“Dwarf?” asked the fungus far shorter than the distance from floor to knob. “What can I do for you, bud?”

The dwarf was impressed. The inside of the mossy cottage, cleaned of its filth and trash, did not appear so different than when he had first stepped inside so many lives ago--minus some furniture. It seemed the doctor’s favorite horridly uncomfortable chair survived after all, but its equal did not. The couch looked repaired. The kitchen had its shelves reordered. Funguayou bowed.

“You don’t have to say a thing, I already know it. Appreciate it, dwarf. Come outside, let me introduce you to the flock.”

Hearing Funguayou pronounce the revered term reserved normally for Waspig and the like, a wave of nausea came and dissolved. The dwarf-limbed funguay appeared concerned, but the dwarf waved it off, and the two emerged out the backdoor to encounter a bustling two hives, octagonal pens housing individual miniaturized fungus headed tusk bearing amalgamations. Some, to the dwarf’s horror, bore multiple limbs. The dwarf restrained rising bile.

“This one’s Boxhound, and this is Whip, and this is The Canticle... You look tired. Let’s come back inside and I’ll get some tea going.”

The dwarf felt grateful for the gesture. He seated himself atop the couch, no pose quite right. In little time Funguayou arrived with a platter of three cups. The dwarf took one, minute mushroom bobbing at the surface of the tea, and nearly spilled it jumping at the exclamation from the cellar.

“Ishmael! Dare I smell tea?”

The dwarf hadn’t been aware it could smell anything. Funguayou excused itself and rushed downstairs, its own tea cooling atop a small round table. The temperature of his own tasted boiling, so he set it down and waited. Kicking his short legs for some time, the dwarf grew curious. He hopped off the couch and descended the cellar, the noises denoting an argument echoing from down long, cool halls. The dwarf felt as if he had crept from his own bedroom, and the nostalgia made him sick. The closer he drew, the louder they were. The dwarf stopped before a room of boxes and barrels--one in which the dwarf had ransacked for fruit and seed.

“Well of course I’m in here,” began the doctor. “I told you I’d be in storage. You’ve delivered it cold by now.”

“Sorry, dad. I still see smoke coming up off of it, though, so would you give it a taste?” requested its illegitimate son.

Were its flock its siblings, wondered the dwarf.

“It’s cold. It’s cold. Leave me be, Ishmael. Play with,” said Mallow. “Dwarf?” For the dwarf had come forward. “Wandering? Can I help you?” And the dwarf spoke of the key to the knob. “Took it, did you? But what of the undead?” And the dwarf related the tale of their dragging out beneath the sun, exorcized in its warmth. It seemed pleased. “Thank you. It is good to hear your faith is so strong. Yes, there are limits to our abilities, but hold fast and continue your prayers and reconstruction. And, on the topic, how does it go?” And the dwarf requested the handsaw. “Perhaps you’ve brought back my axe?” And he had not. “Well,” began Mallow. Have you any coin?“

The dwarf fished through his cowskin pouch and produced the minted spoils of the card table. Although just a few, the funguay’s eyes lit.

“Ishmael, get him the saw. And keep it, dwarf. And the axe. But I will be wanting that wheelbarrow back some time. Do not rush yourself. And, boy, do not forget my tea!”

“Yes, father!” yelled back Funguayou.

The dwarf started for the same hallway the dwarfen funguay darted into. But Doctor Mallow rested a hand atop his ocean blue shoulder.

“I assume you have seen them. Marvelous things, yes? Such fine funguay features, don’t you agree?”

The dwarf backed off letting the hand slide off.

“Your face expresses enthusiasm like bark bites. Are you sore about what I’ve done?”

The dwarf’s hands began to ball.

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“Well get over it. You came to me in His home and tore my life down. Some pitiable sum in a bag is all I’ve to show for it--that and these scars by my ribs. Be grateful at all my love for Him exceeds my disdain for you, dwarf. And you are a poor influence on Ishmael, my sense of smell is keen enough to know what he’s been up to. I assure you no herb burns under this roof. Now, you’ve been reconstructing the church, have you? The door? And you want my key? I would refuse you had you not exorcized the poor undead of Omelet. But your wretched self did a good deed. Here,” said Mallow, pulling the key from a drawer, slapping it onto an open palm. “Ishamel, boy, that tea had better be hot.”

Sharing goodbyes with the two funguay, the dwarf departed back to the steeple armed with saw and key. Combining the efforts of his sap collection and already chopped wood, creating the makeshift door started on elevated footing. The saw blade, gray but free of grime, dug through the wood effortlessly.

“CARPENTRY SKILL INCREASED TO 11”

“CARPENTRY SKILL INCREASED TO 12”

“CARPENTRY SKILL INCREASED TO 13”

Utilizing the hinges on hand, the dwarf attached a single set to his new, thick door, bolstering the recovered knob. He took the weighty doubly reinforced work of ‘CARPENTRY’ into his hands and fitted it within the space so long empty. Hinges mounted, the dwarf pushed the door open and watched it close on the lowering sun. His hand leaned forward, pulling the door into place. And carved near the bottom hanged a flap just wide enough for Pistol. Lying down, the pet let out a sigh of satisfaction. The dwarf couldn’t have agreed more...

The next day, the dwarf took to the roof utilizing the aid of his arachnid one plank at a time, little interest in a pulley system or other such method. Instead the dwarf repeatedly rose and descended bearing the means of repairing the steeple’s roof, even if the new material hardly matched the old. It meant all the same to the dwarf so long as he repaired the hole. Thankfully Paris had already woven a great sticky blueprint for laying upon, something the second spider too built upon. It was simple laying the majority of the wood, utilizing the handsaw for the more difficult corners and jagged edges.

“CARPENTRY SKILL INCREASED TO 14”

“CARPENTRY SKILL INCREASED TO 15”

Many nights ago, recalled the dwarf, Funguayou had made reference to Christ. Though he’d ultimately overlooked it in favor of more pressing events at the time, what had compelled the funguay? For a brief moment the dwarf entertained the thought of widespread knowledge of Jesus, but it dawned on him the memories Funguayou had retained. What of the offspring of the pigsects--did they know the dwarf’s love? It had not seemed, to the dwarf, they particularly paid him attention on visiting. But he’d only seen them for a moment, leaving and refusing to hazard a second look. And what of Funguayou? Sympathy welled in the dwarf for the responsibilities thrust upon the illegitimate child. A lesson in ‘FAITH’ was one task; living with the doctor full time frightened him. The dwarf frowned, mounting his unnamed arachnid and descending from the roof for the final time, he hoped. He allowed the spider free roam while the dwarf lay beneath the shade of the steeple. It was a pity he did not foresee his abilities creating a spider flap any time soon.

It surprised the dwarf in his lazy, sleepy state to soon hear minute gallops, Funguayou soon in view atop a wretched cap headed Waspig-like. The dwarf preferred it covered in straw. But they nonetheless approached and Funguayou hitched its ride to recently installed fencing.

“Hey again, bud.”

The dwarf rose and leaned, warm in his gi.

“Don’t worry, dwarf, I’m not here to collect on the wheelbarrow yet. Sure it collapses but I doubt my hands could get it home anyway, tough as they are. Listen, dad sent me. He wants you to make an order for him. Steelroot seeds? Familiar?”

The dwarf’s face slackened. He could not at first reason out why this request was made to him until realizing only he could fulfill it, neither funguay allowed within the settlement of the elfs. It admittedly annoyed him to be thought of as a mediating errand boy.

“Just a few. I’ve the coins for them, and some extra for yourself. Oh, and he says you can keep the ‘barrow, too, if you... so, will you?”

The dwarf sighed and shrugged. Funguayou craned its stem upwards, cap like a straw target on legs.

“Saw from afar the work you did. And how about that door? Must say, I am taking to the miniature entrance down below. Allow me?”

Before he could answer, the dwarfen fungus bowled into the flap and entered the church out of view. The dwarf twisted the knob and found it wiggle irresponsibly. The dwarf sweat. The door opened, and a cheeky Funguayou challenged the dwarf’s politeness.

“Sorry, sorry. Just wanted to test it out. You’ve got a good safe place here, dwarf.”

Animals subsiding from greetings with their funguay friend, Funguayou then stood silent listening to the pattering of hoof and claw on tile. After awhile it shook its cap.

“I better go. My flock’s surely wondering where I am, and...”

The dwarf turned to the pensive fungus.

“Yeah, so, steelroot. Just a few. Dad didn’t say anything, but I’m sure he’d want me to thank you for the trouble.”

The dwarf was sure it wouldn’t.