“And they believed him?” Alea asked incredulously.
Gar nodded, his face stone. “Hungry people will believe the most outrageous things, from a man who promises them food—and people who have been living in squalor and humiliation will be very quick to believe anyone who offers them pride and a better life.”
“So the Midgarders all banded together into one kingdom,” Alea inferred.
“Yes, but they didn’t let Tick rule them outright,” Gar said. “There was too much hatred between kingdoms for that. He did manage to get them to hold a gathering of barons called the Allthing once a year, though, to vote on the laws and judge disputes, so the kings became scarcely more powerful than any other lord. The Council of Kings sat all year around, you see, and they left their stewards to take care of their lands and people. Through them, Tick taught all the ordinary people to think of themselves as Midgarders, to revere normal size and looks, and to hate the other nations.”
“Did he teach them to hate women, too?” Alea asked, her voice hard.
“Close. He taught them that they had to be very strong warriors in order to fight off the giants.”
“And men are stronger than women,” Alea said bitterly, “so men had to be important, much more important.”
“And women were only there to take care of them and do all the drudgery, so the men could fight.” Gar nodded. “From that, all the rest followed. It justified slavery—the women alone couldn’t do all the hard work, after all—so anyone too tall or too short was enslaved. Anyone who grew to be a giant, though, was exiled, and so was anyone who was so short as to be clearly a dwarf. Many of them died, of course, but the ones who survived banded together and married.”
“So we have three separate nations today,” Alea said, feeling numb.
“Yes,” Gar said. “But remember, only one nation was nurtured with hatred. The other two survived because they learned how to trust one another, and to deserve that trust.”
“What of this ‘radio’ and these ‘computers’ of yours?” Alea asked. “Did Midgard forget how to make them?”
“Well, somebody there is using radio, at least,” Gar told her. “My guess is that the Council of Kings and the barons have remembered how, so that they can direct battles and listen to the giants’ and dwarves’ plans. They make sure that no one else learns.”
“My poor people.” Alea blinked back tears. “So torn apart, so blind! Can they ever be healed?”
“Oh, yes,” Gar said softly. “It will take time, it will take a great deal of time—but what one story has torn apart, another can mend.”
“But there’s nothing I can do about it!”
“Of course there is.” Gar smiled down at her, eyes glowing as though she were something precious.
She felt her heart stop for a few seconds and wondered what he saw. “What can I do?” she whispered, then wondered which way she meant it.
“Tell the story of Dumi wherever you go,” Gar said. “Tell the tale of Thummaz. What one poet has torn, another can knit up.”
“How?” Alea cried, not understanding.
“Because Tick may have taught the Midgarders to hate, but he forgot to teach them not to love,” Gar told her, “and his hatred made it all the more important for the giants and dwarves to keep that knowledge of loving alive. If they can love their children who look like Midgarders, they can learn to love the real Midgarders, at least enough to forgive them.”
“Perhaps, if the Midgarders can stop hating them.” Alea looked out over the village, at Midgard-sized fathers talking to dwarf sons, at dwarf mothers talking to Midgard-sized daughters. “They do care for their children mightily. To tell you the truth, I’m amazed to find that my parents weren’t the only ones who cherished their offspring so deeply, even though they were too tall.”
“I don’t think the dwarves really think of anyone as being ‘too tall,’ ” Gar said, “only as Midgarders, giants, or dwarves.”
“So they must learn to think only of people as people?” Alea gave him a skeptical glance. “Very good, if the Midgarders can learn it, too.” She knew the giants could.
“It’s like Christianity,” Gar sighed. “It would work so well, if only everyone would try it all at once. Since they won’t, though, someone has to try it first.”
Alea turned to him, frowning. “I don’t know this Christianity you speak of, but you make it sound as though the one who begins it would be likely to be hurt.”
“Not necessarily,” Gar said, “but in some matters, such as not striking back unless your life is threatened, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. It’s like love—you have to take the risk of being hurt, if you wish to win the prize of joy.”
Alea glanced at him sharply, suddenly wary of what might be an overture, and told herself that the thudding of her heart was only fear—but Gar was gazing out at the dwarf village, calmly and thoughtfully. Piqued, she demanded, “So what risk could these dwarves take? You wouldn’t have them march empty-handed into Midgard, would you?”
Gar stated to answer, but Bekko came up to the guest house at that moment, rubbing his hand over his face, his gaze blurry. “Did you sleep well?” he asked politely if indistinctly.
“I did, yes, thank you,” Gar said.
“I too.” Alea smiled. “And without dreams. Sometimes that’s a blessing.”
“Yes … I dreamed…” Bekko gazed out over the village. Other dwarves had begun to come out of their houses, looking equally hung-over. Bekko shook his head, then winced. “I shouldn’t drink so much just before sleeping, I suppose.”
Alea had an uneasy premonition. “Of what did you dream?”
Bekko only frowned, staring off into space. “Of a wizard?” Gar prodded.
Bekko turned to stare at him. “You too, eh?”
Gar nodded. “I think your neighbors have, too, from the look of them.”
“Did this wizard show you a Great Monad?” Alea asked. “Did he tell you that we could only become better if giants, dwarves, and Midgarders banded together?”
“Something like that, yes.” Bekko frowned at her, studying her face. “Has the whole village dreamed of this?”
Alea started to say that she had dreamed of the Wizard weeks before, but Gar spoke first. “I think they have. Did this Wizard tell you that you should be ready to give shelter to Midgarder fugitives?”
Alea turned to him in surprise.
“He did, yes.” Bekko nodded heavily. “He said that was all we could do to heal our people for the time being. He didn’t say why the Midgarders should be fleeing.”
“They’ll be Midgarders like us,” Alea said flatly, “too big or too small. They’ll have been thrown into slavery. If they flee to you, they’ll have escaped—but there will be hunters hard on their trails.”
Bekko stared at her in surprise. “Is that your own tale?”
“It is,” Alea said, voice and face stony.
Bekko seemed to read a lot from her very lack of expression. His voice was gentle. “Did you suffer greatly at their hands?”
“Yes,” Alea snapped.
“Greatly enough to make you take the risk of punishment for those who escape,” Bekko interpreted. He nodded. “Yes. I think we could give such people shelter. Not too many in any one village, of course. Perhaps we’ll have to build them their own villages, and protect them with our armies.” Then he shrugged, turning away. “Of course, I’m only one dwarf, and this is only one village—but I think anyone who dreamed of that wizard would agree with me.”
“If you’ve all dreamed of him,” Gar said, “perhaps all of Nibelheim has.”