Harley wiped a droplet of rain from her brow as she crouched inside the house beside James. The ceiling was aged timber, dirt-packed and earthy, and she batted a root that dangled loosely by her head. This was no luxury hotel, but it did well enough to keep out the rain.

The layout of the house was shaped like a kicked over boot. At the top of the boot was the entrance, with a small wooden door in a wall of stacked stone. A hearthstone formed the heel, sturdy and wide, and on the hearth boiled a black pot above a bed of red embers. At the toe of the boot was the sitting room, where the two gnomes stood at a table with three chairs, the Refractor in hand.

The first gnome looked at the gadget as the second gnome held it, their conversation in words that Harley didn’t understand.

The second gnome looked even older than the first; his thin brows drooped low and wrinkles covered his face like contour lines on a map. He wore a red knitted cap that was too big for his head; it sat high on his forehead and low round his ears. Neither gnome bothered to welcome them in. The gadget had their full attention.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” asked James.

“No clue,” replied Harley with a shrug. “Hey! Hello? Hello?!”

The gnomes’ mumbling stopped.

“Trespassers! What do you want?” said the red-capped gnome.

“They’re harmless, Berwick—I invited them in,” said the gnome with pockets bulging with rocks. “They’re friends with Tinker.”

“Only James knows Tinker, I haven’t met him,” said Harley.

“And you are?” said Berwick.

“Harley Novak.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of anyone called Harley Novak. What about you, Barten? Ever heard of a name like that?” Berwick shuffled over and turned inquisitively to James. “So you know Tinker, is that right? How is my nephew?”

James shrugged, then mumbled, “Good.”

Berwick frowned and crossed his arms.

“Let off them, Berwick. They’re green as a clover sprout and a storm has come over the mountain,” said Barten. “They won’t last long without us—the girl is marked.”

With that, Berwick scowled and entered into a rant, “Humans are nothing but liars, Barten. Far more than any halfling, and the youngest of them lie the most. A fairy-marked girl is trouble indeed, and who knows if the boy is actually a friend to Tinker, or how he came into possession of this marvelous device.”

“Tinker is my friend!” James protested. “We even fought a battle together.”

“Another lie I’m sure. Get out, get out!” said Berwick, pointing to the door.

Barten erupted with anger, “Stop it you blastering son of a gibber! You’ve been insufferable since Borten left us and it’s been nearly ten years since we’ve heard anything from our kin. I for one would like to know the happenings inside the mountain, and I’ve seen nothing that invites doubt. Let them speak.”

Berwick seethed through his wrinkled old mouth, but did not say more. Barten signaled to Harley and she went first, beginning a speech that focused on Risanburg and the mysterious hole, and then on the fairies. It was all true of course, but there was a problem.

“Prove it,” said Berwick.

She couldn’t. Everything she had was lost, left behind or forgotten, and the only things she had to verify her story were a few purple bruises and a miserable cut across her hand.

Barten encouraged James to have his turn. Her brother tried his best to accurately recount his story, but his retelling was plagued by inconsistencies and embellishments; he couldn’t remember the names of Tinker’s brothers, and no child could possibly slay a giant.

There was one statement James said that she knew was definitely true—a gargantuan beast lived in the waters of the mountain. He said its name was the Olm—that was new information. But Harley had seen it with her own eyes. It almost ate her whole.

The circumstances surrounding the Olm were most important to the gnomes as well, and Berwick focused his accusations on this part of James’ story.

“I bet the boy snuck in and stole the Refractor as our nephews hunted the Olm,” said Berwick.

“I didn’t sneak in, I was with them!” said James. “Honest!”

“A well-rehearsed story does not make it true,” the gnome snapped back. “Tell me this—why were they hunting the Olm?”

James shrugged.

“Hmph! If the Olm escaped as you say, why would Tinker give you the Refractor without anything in return?”

“Because I needed help?” said James with uncertainty.

“Humph! Again you’ve said nothing specific, no words to prove he said anything to you at all. Barten, this boy does not know Tinker—it’s all a big lie.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“It's not! It's all true! And I can prove it. I remember the very first thing he said.”

“Well…what was it?” asked Berwick.

“Blasterbork!” shouted James.

Never before had tension left a house so quickly as it did when Barten burst into laughter. The gnome turned red in the face, doubled over and wheezed, then laughed, and continued laughing. James burst into laughter as well, doubling over as he saw Barten unable to control himself.

Harley joined in sheepishly at first, then soon laughed the loudest, and the three of them cackled together as Berwick remained stone-faced and dumb.

“This inquisition is over,” said Barten, catching his breath. “Believe what you will Berwick, but the boy just said the worst curse a gnome could know, and I dare say a favorite of Tinker’s. They’re telling the truth.”

“Don’t think I won’t be watching you two,” said Berwick while wagging his finger. Then he held the gadget with both hands and shuffled back to the sitting room.

Harley followed James toward the hearth as Barten added heat under a pot of boiling stew. The hearth was constructed of interlocking gray stone and it stacked from floor to ceiling in the corner, warm and dry, with an arched mantle above the hearth to catch the smoke.

Barten fished a rock from his pocket and tossed it casually into the pot. Plop. Then he tossed a second rock, bigger than the first, and it made a splash that fell on hot embers with a hiss. The third rock was much larger than the first two, and Barten placed it in the head of a ladle and lowered it into the boiling water without a splash.

“Forest rocks taste best after a boil,” said Barten while stirring the pot.

The crack of thunder tore through the air like the boom of a gun. The sound sent Harley’s head against the ceiling and she saw the pouring rain through the open door.

“Today’s not the day for a walk,” said Barten. “Mind getting the door?”

Harley tucked her hair behind her ears and went to the door. Fearing the worst, she stuck her head outside for a look at the forest, but there weren’t any fairies, and the trees hadn’t grown legs to abduct her, at least not yet. The main difference was the water; the soil was thoroughly soaked and a large mud pond had formed outside the house. She saw James’ catching net had fallen over and the pockmarked handle lay submerged in the pond.

A white rope floated near it, one end tethered to the handle. Something was off about it. The rope seemed to be moving and stretching in the water.

She gasped.

The rope wasn’t stretching, it was growing, and it wasn’t a rope at all. It looked like some sort of worm. She watched in horror as the white creature oozed from the stick like pus leaving a zit, growing bigger, moving in the water, and seeking out land.

Harley shrieked.

She slammed the door behind her.

“There’s a worm out there!”

Barten wore a peculiar look. “The wrigglers always come out when it storms like this. You never saw an earthworm?”

“Not like that! It was bigger than any worm I’ve ever seen, and still growing!”

“Big storms bring out the biggest ones. Always have. Now come and have a seat, the rock-boil is almost finished,” said Barten, dismissively.

Harley shook her head in disbelief. Maybe big white worms were normal in this strange forest. Still, it grossed her out. Luckily, it was outside and they were inside. She buried her concern and sat on a wool carpet near the hearth.

Her thoughts wandered elsewhere. She wished for home, then she wished for her bed, and last but not least, she wished for her comfy sheets. The heat of the fire felt good on her feet; all ten toes were tender and her heels hurt from all the walking. She checked the cut on her hand and it wasn’t any different, so she left it alone.

Nearby, a stone wolf howled. Wood carvings of sword-bearing gnomes and axe-swinging goblins stood upright on the shelves, and above them, a squirrel figurine perched on a timber beam. A painted eagle spread its wings in the sitting room, antlers decorated the walls, and a candle burned softly on the table.

“Don’t block the light,” grumbled Berwick to James. “And keep the screws bunched by size, we can’t be losing any.”

Berwick worked with a screwdriver to disassemble the gadget, occasionally barking commands and remarking to Tinker as if he could hear him. James sat at the table too, in a chair that was one size too small, and he sorted the screws into neat groups as Berwick instructed.

Another crack of thunder boomed, now dulled from the closed door, and the storm continued the onslaught of rain. Harley thought about Johan. He was scared of thunder and lightning. The chances he made it out of the mountain were slim to none; he didn’t know how to swim, at least not well, and the water ran fast and deep.

An intense sadness swelled up in her chest as the grim reality sank in. Her and James didn’t have the supplies or the know-how to search for Johan. She tried to hide her tears.

“Don’t be crying now,” said Barten. “The fairy’s mark doesn’t mean instant death. We've got time to fix you up.”

Harley wiped her face with her shirt, took a few deep breaths, then watched Barten tend to his stew. The gnome cooked with the skill of a master saucier. Adding spices and herbs, he mixed the earthy concoction, quickly at first, then gentle, and finally he dipped in the head of his ladle and poured the rock-boil neatly into a cup.

“Drink this,” said Barten. “It’ll warm your bones.”

Barten set the cup next to Harley and began to pour a second one double the size. She nearly threw up. Dead moss and leaves mixed with dirt and hot water, and bug carcasses floated on top. Harley took both cups before Barten could give one to James—if she didn’t look after her brother then no one else would.

“Thanks but we’ll drink it later,” said Harley with a polite smile. “How far is Cutter’s Gate?''

“Well that depends on the route, and how keen you are towards walking,” said Barten. “It might take three or four days.”

Three or four…days? My feet already hurt.

“Perhaps by wagon it’s faster,” he said as he pulled on his chin. “But we didn’t have that luxury. Our travels were on foot. Those early years were fraught with unknowables—when we first ventured out of the mountain, through new lands and new dangers, detailing everything to be found, and we trekked from peak to forest—from Sparkling Falls to Cutter’s Gate and everywhere in between.”

“Can you take us there?” interrupted Harley.

Barten’s brows rose high on his head. “That’s a lot to ask from a pair of old gnomes.”

“But we don’t know the way.”

“You will fare better with the halflings.”

“Halflings?”

Barten squished his nose and the wrinkles multiplied on his face. “Yes—have you never met a halfling?”

Harley blushed. The question felt like a pop quiz and she didn’t know the answer.

“They’re a friendly folk with trail-worn feet and a good reputation for cooking. Not fond of rocks, but I suppose there’s more than one way to make a stew.”

Barten scooped up a hearty serving with his ladle and offered up a smell. “It’s all done. Ready to eat?”