Spiders

“There we was, iding in the bushes, earin ow this wagon was chucked full of treasure for some prince, what got his arse jailed. And they was walkin away, lookin to ave a few pints before movin on!”

Pa’s head was nodding; he agreed with the dwarf’s telling, though his face told a different story. He was angry and Emily was on the edge of her oaken seat. Ma stood behind Pa, clutching her shawl and chewing her nails nervously.

“All we had to do was jump aboard and move that wagon down to the Spider Oles …”

Pa slammed his massive right fist onto the oaken table. A mighty boom reverberated through the expansive kitchen of the Inn.

“And once in them holes, ya dint ave the slightest of how we was goin to get it back … Squirrel Head!”

Mithawlk the dwarf - Pa’s old partner in childish crime - held a massive pewter spoon in his ham-sized fist. He’d been busily ladling stew from a wooden bowl that bordered on being a trough and into his dripping lips. Mithawlk’s long greying beard dripped and splashed larger bits back into the bowl. Everyone else leaned away to safety.

“Aye, I adn’t thought about fighting spiders … but as I recall, we’d just stumbled out after avin a few pints our own selves.”

“But you kept a couple … trinkets … before stashing the rest?” Emily said. She seemed hopeful.

“Yer sicker there and me ring, yes my dear. That be all we ave from the hoard, but the rest is right down the road … if not nestled amongst some …”

“Spiders!” returned the rest in unison.

Nonplussed, Mithawk shrugged and returned to his stew with gusto. Then a smile broached his lips among the gravy.

“Can I have the recipe?” he said in a sing-song lilt.