Devils & Demons

By Pete Prown

The second book in "The Chronicles of Dorro” series, Devils & Demons finds the village of Thimble Down plagued by a mysterious creature. Animals are disappearing and there have been terrifying occurrences in the Great Wood. It's up to Mr. Dorro and his young friends to find the truth before the beast acquires a taste for Halflings.

Or is it already too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781543908626

Book preview

Acknowledgements

The Preface: Can it get any Worse?

I begin this narrative on the supposition that you’ve already read Thimble Down, and met Mr. Dorro, if not literally, than in other equally substantive ways. As you know, Dorro Fox Winderiver was a Halfling like no other, from his position as bookmaster in the village of Thimble Down to his passionate pursuits of gardening and fishing. This, not to mention his penchant for solving crime—perhaps his greatest gift. Though not without his foibles, Dorro was the uncommon Halfling.

By this time you’ve also met young Wyll Underfoot, Dorro’s hitherto unknown nephew, and Cheeryup Tunbridge, the lass who assisted at the library and was surely the most intelligent youngling of her day. Along with the inestimable Sheriff Forgo, this foursome solved many mysteries throughout the Halfling counties, though perhaps none so strange and twisted as the tale which I am about to relate.

Whereas in our initial saga, we met several exceedingly rotten scoundrels, now we shall encounter a creature far from beyond the realms of our darkest imaginings. Indeed, this story has many facets, from the vagaries of everyday greed to the realm of the simply bizarre.

I apologize in advance, gentle reader, if you are moved to scream, cry or wring your hands in deepest anxiety during its telling. I fear this particular tale from Mr. Dorro’s career, dating from the late spring of 1721, A.B., is uncanny and, at times, horrifying. As usual, I was hired during this period to run the library while Dorro and the young ones investigated this mystery, but kept copious notes throughout and further interviewed the principals to piece the complete saga together.

Without sharing too much as yet, let us begin the next chapter in our chronicles, one I’ve entitled Devils & Demons for reasons that shall become apparent all too soon. Never before have the clouds of woe descended so low upon the gracious lanes of Thimble Down village.

Yours in literary kinship,

Mr. Bedminster Shoe, scribe, Ret.

July 25, 1773, A.B.*

(*After Borgo, first king of the halflings)

1. Deathstock

There was blood. Gobs of it. Everywhere.

Dorro Fox Winderiver, the venerable bookmaster of Thimble Down, was maybe a dozen feet from the door to his burrow, but there was nowhere to run. He looked down at his hands and saw them covered with rich crimson liquid and blazing red drops splattered on his shirt. He swung out at his attacker, in a futile attempt to save himself, but to no avail. Time was growing short.

I can’t die yet! I haven’t even begun to spend time with my nephew, thought Dorro hurriedly. He knew his time was short. Wyll, my boy, remember me when I’m gone ….

Suddenly, Dorro began to feel weak from the loss of precious lifeblood. He struck out again at his assailant and stumbled towards the door, hoping to see the inside of his home once more, but he couldn’t make it that far. Barely three steps from the entryway, he collapsed and fell into utter blackness. All around was grim silence, save for a few bumble bees gathering nectar on this otherwise sweet summer’s day.

***

Twenty minutes later, Dorro’s eyelids fluttered open. He wasn’t dead, he realized, but certainly grievously wounded. If he hadn’t died yet, Dorro reasoned as he lay on the warm grass, he would probably punt off pretty soon. At least, the bookmaster noted, it was a lovely June day, in the year 1721, A.B., and he was in his very own garden. What better place to leave his mortal coil behind, he figured. Dorro waited another few minutes, staring at the clouds floating gently against the cool blue sky.

Hmmmm … this dying business is taking longer than I thought, he mused, his eyes flitting from left to right and back again. Actually, it’s rather boring.

Dorro sat up groggily and looked around again, in case his attacker was hiding in the garden, ready to make another vicious assault. Dorro was thoroughly bewildered by this point. He stared again at his hands and made note of the deadly wounds. "Well, they’re not so deadly, he said out loud to no one in particular. Really more of a scratch or two."

He hoisted himself to his feet and began looking for the scene of the attack. He had been pruning his prized roses when he was stabbed viciously—or actually, as Dorro began to remember, he may have gotten somewhat overzealous cutting back the bush and accidentally fallen into it. The light began to dawn.

"Oh … errrm … maybe I just got pricked by rose thorns." He felt sheepish, looking around to make sure none of his neighbors had noticed the incident. With relief, Dorro realized they had not.

You’re a naughty rose anyway, he chided, fixing the pale-yellow blossoms with his most vexatious scowl. It’s not polite to sneak up on well-intentioned gardeners and make them think they’ve been attacked by a vicious monster. Not polite at all!

More embarrassed than anything else, Dorro gathered his hand-loppers and a wicker basket full of old canes and weeds and, as nonchalantly as possible, headed off to dump the garden clippings in the refuse heap. Meanwhile, above him on the branch of an old apple tree, a pair of gray catbirds had witnessed the entire incident and were laughing and tittering about it in vivid bird-speak. They would later tell the entire flock and soon birds all over Thimble Down would be giggling about the silly Halfling who fell into his own rosebush and thought he was being murdered.

***

A half-hour later, after Dorro had cleaned himself up—washing off the rather miniscule amount of blood on his hands and changing his shirt and vest—he headed off towards Thimble Down’s library, which was essentially his second home. Thimble Down is a bucolic village on the edge of the River Thimble and near other hamlets such as Upper-Down and Nob. It is populated, as you can guess, by Halflings, an inoffensive folk prone to eating, napping, laughing, and blustering up a storm, especially after a few ales. Still, by all reckoning, they are a pleasant lot, at least compared to tricky gnomes or big, greedy Men-folk.

Dorro ambled down the lane towards the library, enjoying the lush floral display around him—there were vast tracts of purple and white clematis, salmon-pink and cream-colored foxglove and, even though he was still peeved at them, roses by the score. There were stout red ones and climbing pink ones, spindly white ones and luxurious ivory ones, and charming pale-yellow double ones like the shrub that attacked him earlier. The scene was so intoxicating that Dorro was beginning to forgive his rosebush and let bygones be bygones. He was generous like that.

Finally arriving at his destination, the bookmaster opened the door to the library and took stock of the goings-on. Here and there, Thimble Downers were sitting at heavy wooden tables and benches, reading old books and scrolls or quietly conversing amongst themselves. Dorro ran a crisp, efficient library, able to provide practical information to those that sought it, as well as diverting literature for those looking to escape the mundane.

His eyes finally settled on the big desk in the center of the floor, where a young girl with bright yellow hair was deftly checking out books and answering patron’s questions. That, of course, was Miss Cheeryup Tunbridge, one of Dorro’s favorite people—young or old—as well as his frequent confederate in sleuthing. That she was barely twelve years old was no matter; Dorro knew she was as sharp as a tack and, unlike him, brave as a badger. More than once, the girl had led the charge into perilous situations, ones that Dorro shied away from. But that was Cheeryup: smart, sweet-natured, and absolutely fearless.

G’day, Mr. Dorro! echoed throughout the library as the girl spied him and waved to him gaily. Just then, the bookmaster saw another figure moving behind the railed gallery above him—it was a lad just about Cheeryup’s age, with tousled, dirty yellow hair and perhaps an inch or two taller in stature. He had been shelving some recently returned scrolls and was now gliding down the ladder to the first floor like an otter skimming atop the water. The lad was quick and wiry and, like Cheeryup, had a taste for adventure and mystery.

This was Wyll Underfoot, who as it turned out was Dorro’s nephew, though the elder Halfling had only learned of his existence recently. He was the son of his late sister Siobhán, from whom Dorro had been estranged for many decades. Yet he had turned up on the bookmaster’s doorstep that Spring at the dawn of a rather terrifying and perilous adventure (previously recounted in the scandalous tale, Thimble Down).

Wyll waved to his uncle and joined him and Cheeryup at the big desk. How goes it, children? asked Dorro with a small grin. Keeping all the book borrowers in line, are we? Wouldn’t want any trouble at the library, now would we.

All secure, Mr. Dorro, giggled Cheeryup knowingly. However, a small tot named Billiken Bunkins asked for a book about dragons and monsters, but I thought that it might give him nightmares. So I had Wyll toss him out the window.

"You what?"

She’s just teasing, Uncle Dorro! rejoined Wyll, as Cheeryup began laughing out loud. Say, why are your hands bandaged up? Were you in another altercation?

"In a manner of speaking, yes, but I handled the miscreants deftly—it was a mere trifle, bluffed Dorro, changing the subject quickly. The children knew it was more likely that the bookmaster had been attacked by a mop or frightened by a chipmunk than anything truly dangerous, but they played along. Anyway, Wyll, you promised to go fishing with me when we close the library this afternoon. Still interested?"

Yes indeed, uncle! Mr. Timmo asked me to try out a special bass lure he just invented, so I’m eager to do just that.

Is that so? Not fair, I say! grumbled Dorro, irked that his friend, the village metalsmith, would give Wyll first crack at his latest fishing tackle. "Timmo always lets me try out his best lures. What’s it called?"

The Bashful Bass Basher. It’s a diving spoon made of copper that he says will have the bass salivating the moment they see it. Mr. Timmo explained that it will wobble slowly underwater, like a shy little minnow, and then it takes off like a shot. That’s what makes the bass and trout attack and, in just a second, they’re hooked!

"Hmmfph—the Bashful Bass Basher. Sounds silly to me, noted Dorro, feeling snubbed. But no matter. We shall fish anyway and we’ll just see who catches more bass. And Cheeryup, you’re more than welcome to join us. Interested?"

Yes, Mr. Dorro! I’ll just run home to tell my mother and then join you two by the river.

Good. You run along now and we’ll close up the library. And you, young sir—we’ll just see how this ridiculous Bashful Bass Basher performs against the skills of a true angling master!

The three laughed at Dorro’s absurd boast, though each was looking forward to a perfect afternoon on the River Thimble. In Summer, there was no better place in all of Thimble Down.

***

"Brrrahhhpp!" Sheriff Forgo delivered a gigantic belch in the confines of the Thimble Down gaol, having just downed a tall mug of cider and a plate of cold-roast chicken legs for his early supper. He was sated and happy. But as the lawman knew, that feeling never lasted long in this village.

True to form, there was a loud knock on the door and in barreled Farmer Edythe, who owned quite a bit of land in the southeast corner of the village and was never at a loss for words. She was heavyset lady with fiery auburn hair, and her peas and turnips were the best in the village. She could also drink any Halfling under the table, which she proved weekly at her favorite haunt, the Hanging Stoat. But as Forgo could tell, Edythe was not in a pleasant mood at the moment.

Sheriff! Thank goodness, you’re here, she gasped, winded from her journey across town. There’s trouble in the woods again.

Now what is it, Edythe. Are the Sturmer boys stealing your beans again?

If only so, Sheriff. T’were that the case, I’d have at ‘em with my rake and they would surely as not steal my beans again. No, someone’s been killing my livestock.

This grabbed Forgo’s attention.

I found her about an hour ago, Edythe continued. Like Fuddle, the sheep that was killed last week, Emma went missing a few days ago. I was fixing a stretch of fence in my outer pasture this afternoon when I came upon her remains. Sheriff, it was an awful sight—like it a vicious animal attacked and tore her to pieces. There were legs ‘n’ bloody bits all over the place.

Having just finished a half of chicken and staring at its very bones in front of him, Sheriff Forgo suddenly felt a bit queasy and went green about the gills.

Are you okay, Forgo? Do you want to lie down? asked Farmer Edythe with both concern and embarrassment.

No, please carry on. I’m a professional lawman, Forgo exclaimed. I’m used to all manner of gore and body parts.

Okay, well, it was awful. And just last week, my beloved Fuddle was shredded to pieces about a quarter mile away. I had that sheep for ten years, but when I last saw him, his head was over here, his hoofs over there, and his fluffy little tail way over yonder!

Forgo’s face turned from a sallow green to a bright chartreuse and it was all he could do to keep his supper down, but he managed. Swallowing hard, he said, All right, Edythe, I’ll open an investigation first thing in the morning. But keep a close eye on your flock. Mostly likely, wolves or wild dogs have strayed in from the far eastern woods. I’ll send my deputies and a few hunters into the woods, and we’ll kill the beasts in no time.

Thank you, Forgo. But here’s the strange part: Just a few feet from Emma’s gullet, I found this. She tossed a dirty leather belt and buckle on the Sheriff’s desk. What do you make of this?

Forgo looked at the cast metal buckle. It was covered in strange letters and images of cruel weapons, all depicted roughly. He didn’t know what it meant, but he felt that familiar sensation creep up his spine—the one that told him that something bad was about to happen. And he was right.

2. The Hanging Stoat

After his encounter with Farmer Edythe, Sheriff Forgo felt like unwinding with a tall ale. It was time to visit the Hanging Stoat, which was Thimble Down’s popular, but rather run-down tavern on the edge of the village, yet to Forgo and many others, one of their favorite haunts. Run by Mr. Mungo, an excellent barman and brewer, the round structure was always full of lively music, bawdy conversation, darts, and an excellent chop or stew. Just what Forgo needed to reduce the apprehension he was feeling. He headed outside the gaol to saddle up his pony Tom for a quick trek across the village.

Upon entering the Stoat, Forgo took a deep breath and took in all the rank smells of the place: pipeweed smoke, stale beer, savory beef, and the formidable odor of Halflings after a day’s work. It was hardly a rose garden, the Sheriff figured, but it was pleasing nonetheless and there was no other place he’d rather be.

Hullo Mungo, what’s on tap?

Sheriff Forgo, glad to see you, as always, added the barman politely. Mungo was still trying to get back into Forgo’s good graces after a disastrous turn as a deputy a few months back. It had not been a good fit and after discovering a dead body in a burrow, the barman had fainted too many times to consider making it a real vocation. Mungo was happiest back here at the tavern, doing what he did best—brewing ale, making cheery conversation, and pulling beers by the score.

Let’s see, Mungo said, taking stock of his beer selection. "I have a brown stout, a golden wheat beer, and ah, here’s my latest—a summer raspberry ale. Very light and crisp on the palate."

Fine, let me have a pint of that last one. I sorely need it, said the Sheriff, heaving his commendable midriff onto a bar bench and making note of whom else was in the tavern. Tell me, Mungo, what’s new? I haven’t been in here all week.

Oh, the usual—the farmers all have sore backs from sowing their crops, but are worrying if they’ll be enough rain this summer. And the merchants all have sore backs from stocking their latest goods, yet worrying that there will be too much rain this summer and Halflings won’t come out to shop. As I said, ’tis normal in Thimble Down.

Forgo nodded amiably as the barman continued, However, I do keep hearing stories about missing animals. It’s weird—Farmer Barrow lost a pig and Farmer Midge lost two cows. Suffice to say, neither were very happy—a pig is bad enough, but two cows are worth a small fortune. Who would steal livestock around these parts, I ask?

Forgo suddenly felt his relaxing mood melt away. This wasn’t a good omen, he knew. Occasionally, some of the local lads got a little too wild and borrowed an animal for a few hours as a silly prank, but returned it soon enough and all was forgiven. But this was too much to be a coincidence—someone was raiding the local farms and stealing valuable animals, two of which he knew had already been killed. The Sheriff took another slurp of raspberry ale and fell into a funk.

At that moment, the door to the Hanging Stoat creaked open and in strode Osgood Thrip, the wealthiest citizen in Thimble Down and one of its thorniest, too. Indeed, he was a continual pain in Sheriff Forgo’s backside, but the lawman just nodded a brief salutation towards Thrip and went back to his drink. Standing at Osgood’s side was a younger Halfling, a good-looking lad, but one that had a familiar scowl of disapproval on his face. This was Thrip’s son, Ignatius, who like his father, strutted around the village like he owned it and generally felt embarrassed by its provincial denizens. The boy had had been away at university for several years, but word was he was back to learn the family trading business from his father. The exact nature of that business wasn’t always clear, but Sheriff Forgo knew the word smuggling often seem to linger over his affairs. Yet he could never pin anything on Osgood.

Curiously, Osgood and his son headed right into the back store room of the tavern, quickly followed by Mr. Mungo, who seemed to be expecting them. He spoke to Freda the barmaid, who took over for him at the taps. Forgo meanwhile took note of this odd pairing—the sharp, savvy Thrips and the easygoing, slow-witted Mungo—and didn’t see them as having dealings together. Something didn’t smell right, Forgo thought.

***

Thirty minutes later, Mungo and the Thrips emerged, briefly shook hands and went their separate ways. The barman headed back to his post, but was intercepted by Farmer Edythe, whom everyone in Thimble Down knew had eyes for the rotund, ever-shy tavern owner. Edythe, he could tell, had already downed a few hard ciders and was flirting shamelessly, while Mungo kept looking at his feet and occasionally giggling. They truly deserve each other, thought the Sheriff. But I don’t know what Mungo is waiting for—just kiss the lady and be done with it!

Mr. Mungo finally extricated himself from the fawning farmer and returned to his post, pulling beers for the Hanging Stoat’s thirsty clientele while Freda returned to the kitchen to serve more dinners.

So Mungo, I didn’t know you had business dealings with Osgood Thrip. You’ll need to be careful, you know, cautioned the Sheriff.

Oh I don’t know, he’s not so bad once you get to know him.

Dare I ask what you two are working on, not that it’s any of my business.

Mr. Mungo suddenly looked at him sharply. "That’s right, Sheriff—it isn’t your business! If you’ll excuse me, I have customers to attend to."

At that, the barman whizzed away from the bar, carrying a tray loaded with fresh ales and small, kiln-fired ceramic jiggers containing honeygrass whiskey. Now that was interesting, muttered Sheriff Forgo to himself. "This makes two things I need to discuss with Dorro tomorrow."

The lawman downed the rest of his ale and left a coin or two on the counter. He had been planning on a nice, quiet summer, but his sixth sense told him something else—this was one was going to be a doozy.

3. Falling like an Apple

It was early the next morning when Sheriff Forgo found Dorro working in his apple orchard. It was a scenic spot, one of the finest in the entire village. Many decades earlier, Dorro’s grandfather had planted a perfect circle of twelve apple trees here, each of a different variety, and another one in the precise middle. Many folk envied the bookmaster’s apple crop each autumn, as well as the plethora of apple pies, butters, ciders, and crisps he produced therefrom. Granted, other Thimble Downers grew fine apples, but none as tasty as those from the trees planted by Dorro’s grandfather, Lorro.

Hey-ho shouted the Sheriff in a rare friendly tone, noticing the ladder that extended up a Flitwyck apple tree and figuring that Dorro was up there pruning suckers off the trunk. Anyone home?

In a second, the bookmaster scuttled down the ladder and was standing before the Sheriff, twigs and leaves strewn throughout his hair from his tree labors. He lit his pipe and took a deep draft before saying, Hullo Forgo, what brings you here on this glorious morning? Not trouble, I hope. Of course, Dorro was half lying, because trouble meant a case, and a case meant adventure. (And to be honest, he had been a little bored lately.)

Nothing ominous, but I was hoping to get your thoughts, if you don’t mind. Dorro nodded as the Sheriff continued. You may have heard that some of the local farmers have lost livestock in the past few weeks, including two sheep owned by Farmer Edythe. Normally, I’d say it was village boys being naughty or thieves trying to steal ‘em here, and then sell them over in Nob or Water-Down. But here’s the nasty part—whatever scoundrel takes the creatures, kills them. And not cleanly, either; they’re viciously butchered and the remains left to rot. It ain’t natural.

Looking grim, Dorro asked, Is there any sign of, how shall I say it, something consuming the poor beasts? Or were they just slaughtered?

I’d say yes to the first part. Whomever—or whatever—killed these cows, pigs, and sheep had a fine supper before leaving the carcasses behind, noted the Sheriff. And there aren’t any beasts around here that can perform that feat. There aren’t giant cave bears for hundreds of miles, nor big cats, which for all we know live thousands of miles away—or at least they were in the stories my papa used to tell me when I was a lad.

Which leads us to either a sick-minded Halfling or something else, like a gnome. You could even suggest a goblin, but that’s laughable—there hasn’t been one spotted near here in a hundred years.

Forgo added, There has been talk of gnomes in the area, as a matter o’ fact. They’ve been seen from time to time in the rim of the Great Wood, on their way trading somewhere or, more likely, smuggling goods for Osgood Thrip. But why would they slaughter a cow? Gnomes are strange, creepy little folk, but I don’t think of them as blood-thirsty butchers.

I don’t have an answer for you, Sheriff, not without more evidence.

"Anyway, I’m going to send Bosco, Porge and Dumpus into the Great Wood this afternoon for a look-see. That should assuage the Mayor, at least; he’s been on my tail to end this spree as soon as possible. But wait—here’s the strange part: whatever queer stuff is happening in the forest