CHAPTER ONE

Dwarfs enjoy holes. Pull one off the side of the streets of Thumper and set to them the question:

”Hole?”

Some may answer straightforwardly; others will, smirk in their beard, mention donuts of frost or flesh. Yet it is a guarantee their answer won’t arrive negative (unless one complains of the hole in their coin purse). The answer to “Why?” is simple: dwarfs love holes. It’s simply innate. But exceptions can always be carved from even the stoniest of the stout. Once, one exception fell far through the earth. Concluding his unexpected journey to the bottom of a pit of dirt and stone, he stewed. The dwarf hated the hole. But the mystery of this strange and unnatural hatred is no difficult solve:

This dwarf was not always dwarf.

Not by extinction nor eradication--simply never being offered the chance--dwarfs do not exist in all planes of reality. In one dissimilar to his own, he stewed in darkness, in a world governed by ‘EXP’. But he was once a boy. Young in the plane of reality he knew as home (though with no entertaining of another), the boy worked on his family farm tilling its soil, milking its cows, working with its livestock. He unconsciously chiseled a sturdy but tired back through his young years and gained respect for the earth and most its creatures. Childhood observed free time sapped, teenaged hands sharing a similar story. He lay the blame at his father’s feet and distrusted others as consequence. And before the boy knew it, he was a man. He knew then his palms by their callouses, fingernails by the dirt caked beneath each. He’d developed a slight hunch. He’d grown into the clothes of his father who grew unable to, among other necessities, plow the fields. This task, like all others, fell into his son’s hands.

Under a cloudless sunset the son swung his scythe against grain on grain until he could barber no more. Yellow fell into itself ready to be swept into shocks. This task, like all others, fell into his worn hands.

Sun against the hills, dark beginning its creep, the son escaped to the darker shade of the barn. He sat close enough to hear muffled moos and hen flapping. Light slipped from sight but the son remained. His father would be out to call on him soon, he knew, but a hatred for the patriarch of the farm had grown so far, the son wasn’t sure it mattered. And time spent outside was time alone--all the better. The day’s few remaining rays extinguished and he watched the porch light flicker alive, his name echoed after. Instead of returning the call, the son stood up from the earth and backed away. His father, hunched, remained on the porch, face distorted by darkness. Another call and his son fled into the forest. The farther he ran, the less the voice carried, that which continued in useless determination. Charcoal green blurred on both sides. And skidding against rocks, the son fast became aware of imposing, directionless nature. His sense of direction had not traveled with him. But the man did not feel fear--annoyance, potentially, having no doubt disturbed the creatures calling these woods home. Hysteria frustrating him, he turned round, as best a guess as to what round was, to trudge back towards farm and father.

Little light guided the son home. It was dead of starless night. He bumped into a tree and tapped it lightly after. He hit another and gave a frown. It was the third collision that caused a cracking, the man lost to his rage soon kicking and chipping his victim with wild anger. Catching himself moments later, he fell to the ground in a heap. He clenched his fists in repeated cycles until the strength in them gave out. Moonlight slipping past holes in the canopy of leaves above, the man stared at the glinting off his ravaged fingernails. A chill overcame. He continued to look upon caked dirt, unaware of the branches that sagged and hovered above. The wood limbs at once snatched its unsuspecting victim into the air. Struggling, he fought with a strength the bark disregarded, bark that twisted and chipped away to reveal a face of contempt.

“YOU WOULD DARE... SHOW SUCH DISREGARD... FOR WE WHO RENDER AIR PURE...?”

The son stared back in disbelief. He wished to protest against the accusation but could not find the words nor resolve necessary.

“AND YOU WOULD DARE... DISREGARD MY GREETING... DISRESPECT TREEKIND THIS WAY...?”

The son shook his head weakly.

“SPEAK UP, BOY... SPEAK WHEN ADDRESSED...” the tree demanded. But the son could not acquiesce. “PERHAPS... YOUR ACTIONS ARE ENOUGH... I WILL REWARD YOU IN KIND.”

At once, the ground beneath the son gave way to a great fissure, dirt whipped into the wind by wild, thrashing roots. He gazed in awe of the swallowing darkness below. Mercifully he could not contemplate the horror of the situation long, branches once wrapped round giving sudden slack, its prey plunging into the abyss. The man’s color soon faded from sight, and the hole became wholly dark once more.