“How would I do this?” asked Borel. “I cannot take her out through the windows, and she refuses to go down the steps.”
“I do not know,” replied Flic. “I just know that as long as you and she remain in that chamber, you do not control the setting.”
Again Borel sighed and shook his head, but Flic was holding on to the upturned brim of the tricorn and remained well seated.
On up the slope Borel went and passed through the col, and then strode down the far slant, the way easier, for the whin mustered less thickly upon the land on this side of the notch.
Of a sudden Borel paused and said, “I hear the sound of an axe, I think… or perhaps that of a hammer.”
Faintly upon the air came a distant thwack, and after a moment, another… and another… And in the distance among a stand of evergreens “Look, a thin tendril of smoke,” said Borel, pointing at the grove.
“I see it as well,” said Flic, taking to wing. “I’ll scout ahead.”
“Take care, my friend,” said Borel. “It could be more Goblins and Trolls.”
“Or something worse,” said Flic. “I will be wary of nets and such.”
With that the Sprite flew down the slope and toward the distant copse.
On downward strode Borel, his steps not as faltering as they were yester, for Flic’s flowery potion and mossy salve and juice of herbs seemed to have alleviated much of Borel’s woe, his soreness but a dull aching rather than a collection of sharp pains. Even so, he was not yet up to running, not yet capable of the Wolftrot he could maintain throughout a full day. And so, gaining the benefit of two applications of Flic’s medications, Borel strode on the edge of discomfort, rather than hobbling along in acute hurt.
Buzzer came flying back, apparently to make certain that this walking two-legs followed. Not finding Flic in Borel’s company, the bee agitatedly flew ’round and about Borel’s head, then alighted on the brim of the hat, then flew again, and landed again and flew and landed and flew.
“He’s gone on a scouting mission,” said Borel, and he pointed at the grove. And still smoke drifted into the air from the center of the trees, and still there came a periodic thwacking.
Buzzer flew down before Borel’s face and hovered somewhat menacingly.
In spite of the bee, Borel continued to stride forward, and Buzzer turned and flew a short distance, then hovered again directly in Borel’s path. “I tell you, Flic’s gone on ahead,” said the prince, once more pointing.
When he reached Buzzer, Borel stopped and held out a hand, palm down, and then slowly raised it up underneath the bee, until she had no choice but to land on his hand or fly away.
She landed.
Borel moved his hand to his tricorn, and Buzzer walked off and onto the hat. Then Borel strode on toward the grove.
Some moments later, Flic came flying back; he was giggling. Buzzer flew up and about the Sprite, seemingly overjoyed at the wee one’s return. But then the bee buzzed angrily, as if admonishing Flic for worrying her so.
They both landed on Borel’s tricorn, and as Flic stroked the bee, Borel said, “Well?”
“You must go into the grove, my lord prince.” Again the Sprite broke into giggles.
“And what will I find?” asked Borel.
“Oh, I would not wish to spoil the surprise,” said Flic.
“Flic, I would rather enter the coppice knowing what is there than be surprised by a danger dire.”
“My prince, I was gone as long as I was because I flew throughout the entire grove, seeking peril, and I assure you there is no danger lurking within.”
With that the Sprite would say no more, and Borel strode on to the stand of evergreens and, nocking an arrow, he cautiously walked within, following the sound of the rapping and the fragrance of woodsmoke, and then he heard cursing.
He came upon what looked to be a very small, one-room log cabin, perhaps no more than four foot high, its wee, leather-hinged door standing ajar. The rapping and cursing came from beyond the tiny dwelling.
Not wishing to leave danger lurking behind, Borel stooped down and took a quick look within the small dwelling. No one was inside. Cautiously, he worked his way about the lodge and toward the oaths, the Sprite on the tricorn with his hand pressed to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud, though now and again a giggle did escape.
Borel came to the back corner, and he drew his arrow to the full and stepped ’round. There behind the cabin knelt a small Gnomelike man, two foot tall at the most, a tiny axe in one hand, a small, blunt wedge of wood in another; using the flat of the blade, he was trying to pound the poorly tapered block into an entirely too-narrow, lengthwise crack in a large log in which his long white beard was trapped nearly all the way up to his chin.
Flic broke out laughing in glee.
At this sound-“Are you girls back again? Are you girls back again?” snarled the little man, unable to turn about to see for himself. “Go away! Go away!”
“Nay, Sieur,” said Borel, smiling and relaxing his draw. “We are no girls.-Or rather, only one of us is female.”
Upon hearing Borel’s deep voice, the little man jerked and tried to-“Ow!”-swing ’round to see, but his beard was caught, and a goodly number of strands tore free as he tried to look behind. “Now see what you made me do,” he cried. “Oh, my beautiful beard.”
Laughing gaily, Flic flew up and across and lit on one end of the log, and the Gnomish man’s undersized eyes widened at the sight of the Sprite. Then Buzzer lit nearby.
“Oh, oh,” cried the little man, “kill the bee, kill the bee, else I am certain it will sting me.”
Flic gasped in horror. “Kill my friend? Why you ugly little man. You deserve to remain stuck.”
“Now, Flic,” said Borel, even as the Gnome began to cry, “I am certain that he is merely frightened, and had he known Buzzer is a friend, he wouldn’t have said such a thing.”
“Oh, oh, are you going to leave me trapped here forever?” asked the small man.
“No, no,” said Borel, “I will help you, Sieur.” The prince slid the arrow back into his quiver and stepped to the opposite side of the log, where he unstrung his bow and slung it across his back.
Before him, Borel saw a rather homely Gnome, with a nose much too large for his face, and eyes much too small, and a very wide mouth running nearly from one overlarge ear to the other.
At the sight of the prince, again the wee man’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to cut my beard, are you?
That’s what the girls did. Cut my beard. It took years to grow out to its now magnificent length.”
“No,” said Borel. “I assure you, I will only cut your beard if nought else will set you free.”
“Oh, no,” moaned the Gnome, great tears forming and running down his cheeks and nose and splashily dropping onto the bark.
Borel knelt down and examined the log, the crack, and the beard. “Give me the axe,” he said.
“Oh, no, you’re going to chop my beard off,” whined the Gnome, and he tried to hide the axe behind his back.
Sighing, Borel reached across and took the axe from the wee man. “Have you a hammer, a mallet?”
“Y-yes. In my cottage.”
Borel frowned and looked at the oak-hafted axe, more of a hatchet in size, being just slightly longer than a foot in all. “Never mind,” he said and took up a billet nearby. He set the cutting edge of the small axe into one end of the split well away from the Gnome’s beard, and then with the billet he hammered the bronze blade into the crack, widening it. In moments the Gnome was free.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” said the wee man, standing up to his two-foot height and stretching, while at the same time keeping a wary eye upon the bee. He tucked the end of his foot-long beard into his belt and said, “I’ve little to pay you with.”