I’m not eating a rock.

Harley caught herself frowning and quickly put on a fake smile. “I bet it tastes great!”

Barten had already moved on to other tasks. He poked the embers of the fire then went to the cabinet and returned with a pouch. He opened it wide, poured a colorful variety of nuts into a metal pan, then waited patiently. The heat of the pan did the work for him as the acorns, walnuts, and maple seeds slowly changed color.

“Other gnomes don’t eat anything but rocks. It was the halflings that first introduced my brothers and I to the taste of tree fruits.” said Barten.

“So halflings live around here?” said Harley.

“Oh yes,” replied Barten. “Pinecrest is only a short days walk for a couple of clover sprouts like you.”

The nuts and seeds roasted to a golden brown color then Barten tossed them into a bowl. A rich and toasty aroma filled the house.

Harley’s stomach woke up with a growl.

“What’s that smell?” said James as he joined beside the hearth.

“The fruit of the forest,” said Barten.

“Can I see?” said James as he put his face above the bowl. “Smells yummy.”

“Blasterbork!” shouted Berwick. He shook the gadget near his ear and it rattled off clinking metal. “Does this go here or should I attach it there? My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

Barten and James went to investigate, but Harley returned to the door for a peek outside. Curiosity was getting the best of her.

The storm raged with heavy rain. Trees slanted from gusting wind. The white worm was gone. She double checked to make sure, and then checked above her head just in case. There was nothing but rain.

One less thing to worry about, she mused as she dumped out the cups of Barten’s rock-boil and refilled them with fresh rainwater. The mud pond had spread to the doorstep, and since the storm didn’t seem like it would be stopping anytime soon, she went back inside.

“Tinker can fix it,” said James.

“Humph! I can fix it,” grumbled Berwick. He gathered up all the pieces and placed them in a bin. “I’m hungry is the problem. I’ll work on it later.”

“Just as well—it’s time for supper!” announced Barten. He set the table with bowls of forest rock stew and roasted tree fruits.

Harley grabbed James by the arm and pulled him aside. “Don’t eat anything the gnomes give you,” she whispered.

“But why?” said James.

“It could make you sick.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“Shhh. We’ll eat the apples, okay?” Harley reached in her pocket and pulled out an apple.

James smiled then searched for his own. They both emptied their pockets and counted—five apples. That was it. James took three which left two for Harley.

Barten and Berwick were already eating as Harley knelt down beside the table. James took the last chair and didn’t waste any time chomping into his apple. Barten shoved rocks into his mouth as if they were roasted potatoes and Berwick helped himself to a bit of everything. It all seemed so normal.

Harley bit into her own apple and continued pressing for answers. “How do we get to Pinecrest?”

“I’ll show you the trail when the rain passes,” mumbled Barten with full cheeks.

“A trail…what if we get lost?”

“The trails are marked,” he said as he gulped down a rock and picked up another.

“Marked how? What do you mean?”

Barten threw back a swig of rock-boil and cleared his throat, “The trails through the forest are marked by singing stones, and when you follow the trail by the song of the stones, and do not wander, you will end in the right place.”

“You can teach stones to sing?” said James.

“The singing stones were not taught, they were made,” said Barten. “Years ago we gnomes possessed a great treasure—the Stone of the Mountain, and we wielded it to great effect. From earth we conjured metal, and fused steel with rock, with powered gears we trekked the forest, and set hollow stones to mark the land. But the allure of the Stone attracted enemies—monsters and thieves, and disagreements on how to protect it resulted in a great tragedy. You see, the Stone is also called—”

“The Dolomyte Egg,” interrupted Berwick.

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“Right,” continued Barten. “The Stone of the Mountain is also called the Dolomyte Egg, and it was lost—”

“Not lost. Swallowed,” said Berwick.

“I’m getting to that,” said Barten. “It was swallowed by a spirit of the mountain, the beast you know as the Olm—”

“The Olm!” James leapt to his feet.

Barten crossed his arms. “If you or Berwick would let me finish, we might get somewhere.”

“Sorry! I got excited, and…” James stopped mid-sentence with wide, staring eyes.

“What’s wrong, James?” said Harley.

“Is the ceiling supposed to do that?”

A timber beam sagged above James’ head from the weight of an enormous white worm.

“Cromworm!!”

Barten left his chair, shouting the word over and over frantically. Berwick attempted to get up as well. Halfway through his motion, he tripped.

The repulsive worm moved with a lurching motion and went straight for the fallen gnome.

“Stand up!” shouted Barten, trying to help.

Berwick struggled to move.

Harley couldn’t move either. Adrenaline had paralyzed her; she could only stare as Berwick lay helpless on his back.

The mouth of the worm opened. The opening stretched in size, growing huge as it approached Berwick, and suddenly his kicking legs were inside the worm’s gape.

“You wretched beast!”

Barten thrust his fire iron into the worm, rending its flesh and spilling its intestines onto the floor. Berwick punched with desperate fists but his blows landed weakly, for the worm’s mouth had swallowed all of his lower half. James shrieked, and in a panic he rushed to Harley, grabbing her and screaming, and she tumbled onto her side.

“Get off me, James!” yelled Harley.

The worm’s mouth inched up Berwick’s chest. Inch by inch it worked the gnome through its esophagus as Harley hurried to her feet.

“Don’t worry! We’ll cut him out!” Barten shouted, his eyes crazed.

“With what?!” Harley exclaimed.

The worm coiled near the hearth with most of Berwick swallowed, and it lifted its body vertically to finish the task. Harley looked around, for something to fight with, anything she could use, and her eyes found the pot of boiling stew.

With a head full of steam and wool carpet for gloves, she pushed the lip of the pot to topple it. The stew splashed on the embers with a hiss, and as she heaved with all her might, the pot tilted, and then overturned.

A wave of boiling stew washed over the worm and it writhed as its flesh disintegrated. Barten leapt into action, swinging his fire iron wildly into the weakened flesh, each cut clean through, and Berwick emerged from the gizzard of the creature. He crawled, panting for breath, his entire body covered in muck and guts.

“The head still lives,” said Barten. He raised his fire iron high above the worm’s head, ready to finish the cromworm off.

Before Barten brought down his fire iron to kill the creature, Harley looked away. The sight of the carnage was too much. She couldn’t watch.

Lumps of white gunk mixed with the stew on the floor of the house. The worm was dead and no one was happy.

“You ruined my stew.”

“I’m going to have nightmares, Harley.”

“I’ll stink of cromworm for weeks.”

“It’s not my fault!” said Harley. “Well, except for the stew, I’ll take responsibility for that. But I did what I could! Did you want me to let Berwick die?”

“No, no, ‘course not, but that’s the end of supper,” said Barten as he uprighted the pot back onto the hearth. “What a mess.”

“Can you finish the story after we clean up?” asked James.

“No more stories,” grumbled Berwick. He left the house to rinse off in the rain.

Looking around to see who would clean up the mess, Harley met eyes with Barten. She frowned, knowing the answer.

“Grab a broom, James. We have to help,” said Harley.

James groaned but did as he was told.

There was more work to do than a whole week's worth of daily chores at home—cleaning the floor, the walls, the ceiling, objects big and small (and some things twice), organizing every knick-knack, tending to the hearth, and many more. But they talked as they cleaned and it made the work bearable.

“Cromworms are tiny and dormant most of the time. But water wakes them up. And boy do they wake up mean and hungry,” said Barten.

“Where’d you learn to fight them?” asked James.

“Learned? I never learned. Grab something sharp and get to swinging. It dies like any other invertebrate, there’s no special instructions.”

“Not that you’d read the instructions if there were any,” said Berwick with a chuckle. “I half expected Borton to walk through the door and tell us we were fightin’ it wrong.”

Barten laughed. “Isn’t that the truth.”

Berwick seemed different after his near-death experience with the cromworm, not quite happier, but reflective. No one seemed to know where the creature came from, and if James knew something, he wouldn’t say.

Harley wondered about the catching net with the pockmarked handle, and where it had come from. She decided to make it go missing in case other bugs lived within the holes. They had enough trouble and didn’t need more.

“What’s wrong, Harley?” asked James. “Are you thinking about the fairies?”

A chill rushed into her and instinctively she touched her hair. She remembered the deal with Barten that James had made. The gnomes had the Refractor but she still carried the fairy’s mark.

In the sitting room, Barten was cleaning the bits and pieces of the Refractor, humming to himself as he worked. He seemed perfectly happy to have the gadget without delivering his end of the bargain.

She approached him crossly. “Barten, I’m going to die unless you remove the fairy’s mark. Haven’t I waited long enough?”

“I’m not sure if you’re ready.”

“I am! I’ve been ready. Let’s get it over with. How do you remove it? Where are you going?”

Barten had left the table and was rummaging through the cabinet. Then he grunted, seemingly surprised, and returned to the table with a silver pair of scissors. He set them in front of Harley.

“I need to cut off your hair.”