Theodric's Tale

The lute and mandolin players finished with a flourish and took a deep bow to a roaring round of applause before stepping quickly off the stage. Before the crowd could call for an encore, a smallish man in a dashing red cloak and green vest leapt upon a nearby table. A few inebriated harangues in regards to his diminutive size trailed down from the balcony but were quickly silenced as he spoke in a booming voice, “Ho! My friends!” he bellowed to the crowd with a swirl of his cloak,
’List to my voice, and I could tell thee a tale,
O’ witches’ brews of the strongest ale,
That doth make our very friends…’ he lifted of the head of a sleeping drunkard from the table, “…quail.” He provoked a general laugh from the crowd and a scattered applause as he dropped the man’s head down with a thud.
“But of that song, I will not spin.
Instead, you’re a-dearing hearts I’ll win,
Forsooth, with a tale of me.
For where I’m from, is Baradum,
Land o’ the Dwarves knows he.”

Several guffaws could be heard throughout the room mingled with mild laughter and condescending amusement. “The Land of the Dwarves”, also known as ‘Baradum’, was a well known folk tale, often told around camp fires and perpetuated by carnival dwarfs and midgets such as the one on the table.

In the stories, mythical dwarves tinkered madly away in their dark holes, creating fanciful gizmos which exploded on them with common regularity and comic consequences. Those toys which did not self-destruct were given to children during Midwinter’s Night, when the dwarves turned into smoke and drifted under the doors to leave presents in the house. The tales are considered a joke and the parents leave the presents themselves as a form of amusement for their younger children. After making such and uproarious claim as to be from Baradum, it was quiet clear to the tavern’s audience that the dwarf on stage was undoubtedly suffering from some sort of mental malady.

A drunken voice carried down from the balcony, “Well did ye finally bring me mah Fluzienpop?! Ha have been wait’n for one of those since ha was just a lad!” The man laughed loudly with the crowd as a friend clapped him on the back. Unruffled, the dwarf boldly addressed the audience,
“I can see ye doubts my claim,
For I am a mere player by trade and name,
But with thee… I will play a trifle game.”

He scooped a fresh pint off the table and blew away the crown. He gestured over to a corner, where everyone was surprised to see two other dwarves sitting among a few others companions, “Give ear to my account, and that of my friends,
And let ye judge us in the end:
if the tale be fine of plot and thick of guise,
and more than a word of warning to the wise.
But should thee find it lacking thought,
And wit, and tit, and tat, and interest caught,
Then I will gladly buy you all a draught!’
The crowd cheered its agreement to the deal and the dwarf took a moment to collect himself. Over the quieting din, rain drops could be heard pattering on the skylights overhead as a storm raged outside.

The room quickly settled as the dwarf took his place center stage. He waited patiently until one could hear the crackle of the torches and fireplace with clarity. The crowd pressed in, now eager for a voice to drown out the sudden empty silence and occasional distant rumble of thunder. The dwarf was old, with long grayish-white hair and beard which he tucked neatly in his vest. His face was drawn and wrinkled and sported a significantly large, broad nose. His vest was buttoned with brass knobs and his boots were dark with dried mud. He drew his cloak about him, as if to ward off a sudden chill, then turned to face the room, “Come with thine eye, o’er the mountains east veiled,
in pines and wintergreen.
Past years of tears, fears and fairies’ tales,
In the land called Ruhn,
My father’s father was undone,
By the seeds of our own natures’ fail…”