Timothy Jones - Tibtarnitallimardarian

Now that I have chronicled the curious history of this book’s creation, let me say a couple of things about it. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings was based in "Middle Earth" and featured a map. Well, my first inclination was to base my story in "A Little Left of Center Earth" and feature a map as well. So I redrew my map properly in a sketch book and later redrew it again in a larger sketch book to fill out locations for future stories. As the years passed I rethought the name of the world, changing it a couple of times. None of them really worked for me, and when this final draft began I found it best to refer to the world as "the world." When it comes to the map, I’m afraid the sketch books are either packed away somewhere or lost. So, I am sorry to say, but no map.

Okay, folks. Now it is time to strap on your sword, slip into a pair of comfortable walking shoes and journey into adventure…

Night draped over Dwarf Road, a black tempered only by a sickle of moonlight and the crystal glare of stars. It was the first night of prime planting season and after a busy day clearing fields farmers were in bed asleep at this late hour. Even other businesses in the farm community were closed due to the time of year, so not many were aware of the perplexing feeling that drifted on the chill touched night breeze.

A light flickered in the window of a farmhouse. The simple white walled, thatched roofed house was not only the smallest in the community, it belonged to the smallest farm—one acre—on the road. Small though it was, the farm belonged to Orlon, the friendliest, most liked of farmers.

There were two sources of light in the farmhouse’s sparsely furnished front room, filling the room with eerily swaying shadows. A thick candle sat on the top corner of the cluttered desk by the window, its flame dancing with a draft coming through a crack in the window frame. The other was a small flame bouncing about like a nervous ballerina on the charred remains of a log in the fireplace.

Orlon lay on the divan before the fireplace, a fluffy pillow tucked behind his head and shoulders, a quilt over legs. He was not a tall man, even amongst his fellow Midgets, standing just under four feet. Nor was he muscular, yet there was strength enough in his wiry frame. Topped by short brown hair, his round face, though not the handsomest of faces, bore a friendliness that told of a kind heart.

Tonight his face was drawn and with good reason. All day he, his best friend and servant had worked hard preparing the farm’s one acre for planting in expectation of the biannual visit of the man known only to them as the Buyer. The death of their plow animal last season made their task all the harder and they paid for it physically, which sent him and his servant to bed early. But for reasons beyond him he could not sleep. So he came out to lay by the then blazing fire and read the book he bought from the Buyer a season back, in hopes of finding the illusive sleep he wanted—needed.

Not only did the Buyer buy their crops, he brought with him wagons filled with goods to sell. Be they tools, utensils, bolts of cloth, jewelry, whatever, he claimed them to be the finest and in some cases exotic items obtained from the farthest reaches of the world. But the farmers, who had never traveled beyond their simple community, were less interested in items' point of origin than whether they were needed, wanted, and came at a reasonable price.

Last season had been a good one for Orlon and with a few extra coins in his pouch he decided to splurge a little. That was when he noticed the shelf of books on a wagon, and the Buyer noticed him noticing. It was obvious by the dustiness of the books they were not big sellers, but he had read a book or two in his life and that made them worth a perusal. Well, the Buyer was right there to help him decide which it would be.

So he walked away with a thick leatherbound book he was eager to read.

According to the Buyer’s pitch the book was of a war between two northern kingdoms, Elifendale and Dwarfton. It started over an argument between the kings concerning boundaries across a vast lake between their kingdoms. The war lasted well over a year, leaving no part of the world untouched, and cost many a good man’s life. And his wild claims of truth to it had made the book irresistible.

He had read twenty chapters and found it interesting, exciting enough, yet he doubted the Buyer’s claims of its truth…. Even though he had vague childhood memories of his grandfather telling tales of men in armor passing along Dwarf Road in his own youth. This night, however, true or not, no matter how interesting, the book was bringing him what he wanted most from it, sleep.

His blue eyes struggled to follow the words dancing across the page as the flame danced across the charred log. Gradually his eyelids drifted shut. His head bobbed, finally coming to rest chin on chest, and the book slipped from limp fingers to lay open in his lap.

The front door burst open, letting a chill breeze whip into the room. It circled the room, dipping into the fireplace, nearly killing the flame, and crossed over the sleeping man. He snapped bolt upright, eyes wide, looked to see a cloaked, four feet two inch form rush in and slam the door behind. His eyes shrank in a roll as the form stripped off the cloak, revealing a pudgy, bushy brown haired man in simple gray work clothes. It was his best friend, Tarl Bimbo.

"Boy," he said, rubbing his plump red cheeks, "it’s cold out there."

"I don’t know why you went out anyway," Orlon said.

"I had a little business to take care of," he said with a wink and tug on his belt buckle.

Orlon rolled his eyes again.

"Hey, there are plenty of eligible women out there, buddy," Tarl said, flexing his fingers. "And you know how I am. I just can’t pass up a good thing when offered. Can you blame me?"

Brow furrowed, Orlon picked up his book and went back to reading.

With a shrug, Tarl rubbed his cold hands together and strolled to the fireplace to warm them. He held out his hands, immediately noticing an absence of warmth. When he looked into the fireplace he was momentarily fascinated by the desperate flame’s series of pirouettes across the charred log, before a dark cloud descended over his face.

"Why hasn’t Jujay refreshed this fire?"

"I sent him to bed early," Orlon said, not taking his eyes from the book.

"Well, I’ll just get him up to bring in some logs," he said on his way to the kitchen door.

"Don’t."

He stopped and looked over a shoulder, eyebrows raised.

"We worked him pretty hard today, so I sent him to bed early," Orlon said. "He isn’t as young as he used to be, you know."

From his earliest memory of Orlon’s family’s servant he did not remember him ever being young. That was fifteen years ago when he and Orlon, two energetic five-year-olds, met, and he had not expected Jujay to be around long. Yet here he was, loyally serving the son as he had served the son’s family. With a sigh, he pushed such thoughts aside.

"Suit yourself," he said, but with a glance at his best friend’s book could not leave it there, saying, "Maybe if you’d've bought a plow animal instead he wouldn’t have had to work so hard."

"I’m not clairvoyant," Orlon looked up from his book. "How was I to know our animal would die just days after season’s end. Besides, I wasn’t the only one to fritter away my extra money, was I?"

Feeling the heat of embarrassment crawl up his already red cheeks made him turn away. He remembered well the unlucky snake eyes that brought his winning streak to a disastrous end.

"We did work him hard," he said quietly. "Let him sleep."

Orlon resumed his reading.

Tarl walked over and sat at the desk. Whistling softly, he looked over the half written page centered on it and nodded in approval. He plucked the quill from the mound of wax around the candle’s base, popped open the ink well next to it. After another look over the page, he dipped the quill and began writing, the tip of his tongue slipping out the corner of his mouth.