Dwarf

Broco, the dwarf, lived far under a mountain in a secret place. Only the river ever came near his home, so fast and deep was his dwelling. He’d found his way there after the great time of trouble. He lived alone except for his friend, the river, and never spoke of anything but mending and music. The two friends would often sit together exchanging songs. Broco sang his ancient dwarfish tunes, and the river newer ones, because his tale came down from different parts, bringing some odd bit of new now and then, and he remembered banks from his small beginning high atop another range of mountains miles and miles away to the south. It was in this way that Broco remembered the strange song that was repeated by the river, and it was this strange song that at last brought him forth from under his mountain.

He had hummed it and sung it and played it on one of the fine tiny reed pipes he’d spent hours over—carving minute scenes of woodlawns, or of his old home, with sometimes deer or fauns beneath the perfectly still trees—and it seemed to him a perfectly hummable, singable song, one of the best he’d heard, as far as he could remember. Dwarf memories stretch back to the coming of the First Age, when life once more crept forth from the night into the light of the living.

It was vaguely familiar, the way songs sometimes are, and slowly, so slowly it took what to others might seem years, the song became a sudden memory of his father, bent and old, his beard snow-white and reaching below the ornate gold belt buckle he wore, given to him as a token of affection by the High Master of Lore many ages before.

The memories of that time were unreal, when he had come to make his home under the mountain, with chores and a dozen other things to keep him busy. But on that day the song opened that faraway and long-forgotten door, all the other pleasures he’d so long pursued became empty, wearying tasks he could not keep his mind upon.

A motion had started somewhere, like a ripple far out to sea that slowly builds into a wave, and Broco became more and more restless, unable even to listen to the new songs or stories the river brought him.

As he sat working a molten piece of iron into a broad ax head one particularly long afternoon, with lunch done and supper far away, the thought of remaining longer became so acutely dreary, he huffed a bit, and began packing a traveling kit, not really knowing why, or where he was off to. All he knew was that something was calling him from across Calix Stay, and that for whatever reason, he must obey.

He prepared the last supper he would enjoy in his home under the mountain, and took particular pleasure in it, as a fellow might, not knowing when or if ever he would be back.

A decision had been made, and the restless feeling that had troubled him so long was gone. Only the thoughts of the coming journey filled his head, and the excitement of it all made it hard to sleep because of dreams and visions, until at last he rose, murmuring to himself those words he’d heard his father use when he was going to be away on his travels for a long time: “Well, best be about it now as later. A mile won’t wait to be walked, and the road won’t nap until my foot is upon it.”

And humming the old song once more, it seemed to him it was a traveling song after all.