“I ask for no pay,” said Borel, “though a meal would be splendid.”
“As you wish, my lord,” said the Gnome, “though it will take me awhile,” and he rushed away toward the back door of his cabin.
“It would also suit my friends,” Borel called after, “if you have a bit of honey as well.”
“Yes, yes,” called the wee man over his shoulder, and into the cabin he went.
Borel looked about, and then wrenched the axe from the log and, in spite of his lingering aches, he began splitting the wood in twain.
Borel had laid aside nearly a half cord of wood by the time the Gnome returned, the small man staggering under a steaming tray piled high with honey-baked beans, several wee slabs of black bread slathered with butter, a number of small rashers of well-cooked bacon, and a tiny bowl holding perhaps a spoonful of honey.
“Just as I was trying to wrench my axe out of that log,” said the Gnome, now sitting on the ground before Borel, “a gust of wind blew me down on it at the very same time my axe came free and the crack snapped shut on my beard.”
Also sitting on the ground, “Mmm…” said Borel, his mouth full of beans and bread.
“By the bye,” said the Gnome, “my name is Hegwith. And you would be…?”
“He is Prince Borel of the Winterwood,” said Flic, licking sweetness from the tip of one finger, while beside him Buzzer lapped at the small dish of honey. “And this is Buzzer, my guardian”-Flic shot a glare at the Gnome-“and not a bee to be swatted nor trifled with. And I am Flic, Sprite of the Fields.”
“Prince Borel?” said the Gnome, looking up at the man.
Still chewing, “Mmm…” replied Borel, sketching a seated bow, then scooping up another mouthful of beans, using the Gnome’s soup ladle as a spoon.
Hegwith stood and bowed to the prince, and then seated himself on the ground again.
“How came you to believe we were girls coming to cut off your beard?” asked Flic, dipping his finger into the honey again and then licking it clean.
“Well, this isn’t the first time my beard has been caught in a crack, and for that I think some evil witch or the like has cursed me. You see, awhile back and at a place far from here, I got my beard caught in another split in a log. Two young girls came along, and to get me free they snipped off the very tip of my beard. I’m afraid I was rather ungracious, seeing as how my marvelous beard had been virtually destroyed. I’m rather vain about it, you know.
“In any event, not a week went by when again my beard got caught in a crack, and as fate would have it, again came along these same two girls. And they cut off even more of my beard. This time I cursed at them, for now it was even worse than before.
“Finally, when my beard got caught the third time around, and this same pair of girls came by, I promised them treasure if they would set me free without snipping off more of my beard. They readily agreed, and, well, wouldn’t you know, they took the treasure and ran away, leaving me with nought but a small pair of scissors.” Tears filled the Gnome’s eyes. “I had to cut my own beard. My very own beard.”
Borel shook his head in commiseration, but Flic laughed in glee. “Clever girls. I say they well earned that treasure.”
“What do you mean?” sobbed the Gnome. He took out a red kerchief and noisily blew his nose, but continued to weep over the loss of part of his beard.
“Why, they kept their promise, Hegwith,” said Flic. “By leaving the scissors, they gave you the means for you to get free without they themselves cutting your beard.” Again Flic broke into gleeful laughter.
“Yes, but I had to cut it myself,” wailed Hegwith above the Sprite’s giggles. “At least if they had snipped it off, I would have them to blame and not myself.”
Borel sopped up the last of the honey-baked beans and popped the bread into his mouth.
Drawing in a shaky breath and stifling his tears and blowing his overlarge nose once more, Hegwith looked up at the prince and said, “At least you, my lord, didn’t chop off my beautiful beard. And for that I am grateful.”
“Had I had to cut it off,” said Borel, “it would have been at your chin.”
“Oh, my,” said Hegwith, clutching his beard, and he burst into tears again.
“My lord, I see you travel light,” said Hegwith. “Do you live nearby?”
“No, Hegwith. I have not much gear, for I lost nearly all of my goods when I was captured by Trolls, and then again during my escape.”
Startled, Hegwith blurted, “Trolls? Where?” The Gnome looked about in panic.
Borel pointed back up the vale. “Past the twilight marge, and over hills and through woods to a distant river and then upstream past rapids; altogether some fifteen or twenty miles hence.”
A look of relief passed across Hegwith’s face. “For a moment I thought they might be nearby. Yet you escaped them, you say?”
Borel nodded.
“What did you lose?”
“Lose?”
“Your goods. When you were captured and then escaped.”
“Oh, it’s not important. Just a rucksack and a tinderbox and provisions, as well as a small kit for fletching arrows and other such things. Yet that is neither here nor there. Instead let me ask you this: do you know of Lord Roulan? Where his estates might be? We are on a desperate mission, and it is vital we get to his lands.”
Hegwith shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not know of him. Would that I did, but I don’t.”
Borel sighed and then pointed ahead and said, “What lies along the vales we follow?”
“Meadows. Flowers. Streams. Coppices. All the way to the next border, some twenty-five miles hence. But there are no estates along that path.”
“What lies beyond the next twilight marge?” asked Flic.
“Oh, you don’t want to go there,” said Hegwith, pushing out both hands, as if to stop any movement in that direction. “ ’Tis a terrible mire-hideous bogs and quags; why, I nearly drowned when I passed through, back when I fled from the hag who wanted to steal my-um, er, harrumph, and those horrible girls who cut my beard. Regardless, there is muck without bottom and quicksand and leeches and snakes and other dreadful things, things that slither and plop and wriggle and…” Hegwith’s voice trailed off, his face squinched, his gaze lost in ill memories.
“Blossoms?” asked Flic.
“What?”
“Are there blossoms, flowers, within the swamp?”
“Why, I suppose so. Yes, I remember. Many flowers hanging from trees, altogether quite beautiful. Others were growing up out of the muck. And some of those filled the air with the odor of carrion, as if some animal had crawled within and had become trapped and died, the stench of putrefying meat rather dreadful.”
Flic looked at Borel. “Then, my lord, I think that is where Buzzer is headed, for the flowers of a mire are rich in nectar.”
Borel shrugged and hitched to his feet, for sitting had stiffened him up. “If it lies along Buzzer’s route, then there’s nothing for it but that we must follow.”
The prince slung his bow by its carrying thong and said, “I thank you for the tasty meal, Hegwith. It filled up the empty spots in my hollow stomach. But now we must go, for our mission is dire and the moon sails on and stays her course for no one.” He turned to the Sprite and the bee. “Flic, Buzzer, ’tis time to fly.”
At a signal from Flic, Buzzer took to wing and flew up and ’round, sighting on the sun, and then she arrowed away. Flic flew up to the prow of Borel’s tricorn and settled down. Borel sketched a bow to the Gnome, then turned and strode off through the evergreens, and Hegwith watched them go. Just ere they disappeared from sight, the Gnome called out, “Thank you for setting me free without cutting my beard.”
Hegwith stood a moment in thought, muttering, “What has the moon to do with ought?” Then he looked at the axe and the crack in the log and at the cord of wood Borel had split and laid for him. His eyes widened and he glanced once more in the direction that Borel, Flic, and Buzzer had gone, then turned and rushed into his tiny dwelling, where he opened a trapdoor and climbed down into the mine below. There he took up a maul and began pounding on the bedrock, his rhythmic hammerings sounding very much like signals.