A sentry on top of the wall called down, “Who are your new friends, Bekko?” In spite of the light tone, his eyes were wary.
“Strangers seeking Nibelheim, Dorsan,” Bekko called back. “They have a letter from the giants saying they’re good folk, to be trusted.”
“Then they’re welcome.” Dorsan turned to send a warbling call over the village and by the time they came through the gate, a crowd had gathered to meet them with more running up, eager and excited by something new.
Alea looked about her, dazed. She guessed there were a few hundred of them lining the way, and the hunting band had been a good sample of what they were like—most around three feet tall, but some as short as two feet, more as tall as four, a few even taller, with here and there a man or woman as tall as a Midgarder. They all seemed to want to touch hands and be introduced, and Alea’s head whirled with the scores and scores of dwarf names.
Finally Bekko waved them away, grinning. “Peace, good friends, peace! These poor big folk can’t possibly learn all by our clamor!”
“We do have the impression that we’re welcome, though,” Gar said, looking a bit frazzled. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a more ringing reception.”
The dwarves laughed and turned away to their work, waving one last greeting. Alea and Gar raised their hands in imitation. .
Four dwarves came up with poles to take the pigs from Gar. Looking around, Alea saw that all the swine had disappeared into the crowd.
“There will be feasting tonight,” Bekko told them, “partly because of so many pigs brought home.”
“But more to celebrate guests,” Retsa said. “It’s a rare occasion, and we mean to make the most of it. I hope you know some stories we haven’t heard.”
Alea glanced at Gar, but the big man didn’t show the slightest sign that the comment meant anything to him. “We learned some from the giants.”
“Oh, those are bound to be old!” Retsa scoffed. “They’ve even told us a new one some stranger brought, about a southern god named Thummaz coming to visit Asgard!”
Bekko looked up at a sudden thought. “You wouldn’t be that very stranger, would you?”
“I would,” Gar sighed, “and there goes my best tale. We’ll have to see what else I can remember—perhaps the story of Chang-tzu and the butterfly.”
“It has a pleasant sound,” Retsa said, grinning. “Come, strangers, let us show you our village.”
“There will be dancing,” Saret told Alea. “You’ll have to show us your dances, and learn ours.”
“They may not be very different.” Alea looked about her. “So many flowers!”
Every little house had a garden around it. They were made of wattle and daub, with thatched roofs, walls painted in pastels.
“What a lovely village!” Alea exclaimed.
“And so many dogs.” Gar looked about, grinning. “No wonder you didn’t hesitate to invite us in.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say we didn’t hesitate,” Bekko demurred, “but if you’re good enough for the giants, you’re good enough for us. Yes, we like our dogs, and I think you’ve seen why.”
“Yes, indeed! I can’t believe the Midgarders ever had the audacity to attack you!”
“They do, and often,” Bekko said grimly. “Even here, so far north, we’ve had to fight off their raiders now and then, and bandits at least once a year.”
“Yes, I’ve met the Midgarder rejects,” Gar said, “the ones who seem to feel they have to persuade themselves they’re better than anyone else. It must be quite a shock for them, when you defeat them.”
“No doubt they tell themselves it’s our dogs who beat them, not ourselves,” Retsa said, with irony.
A child was coming out of one of the houses. He was four feet tall, and his mother, a foot shorter than he, came hurrying out holding up a length of fabric. “Please take your cloak, Krieger! It will be chilly this evening!”
“Mother, please!” The boy glanced at the party of hunters, all of whom instantly snapped their eyes away.
“Well, I’m sorry if I embarrass you,” his mother said, “but it serves you right for forgetting your coat. You don’t have to wear it, after all—you can sling it over your shoulder until it gets cold.”
There wasn’t even a hint of laughter from the passing hunters, and the boy’s embarrassed anger faded. “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t mean to be cross. It’s just that…”
“Just that mothers worry too much. Yes, I know.” The dwarf mother patted the cloak onto his shoulder. “Well, thank you for humoring me, my son. Go now to your friends.”
Alea looked around her at granite faces, several of which were obviously fighting laughter. She said to Saret, “Your people are uncommonly understanding, not to tease!”
“Uncommonly?” Saret stared. “Not in Nibelheim, I assure you! Families are far too important to us!”
“Even when…” Alea broke off and looked away, embarrassed.
But Saret laughed gently, reading her face. “Even when the child is as tall as any Midgarder? That makes no difference.”
“Indeed not.” Retsa reached up to take her daughter’s hand. “Children are children, after all, and must always be able to come to us for love and support, no matter how big or how old they grow. There’s no other way to do it, this task of parenting.”
Saret smiled down at her mother and gave her an affectionate squeeze of the hand. Alea had to look away, eyes blurring, for the gesture reminded her of the warmth and love of her own home, and her parents’ unswerving devotion, no matter how tall she grew.
“So many wells!” Alea exclaimed. “Every house must have its own! But how can you draw the water out when the wellroof is so low?”
“Wells?” Retsa followed her guest’s gaze to the brick cylinder, three feet high, with the slanting wooden roof that seemed to sit right on top of the mortar. There were horizontal slots in its roof, two feet long and an inch wide, each covered by the lip of the one above.
“Why have roofs if they’re going to let the rain and cold in?” Gar asked, but Alea looked at his eyes and saw he suspected something.
“Oh, the louvers keep the rain out,” Bekko told him, “but they let the light and the air in. Those aren’t wells, lass—they’re shafts for letting the folk underground breathe and see.”
“You have people underground?” Alea asked, her eyes wide.
“Every dwarf village has tunnels for safety,” Retsa told her. “If the Midgarders ever break through our walls, we can retreat into our mazes and cave in the entry on our enemies.”
“We make our shops there,” said Bekko, “so that our work will be safe from robbers and raiders. It’s also a good deal easier to keep clean, and dust matters, when you’re making such tiny things.”
“Clean?” Alea stared. “Surrounded by dirt?”
“We’re better housekeepers than that,” Retsa said, smiling. “Would you like to see?”
Alea saw Gar’s face light up with eagerness, and also saw the motion of his jaw as he bit his tongue. She smiled, amused, and told Retsa, “Why yes, we would.”
“Are you sure?” Bekko asked Retsa, frowning.
“If we trust them in our village, why not in our shops?” Retsa countered. To Alea, she said, “You must be careful not to touch anything.”
“We won’t,” Alea promised. “Will we, Gar?”
“Absolutely not!” he averred.
“Well, then, to the mines with you!” Bekko chuckled at his own joke just as well, since nobody else did. He led them around a little hill covered with grass—but as they came to the front, they found the slope had been chopped off and replaced with a great oaken door.
“Down you go,” Retsa said, and led them into another world, far more like the Nibelheim of the tales.