“Crap Day is coming.”
Thok, thok, thok
“According to the prairogs, could be a whole Crap Week.”
Thok, thok, thok
“I don’t trust the prairogs. They work under the sun. The Blinder can play all the tricks he wishes on them.”
Thok, thok, thok
“If you don’t trust the prairogs, how come you believe Crap Day is coming?”
THOK, THOK, THOK
“Well...Why would they lie about a single Crap Day?”
THOK. THOK.
No matter how hard he hammered, Thorradin could not drown out the conversation of his coworkers. Zebedee and Zeebad had a roundabout way of talking to each other, where they’d cycle through every facet of an inane topic endlessly. By the time they reached the end of the discussion they’d forget where it began and start over again. This was the eleventh time Thorradin had heard about Zeebad’s distrust of the prairogs, specifically because of Artinis Peyotrite, The Blinder God. It would be followed by Zebedee trying to find some hole in that logic. Next, they’d ask for his opinion.
“What about you Thorradin? Do you think we have a Crap Week coming?” Zebedee shouted to be heard over Thorradin’s hammering.
Thorradin stepped away from the post, wiping sweat from his eyes with the shirt he had removed. Making a garden was hard work when you did it alone. Thorradin wasn’t working alone, but it sure felt like it for how his Zeebad and Zebedee idled in their conversation. If Zeebad wasn’t such a prolific terramancer, and Zebedee wasn’t married to the urban planner, they wouldn’t even be here.
Knowing that neither would move until he responded, Thorradin gave his honest thoughts. “A whole Crap Week...that's dull. Everything shut down for days...All the good salvage would drift by the first day, then we’d just have six more of slurry.”
“It’d be a change of pace, wouldn’t it?” Zebedee hefted his mallet to finally start assisting.
Thorradin sighed disfavorably.
“…It’s not enough of one.”
His lip curled at the thought of seven days of idleness. Seven days of listening to Zeebad and Zebedee commenting on crap drifting by. If a Crap Week was coming, it would be the hundredth Thorradin had experienced, or at least the hundredth he could remember, and Thorradin’s memory stretched back farther than most dwarves. It was why he was especially sensitive to that supreme killer of joy: monotony.
Now that Zebedee was working, Zeebad followed suit. He placed his hands to the stone walls and exerted a level of influence over them. Gradually a runic design snaked across the room. A series of glyphs asking favor from Flark, the Apothecary Divine. Zeebad did this in every garden they had constructed.
“Now the tomatoes won’t rot.” Zeebad stated proudly. “I’d say it’s the most important step. Once I neglected to put down the glyphs and the crop in the garden never grew.”
Thorradin knew that Zeebad had once forgotten the glyphs. Not because he had been there, but because Zeebad brought it up at every new garden as justification for why he put down the glyphs. Just once Thorradin would like something to happen without being reminded that it had happened all before.
Rather than voice this, he checked the dirt. This was to be an amphis fruit garden, which meant the seeds had to be planted in the ceiling. Amphis fruit developed at both ends. From the seed, the roots would snake upwards until they hit sunlight, at which point they’d produce pale green leaves like any other surface plant. The fruit itself would be born at the bottom, dangling from the cave ceiling, protected from weather and treading. Each seed was potted in a half-meter wide hole in the ceiling packed with dirt. If the dirt was too loose or too dry, the plant would fall out before the roots reached the surface thirty meters up. That’s what happened to the last amphis garden. A slight tremor upset the soil, shaking the plants loose and leaving them dangling by the roots, which inevitably snapped under the weight. Five five bushels of fruit were sent to splatter on the cave floor.
Zeebad never acknowledged how this happened regardless of Flark’s glyphs being put down. A good rule of thumb with amphis planting was to jam your index finger into the center of the soil until you reached the knuckle. If you could pull away without more than a handful of soil coming with, then it was safe to plant.
Thorradin hated that he knew all of this. These mundane facts about fruit cultivation. This was around the seventh amphis garden he had made.
The scaffolding creaked below them. Zebedee’s wife had arrived to inspect their work. At each step of the ascent she stomped twice to make sure the scaffolding would hold. Dwarf women were twice the size of their husbands and every platform had to be reinforced to account for this discrepancy. Zebedee finished the last section of railing just as his wife reached the last step.
The two embraced, as doting couples do, and Zebedee engaged his wife in his prior conversation with Zeebad. The one about whether there’s a Crap Day or Crap Week coming. Thorradin didn’t linger to hear her input. He knew the garden was satisfactory. He had built enough like it. The day was finished as far as he was concerned. He returned his shirt to his chest and shouldered his mallet, the same mallet he had used to make every garden in Dold. He twisted it in his hand and thought about how easy it would be to smash this scaffolding to smithereens. That would be a change of pace. How would Zeebad, Zebedee, and Zebedee’s wife react to that? How much of this town could he demolish before someone stopped him?
He put aside the daydream with a sigh. As he plodded down the steps Zebedee’s wife said something to him that made his heart freeze over:
“Well, well, Thorradin, is that a glint of gray I see in your hair?”
~-~-~
Thorradin’s bed was a slab of stone dressed with cotton moss. Cotton moss was actually one of Dold’s specialties. The high moisture environment allowed for it’s excessive growth in the lower levels where the water from Crap Days collected. The most interesting thing to ever happen in Thorradin’s lifetime was an elven noble and his entourage of knights arriving to purchase massive quantities of the moss. Evidently he’d heard the rumor that Dold had the softest beds in all the world and had enough coin to waste on said rumor. Thorradin wished he had enough coin to waste on rumors.
Thorradin’s father worked in the moss mines. Those dank caves at the lowest levels of Dold were walled with soft, spongy moss. His father harvested moss every day of every year he had been a man. They found him dead in the mines, curled up on a little spot of moss like a baby at rest. Thorradin thought about that image every time he went to sleep in his own bed.
“I hate this!” He declared to the ceiling.
His words were empty. The bed was too comforting to remove himself from it. Splaying out his limbs allowed him to sink further into the earthy green softness.
Thorradin didn’t have much in the way of dreams these days. Most of his dreams involved listening to Zeebad and Zebedee prattle on.
Sometimes he’d just dream empty blackness and then wake up.
Tonight was no different.
~-~-~
More than a few people remarked on Thorradin’s gray hairs as they assembled on the street ramparts. Thorradin mumbled an affirmation that he knew and settled into the crowd. Crap Day, or Week, whichever, was beginning. Zeebad erected a stone couch for himself, Zebedee and his wife. Thorradin rejected a seat. If he sat down he'd fall asleep.
"You should cook your beets Zebedee…” Zeebad chided his coworker.
Zebedee had a fresh picked sugar beet as large as his hand and was biting into it.
“Mmm, no.” He muttered with a full mouth. “Better for you this way.”
“My buni ate a whole beet everyday and he’s nearly 360 now.” Zebedee’s wife commented.
360 years old. Thorradin shuddered at the thought of living that long in this town.
“Is that the Prairog?” Zeebad’s eyes narrowed.
Thorradin followed his gaze. A little up the rampart was a cluster of children frying a badger. A blonde dwarf was remarking on their fine technique. His skin was like an old fruit. Wrinkled, soft, and spotted. He had a cane of sorts that ended in a wooden spade. A belt made of rope clattered with instruments of his trade. Odd lensed scopes and something called a sundial. Despite his bleached appearance, to Thorradin, he was the most colorful thing in Dold.
“Prairog!” Zebedee’s shouting made Thorradin flinch.
The old dwarf took a leg from the badger and waddled over to the quartet of gardeners. “Zebedee’s boy, yes? The junior, I mean.”
“Look at the sunlight in his eyes.” Zeebad grumbled to Thorradin. “Doesn’t even know what year it is.”
Thorradin said nothing. He didn’t know what year it was either. There was a stone calendar at the town’s base, but Thorradin had no reason to go there. It was just outside the moss mine.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Is it going to be a Crap Day, or a Crap Week?” Zebedee demanded.
“So many kin asking me that.” The Prairog chuckled. “I should have painted the answer on my chest! A week. A singular week of rain on the surface. The clouds of the surface sky were as dark as this stone. The humans of Flowdown battened all their hatches. The elder prairog thinks is may be longer than a week, but my portents say no more than seven days.”
“Goodness, a potential double Crap Week.” Zebedee’s wife gasped. “So much time to relax!”
Thorradin did not share her enthusiasm. He wanted to punch the nearest wall. More than a week? What was he meant to do with more than a week of time with his thoughts? The Prairog continued conversation with Zebedee and Zebedee’s Wife. There was a chuckle at some unheard joke. Zeebad turned away from the prairog, unwilling to pay attention to them.
The Prairog perked up with a grin. At first Thorradin thought the old man had turned to face him, but it became clear he was looking up the street.
“I can hear the flow. It’s starting.”
Rainwater from the surface trickled down the street in a steady stream that shone under the lantern light. Dold was divided by an inclined street that went all the way to the surface. In an hour the stream became a river and the street became a canal. In all it’s years of existence, Dold had never built bridges across the canal so that daily work could resume during a Crap Day. That’s because this was an “exciting event” to the dwarves of Dold. People sat on the canal’s edges and shared food while commenting on the crap that drifted by. Some of it driftwood from dead foliage above, that would be harvested by the carpenters and made into furniture or baubles. There was also river fish, caught by eager individuals armed with skewers on rope. The objects of most interest were things washed away from the human town above. There were mugs made of pewter or wood, farm tools or weapons, most exciting for the children were the toys or ornaments dropped by forgetful surface youths.
Dwarves stood ready with nets to retrieve the interesting crap. Some parts of the town held competitions on who could fish the most crap, which led to arguments over who claimed crap first. Thorradin could hear them starting now. The group he was with had no interest in the claiming. Thorradin tried when he was much younger, and was disappointed with the waterlogged boot he had pulled from the water.
Slowly, Thorradin’s eyes shifted from the river to the Prairog. The old man was observing the town with a wry smile, all the while humming a song to himself. What caused him to be happy when Thorradin wasn’t?
“I best visit other folks.” The Prairog remarked quite suddenly. “And make my way down to the mines. Need more moss for the bed up above.”
Up Above.
It felt like Thorradin had to break his feet from the stone in order to chase after the old dwarf. For the first time in many years, his voice raised above it’s usual grumble.
“Prairog!”
The call drew attention. Not just from the Prairog, but from Zebedee and Zeebad. The Prairog waited patiently for Thorradin to approach. Thorradin’s breaths were heavy like boulders, and just as hard to force out his mouth.
“What’s the surface like?” Thorradin asked. His voice was nearly hushed, like he had inquired about some great exotic secret.
The Prairog shuffled his mustache and made a cock-eyed glance to the ceiling. “Have you ever looked into a tunnel that you can’t see the end of, be it obscured by darkness or mist? You get this feeling in your gut that anything could be down there. It could be a hungry hodag, or a cluster of tasty flark caps, or maybe even the love of your life. It may also contain nothing, but that’s neither here nor there.”
The Prairog burped into his hand to punctuate the thought. Thorradin was hanging on his every word like a child anticipating a present.
“…The surface is that, but in all directions. They call it ‘The Horizon.’”
Thorradin blinked. “And what’s at the end of the horizon?”
“More of it.” The Prairog shrugged. “So I’m told. You’ll never catch the horizon, only what lay just before it.”
“So there’s always something different…” Thorradin cast his eyes to his hands, caked with dirt from a dozen different Dold gardens.
The Prairog must not have heard him for he rapidly changed the subject, “There’s a gray hair in your beard. That one of mine, or are you joining the ranks of the wizened now?”
Thorradin said nothing. He was conceptualizing a horizon. The Prairog waited as long as a man could when there was no response to his question. He patted Thorradin on the shoulder and shuffled down the street. Slow step by slow step, Thorradin returned to the stone couch of his coworkers. Zebedee and his wife were debating on whether they should try to claim a pine-needle wreathe washing by.
Thorradin looked into the water and his reflection stared back at him. For the first time he could see the gray hair everyone had called attention to. With a deft hand he reached up and plucked it with only a small wince of pain. The thick hair gently cradled in the crevices of Thorradin’s calloused hand. His father’s head had been stained with such hairs when they pulled his lifeless body from the moss mines. Thorradin’s hand trembled and he dropped the hair in to the canal.
“I don’t have time.” Thorradin declared in a clear, firm voice.
“Time for what?” Zebedee peered up to Thorradin.
“…This.” Thorradin eyes were wide as they had ever been and his gesturing to the canal was shaky.
“It’s a Crap Week, Thorradin. Can’t do anything about it. We’ll get to the other gardens when it’s done.”
“No!” Thorradin shouted. He must have sounded manic now. “No more gardens! No more of any of this. I don’t have the time for it. I have to leave. Now.”
Zebedee and Zeebad blankly looked to each other then blankly looked to Thorradin. “Where are you going?”
Thorradin’s head snapped to the canal’s source. “I have to see the horizon…”
He started to run. A full sprint up the ramparts. He didn’t care if a crowd was in his way for he knocked them aside. Shouts of confusion mixed with weighty splashes as dwarves tumbled into the canal. Dold was made on an incline and each rushed step to climb it doubled Thorradin’s conviction. There came a point when the ramparts stopped and all that remained was the round tunnel to the surface through which the rainwater flowed. Thorradin hesitated before at the cusp of jumping into the canal, long enough for a stone wall to raise out of the ground and block his way. Thorradin pivoted to see Zeebad crouched with his palms pressed to the ground.
Zebedee broke through the crowds shortly. He attempted to speak, but it was hampered by his inability to catch his breath. “What are you doing Thorradin? You’re running like someone snuck a hot coal up your ass!”
“He’s got surface blindness.” Zeebad spoke sagely. “The Prairog must’ve transferred it to him.”
Thorradin jumped to the side of the wall, attempting to dive into the river. But stone hands gripped his ankles and slammed him to the ground. His chest hung over the edge of the rampart, the tips of his fingers dabbling in the cool rainwater. His reflection was closer now. He was terrified to see more gray hairs hiding in the recesses of his beard.
“Thorradin. This is your friend Zebedee. You gave us a little scare, but we’re willing to release you if you calm down.”
“We’re not friends.” Thorradin said to his reflection. “We’re neighbors. We’re coworkers. We’re all trapped here in Dold!”
“That’s a bit rude to say…” Zebedee winced. “Zeebad, you talk to him.”
Zeebad had to keep his palms to the ground to maintain control of the stone. As such, he had to awkwardly crawl his way to Thorradin. It gave time for Thorradin to think. His eyes were locked on the tunnel to the surface. There was something large coming this way, a tree branch.
"The Blinder has your mind!” Zeebad shouted in his ear. “You need to come back and clear your head. Stop thinking about the surface.”
“No. Never.” Thorradin replied. The tree branch was floating closer. “No more being calm. I’m not going back to Dold and I’m never building another damn garden!”
With both hands he took the branch and swung wildly. The soaked bark cracked against Zeebad’s brow. His palms left the stone and the shackles holding Thorradin released. Both men tumbled into the stream. Thorradin held tight to his branch, swinging it blindly in the water. He bobbed to the surface, the water was only neck high. The current pouring out of the tunnel was getting stronger. Thorradin used the branch to brace himself.
Zeebad was falling over himself in the water. It’s common for dwarves to sink like rocks when submerged. Zeebad was flailing for the stone banks. Zebedee looked from him to Thorradin. He was panicked. Thorradin had never seen anything other than dull interest on his face before. More dwarves were coming this way, following this rare commotion. At their head was the Prairog.
“Where will you go?” Zebedee asked.
Thorradin looked from him to the surface tunnel. Dirty water got in his eyes and mouth, making him feel the most awake he had in decades.
“Anywhere.”
Fighting the current and slick stone with every fiber of his solid being, Thorradin reached the lip of the surface tunnel. All dwarves can mold stone, if only minorly, and he crafted finger holds to keep himself steady. If people were shouting at him, he didn’t hear it over the blood drumming in his ears. He pulled himself into the tunnel, standing to his full 128 centimeter height. The tunnel was only as big as a single dwarf and the water was up to his knees here. He braced against the walls and shimmied his way forward. He didn’t look back at Dold. At the crowd of people he knew from birth. At the streets where he used to play. At the gardens he built. At the home possessing his clothes and bed and heirlooms. None of those memories were worth much to Thorradin now.
~-~-~
The climb was slow, dark, and wet. Occasionally some crap would catch on his person and he’d have to force it past him. Thrice he lost his grip and slipped down. He had no idea how long it would take to get to the surface. He kept thinking of what the Prairog had said. He also thought of his father, down in the moss mines. Did he know he was dying down there? Did he try to climb out, or did he accept his fate?
Thorradin heard sounds he never had before, birds chirping, rain falling, wind. He smelled pine. Real pine, not the waterlogged stuff they got below. Fresh air touched his face and felt like the kiss of an angle. The stream became a trickle. No longer needing to brace himself, he dropped to his tired hands and knees and crawled.
The opening to the tunnel was wide and white with daylight. Thorradin had to shelter his eyes, but he never stopped moving. The stone under his hands changed to pebble-filled mud. Blindly he swiped overhead and confirmed there was no ceiling above him. Like a newborn babe, he slowly opened his eyes.
He was in a valley made of boulders twice his size and pines of the deepest green. There was a mantle, of sorts, what he had heard called the sky. It was blanketed in grey blobs that resembled the cotton moss of Dold, but there were gaps, cracks where he could see an infinite blueness. He knelt in the mud, enraptured by the sky. He breathed deep the air and it flushed the ache from his body like the strongest of drink.
His gaze turned down from the sky towards what was ahead of him. A muddy trail that rose up towards a thin line where the ground met the sky.
That must be it. The horizon. Thorradin stood and advanced towards it. The sky rumbled. The rain began to fall again. Thorradin moved from the mud into the grass on the banks. He looked back to the tunnel. It looked so small, so unassuming. The surface was so open, how was anyone to know that Dold was there? That he had been there?
He turned his back on the hole. His eyes narrowed.
“I’m catching that damn horizon.”
And so Thorradin started running.