Chapter 38: Restoration

  Along the banks of the Deep River, the great wooden wheel of the mill turned once again with a slow, contented groan. Each of its paddles, carved by the hands of settlers long forgotten, dipped into the frigid stream and lifted a shining burden of cool water, only to spill it again in a shimmering cascade. The river wove its song around the turning wheel with its rhythmic hum–an almost chantlike churn, churn, churn.

  “The little ones’re right! Somefolk fixed the blessed wheel!” Mayor Roundhedge exclaimed, staring in disbelief. The River Folk gathered about the mill, chattering with great animation. The mystery was a welcome distraction from their recent chastisement (i.e., reaming out).

  “But who? And ’ow? The last one who knew the workings of that contraption left years ago, I reckon,” remarked another bystander. Much local skill and knowledge had been lost in the scarcity induced by the endless winter.

  There was a loud clank, then out of the side door of the mill tramped none other than Kobelt. A hammer dangled from one blue-gray hand and a satchel of tools, with a saw and length of rope peeking out, lay slung across his thin frame.

  Chastity, standing amid the assembled halflings, heard many gasps of surprise.

  “Are those my tools?” Mr. Pricklebush sputtered. But his protestation was lost in all the fuss.

  “Kobelt, did you repair that all by yourself?” Chastity asked, impressed.

  The gnome nodded.

  “Kobelt is a tinker,” he replied simply.

  A tinker? thought Chastity. She was unfamiliar with the term.

  Barkroot, the oldest halfling in the village, hobbled up to the mill on his walking stick. He rested a wizened hand against the wooden boards of the outer wall, feeling the rumble of the machinery within. The edges of his mouth crept up into a smile. It had been a long while since he heard this once familiar sound.

  “Sounds just like it should. What ever was the problem?” Barkroot asked.

  Kobelt dropped the (borrowed) hammer in the tool satchel and wiped his nose, blinking.

  “Too much ice for too long. Uneven weight. Bad for bearings and axle. And too much swelling makes joints loose. Even without so much ice mills need caring for. Many problems, but Kobelt fix.”

  Feeling the full weight and folly of his discriminatory attitude, Mayor Roundhedge stumbled forward, shaking the gnome’s hand with overcompensating enthusiasm.

  “Mr. Gnome! Er, Kobelt… sir. I… we…”

  He glanced back at his fellow villagers for support. They were equally at a loss, red-faced with shame.

  “We… we…”

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  “... would like to apologize?” Chastity suggested.

  “Yes! We are so sorry! Please forgive our manners, master gnome. We… did not welcome you as we ought to ‘ave done last night. We ‘ave not ‘ad much dealings with gnomes, you see. Clearly we misjudged you. Let’s start over. If you are willing, that is.”

  Many of the others voiced agreement with the sentiment.

  Kobelt shrugged, still seeming unbothered by the whole situation. He handed the tools to Charlie and wiped his hands on his ragged clothes.

  The mayor turned to face Chastity next.

  “And please, there is no reason to leave. Both of you can stay as long as you want. In fact, I urge you to. May our village be your ‘ome away from ‘ome, whether that be distant land or… subterranean hovel. Um…”

  Quit while you’re ahead! thought Chastity.

  Small clusters of the River Folk now started coming forward from the crowd, thanking Kobelt and apologizing profusely for their lack of hospitality. Meanwhile, halfling children ran to and fro, eagerly pointing and watching the churning wheel. The dark shapes of fish darted beneath the surface of the river as if stirred up by the resurrected machinery.

  Chastity took a moment to admire the large wooden wheel, dipping again and again into the cold blue water. She had, of course, seen several similar ‘old-fashioned’ mills in the world she came from, usually at historical sites–often taking them for granted. But here, this was cutting edge technology.

  Following her gaze, Charlie offered a comment.

  “This mill was used to grind grain we would send up from the farms. Fat sacks of golden grain! But I’ve never seen the wheel move so much as an inch in my time here. This Kobelt fellow sure is full of surprises!”

  Chastity nodded in agreement. Then she cleared her throat and addressed Mayor Roundhedge once again.

  “Mayor, we still have important matters to discuss. I believe there is a very real threat to Goldenberry, and Kobelt’s experience can shed much light on the danger. I think you should convene a council.”

  The mayor nodded soberly, his sleeping cap still firmly clutched in his hands.

  “Aye. I’ll speak to the villagers right away. We can use my tavern, of course. Although I’m afraid a lot of them might be a wee cross having skipped breakfast. And it’s too early for lunch.”

  “Why not serve brunch, then?” Chastity suggested.

  “B-brunch? What is this brunch?” the mayor wondered.

  “Imagine something halfway between breakfast and lunch, but the best of both meals in one!”

  Chastity’s stomach gurgled loudly as she imagined miniature blueberry muffins with whipped, salted butter and smears of triple berry ‘traffic’ jam. Thick slabs of avocado toast. Steak and eggs. Shrimp and goat cheese grits. Fresh squeezed orange juice and bright Costa Rican black coffee.

  Charlie Cucumber went wide-eyed as the implications of this daring new concept sunk in.

  “Breakfast… and lunch … together. Chastity, you’re a genius!”

  Charlie’s world would never be the same.

  The honorary mayor rounded up a quorum of village elders, which in this case was anybody who was remotely interested in attending the emergency meeting (there was really no hierarchy in Goldenberry after all). Mrs. Underfoot, with an assist from Brandyhill, set off to prepare a fresh batch of pine nut porridge from the previous day’s harvest which would be generously scooped, steaming, into bowls set before every place on the tables of Roundhedge Tavern. The porridge would be accompanied by slices of boiled winter root vegetables and mugs of mulled cider. In these lean times, it was a veritable feast.

  A bit later, as the crowd began to disperse, Barkroot lingered at the side of the mill. He stared out into space with his dim eyes; he might as well have been gazing into the very past.

  “Truth be told,” he murmured wistfully to no one in particular, “I courted a gnome in my youth. We even exchanged letters. O, my parents never approved of it though.”