The Book Of Lost Things

XIII. Of Dwarfs and Their Sometimes Irascible Nature

DAVID WAS ON a raised white road, paved with gravel and stones. It was not straight but wound according to the obstacles it encountered: a small stream here, a rocky outcrop there. A ditch ran along each side, and from there an area of weed and grass led to the tree line. The trees were smaller and more scattered than in the forest he had recently left, and he could see the outlines of small, rocky hills rising beyond them. He was suddenly very tired. Now that the chase was over, all of his energy was gone. He wanted very badly just to fall asleep, but he was afraid to do so out in the open, or to remain too close to the chasm. He needed to find shelter. The wolves would not forgive him for what had happened at the bridges. They would find another way to cross, and then they would seek out his trail once again. Instinctively, he raised his eyes to the sky, but he could see no birds following his path from above, no traitorous ravens waiting to reveal his presence to the hunters at his back.

To give himself some energy, he ate a little bread from his bag and drank deeply from his water. It made him feel better for a moment, but the sight of the bag and the carefully packed food reminded him of the Woodsman. His eyes grew teary again, but he refused to allow himself the luxury of crying. He got to his feet, put his pack on his shoulder, and almost fell over a dwarf who had just climbed up on the road from the low ditch on the left.

“Mind where you’re going,” said the dwarf. He was about three feet tall and wore a blue tunic, black trousers, and black boots that came up to his knees. There was a long blue hat on his head, at the end of which was a little bell that no longer made any sound. His face and hands were grubby with dirt, and he carried a pickax over one shoulder. His nose was quite red, and he had a short white beard. The beard appeared to have pieces of food trapped in it.

“Sorry,” said David.

“So you should be.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?” said the dwarf. He waved his pick threateningly. “Are you sizeist? Are you saying I’m small?”

“Well, you are small,” said David. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he added hurriedly. “I’m small too, compared to some people.”

But the dwarf was no longer listening and had commenced shouting at a column of squat figures heading for the road.

“Oy, comrades!” said the dwarf. “Bloke over here says I’m small.”

“Bloody cheek!” said a voice.

“Hold him till we get there, comrade,” said another, who then appeared to reconsider. “Hang on, how big is he?”

The dwarf examined David. “Not very big,” he said. “Dwarf and a half. Dwarf and two-thirds at most.”

“Right, we’ll ’ave him,” came the reply.

Suddenly, it seemed as if David was surrounded by short, unhappy men muttering about “rights” and “liberties” and having enough of “this sort of thing.” They were all filthy, and they all wore hats with broken bells. One of them kicked David in the shin.

“Ow!” said David. “That hurt.”

“Now you know how our feelings, er, feel,” said the first dwarf.

A small, grubby hand tugged at David’s pack. Another tried to steal his sword. A third appeared to be poking him in his soft places just for the fun of it.

“That’s enough!” shouted David. “Stop it!”

He swung his pack wildly and was rather pleased to feel it connect with a pair of dwarfs, who immediately fell into the ditch and rolled around theatrically for some time.

“What did you do that for?” asked the first dwarf. He looked quite shocked.

“You were kicking me.”

“Was not.”

“Were so too. And someone tried to steal my bag.”

“Did not.”

“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” said David. “You did and you know it.”

The dwarf lowered his head and kicked idly at the road, sending a little puff of white dust into the air. “Oh, all right then,” it said. “Maybe I did. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” said David.

He reached down and helped the dwarfs raise their two fellows from the ditch. Nobody was badly hurt. In fact, now that it was all over, the dwarfs seemed rather to have enjoyed the whole encounter.

“Reminder of the Great Struggle, that was,” said one. “Right, comrade?”

“Absolutely, comrade,” replied another. “The workers must resist oppression at every turn.”

“Um, but I wasn’t really oppressing you,” David said.

“But you could have, if you’d wanted to,” said the first dwarf. “Right?”

He looked up at David quite pathetically. David could tell that he really, really would have liked someone to try unsuccessfully to oppress him.

“Well, if you say so,” said David, just to make the dwarf happy.

“Hurrah!” shouted the dwarf. “We have resisted the threat of oppression. The workers will not be shackled!”

“Hurrah!” shouted the other dwarfs in unison. “We have nothing to lose but our chains.”

“But you don’t have any chains,” said David.

“They’re metaphorical chains,” explained the first dwarf. He nodded once, as if he had just said something very profound.

“Riiight,” said David. He wasn’t certain what a metaphorical chain was, exactly. In fact, David wasn’t entirely sure what the dwarfs were talking about at all. Still, there were seven of them altogether, which seemed about right.

“Do you have names?” asked David.

“Names?” said the first dwarf. “Names? Course we have names. I”—he gave a little, self-important cough—“am Comrade Brother Number One. These are Comrade Brothers Numbers Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Eight.”

“What happened to Seven?” asked David.

There was an embarrassed silence.

“We don’t talk about Former Comrade Brother Number Seven,” said Comrade Brother Number One, eventually. “He has been officially excised from the Party’s records.”

“He went to work for his mum,” explained Comrade Brother Number Three, helpfully.

“A capitalist!” spit Brother Number One.

“A baker,” Brother Number Three corrected him.

He stood on his tiptoes and whispered to David. “We’re not allowed to talk to him now. We can’t even eat his mum’s buns, not even the day-old ones that she sells for half price.”

“I heard that,” said Brother Number One. “We can make our own buns,” he added huffily. “Don’t need buns made by a class traitor.”

“No we can’t,” said Brother Number Three. “They’re always hard, and then she complains.”

Instantly, the dwarfs’ relative good humor disappeared. They picked up their tools and prepared to leave.

“Got to be on our way,” said Brother Number One. “Pleasure to have met you, comrade. Er, you are a comrade, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said David. He wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t about to risk getting into another fight with the dwarfs. “Can I still eat buns if I’m a comrade?”

“As long as they’re not baked by Former Comrade Brother Number Seven—”

“Or his mum,” added Brother Number Three sarcastically.

“—you can eat anything you like,” concluded Brother Number One, as he raised a finger of warning to Brother