toward the far side of the canyon and points beyond. The things they carried with them were whatever they’d had in hand when the order came to leave-a bag of mushrooms, a gourd, some rocks, a dead lizard, an extra shoe, and various other prizes.

Those who didn’t make it up the wall simply forgot about it and found other things to do.

At the creek below This Place, Bron and his followers passed a gaggle of females more or less washing things. The wash included various utensils, implements, babies and garments, and the Grand Notioner, who protested loudly as several females scrubbed him down, immersing him repeatedly in the process. Gandy was very old and very wise, but some of the ladies had taken it upon themselves to see that he was bathed now and then, whether he needed it or not.

Pert was among the crowd washing clothes. At the sight of Bron she dropped the bit of fabric she was scrubbing, and stood. The garment, forgotten, floated away downstream. “Where Bron goin’?” she asked.

“Gotta look at Talls,” Bron pointed eastward. “Highbulp say see where they go.”

“Why?”

“Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Highbulp not real clear ’bout that.”

“Highbulp not real clear ’bout anything,” she observed.

“Right,” he said. “Have nice day.” With that he waded into the creek, heading for the other side. The creek was fairly deep midstream, and a number of Bron’s sturdy troop went bobbing away downstream, scrambling for someplace to land. But he still had quite a few with him when he waded up the far bank, climbed the canyon wall there and set off cross-country in the direction the bridge road followed. In the distance ahead were low peaks, with a higher ridge beyond.

Most of them had no idea where they were going, and none of them knew why, but they were all true gully dwarves. Once set on a course, they would follow that course until either someone told them to stop or something more interesting came along. The strongest driving force of any Aghar was simple inertia.

That night, they rested in a shallow cave, making a meal of one scrawny lizard and various roots and berries gathered along the way.

“We a pretty good scout bunch, Bron. Lot of us here,” said the one named Tag.

“Yep,” Bron agreed. “Two.”

“Where we goin’?” Tag wondered.

“Gotta look at Talls,” Bron explained. “Anybody see any Talls?”

“Not lately,” several of them said.

“Well, we keep lookin’.” Chewing a root, Bron frowned. “Oughtta get rats,” he mused. “Could make stew with rats.”

“Saw a rat,” one of them said. “Couldn’ catch it, though. Need a bashin’ tool.”

“Maybe find a bashin’ tool someplace,” Bron decided. With that resolved, he lay back, curled himself comfortably and went to sleep.