“Gold now, is it?” The dark eyes of the leprechaun taoiseach glittered. “’Tis hardly fair to tempt a leprechaun with gold. But in this instance we’ll let it pass.” He straightened as much as his foot-high body would allow. “Sure an’ we’ll help you then, boyos. We’ll save your claim for you and leave with nothing but a fair share of the shiny stuff, no more than is needed to fill a few kettles.”
O’Riley found himself suddenly reluctant, but the two miners conversed and came to an agreement, for, as McLaughlin pointed out, what choice did they have? Having taken stock of the matter, the giant mountain man was clearly inclined to wash his hands of it. They would have to engage supernatural help from the old country or none at all.
“It’s a bargain, then.” McLaughlin stuck out his hand and O’Riley matched him a second later, but by that time the taoiseach of the green-clad visitants had already raised his shillelagh high above his head and was leading a raucous charge in the direction of the waiting gnomes.
What a fabulous confusion there thence ensued! What a furor, a fight, what a conflagration of physical confrontation! The hills were alive with the sound of cursing, in Gaelic and Norse and half a dozen other tongues not utilized in such scandalous fashion since the old gods fled the noisome proximity of a fecund humanity for the peace and contentment of an otherworldly retirement among the clouds. Sticks and shovels clashed, knees were raised, heads were butted, and butts were kicked. There was punching and screaming and biting and insulting on a scale all out of proportion to the size of those doing the wielding, and more than once ’twas the words and not the weapons that inflicted the deepest damage.
Keeping well clear of the downsized but decidedly ferocious mayhem that was taking a steady toll on small arms, legs, faces, torsos, and groins, Peter O’Riley and Patrick McLaughlin looked on with trepidation lest the fury on the mountainside expand to include and overwhelm the boulder behind which they had taken precipitous refuge. Meanwhile an estimably nonchalant Amos Malone built a fire and made supper.
The fighting surged back and forth past sunset and on into the night with neither side being able to gain an advantage. There was a fair amount of blood, a lot of bruising and contusing, but no deaths among the hardy and determined combatants. It was only when the upper half of a shattered shillelagh smashed into his campfire and upset his coffeepot, thus causing the pungent contents to spill out upon the surrounding rocks, where they dissolved several chunks of quartz-laden granite, that Malone finally had enough.
“Sure an’ he’s up!”
“Wha—what?” O’Riley blinked tiredly, having fallen asleep despite the noise of the boisterous conflict.
“The mountain man. He’s up.” McLaughlin pointed. “Maybe he’s finally goin’ to do something.”
The other miner rubbed at his eyes. “Don’t see why he didn’t in the first place. Big as he is, I expect if he wanted to he could flatten the lot of ’em, both sides.”
McLaughlin was nodding agreement. “I dunno what stopped ’im. Scruples or somethin’.”
Ignoring the blizzard of flying wood and mining implements, Malone waded into the thick of the fighting. From time to time an addled leprechaun or disoriented gnome would mistakenly take a swing at him. Shilleleghs bounced off ironlike legs and set their owners to vibrating helplessly, as did shovels and hammers. One swarthy gnome who did his best to drive the point of his pickaxe into a gargantuan thigh found the tip bent in half by long-worn leather so infused with sweat, animal fat, and impregnated meteoric dust that the pants were as stiff and hard as Galahad’s armor.
“NOW LOOK HERE!”
It was a command that rumbled and reverberated across the battleground, raced avalanchelike down the slope, and sufficiently unsettled a pair of wandering grizzlies so badly that they fell all over themselves in their haste to flee the immediate neighborhood. Fighting halted immediately as each and every undersized combatant turned to look in the direction from whence the bellowing had arisen.
Malone’s voice dropped from the apocalyptic to the merely stentorian. “It’s plain clear that this ain’t goin’ nowhere and it’s gettin’ there fast. I said I wouldn’t take no sides in this here fracas and I intend to keep true to my words. But there’s been enough bashin’ and thrashin’ this night fit to unsettle half a dozen worlds, and it’s time ’twas settled.” Searching the battlefield, he sought out and found the hövding of the gnomes.
“I’ve a proposition for you and your tribe, sir, if you’ll lend me an ear.”
“Well…” His chubby face dirty and streaked and a deep bruise showing on one arm, the gnome chieftain gripped his left ear and began to bring up the cold chisel he held in his other hand.
“No, no,” Malone said quickly. “Just heave to and give a listen.” The chief lowered the chisel.
“Now then,” the mountain man began, “at heart this is all about gold….”
“Sure and ain’t it always.” Having come up behind him, the leader of the leprechauns was paying close attention.
“What if,” Malone continued, still addressing himself to the gnomish chieftain, “I promised to send you and your fellows to a place where there’s more gold than is to be found on your claim here? A place where folks like these”—and with a gesture he indicated the two distant but not disinterested miners—“won’t bother you fer a while, at least. A place where you can mine away t’ your mean-spirited little hearts’ content?”
The chief considered. It was a bold and generous offer, to be sure. That was, if in truth it was more than just a promise. He studied the hulking mountain man closely.
“And if we should accept, who be you, sir, to carry out such an audacious enterprise?”
“I am Amos Malone.”
The chief of the gnomes started visibly. “I’ve heard of you. Even down in the deep dirt, that name…”
“Rings fondly?” Malone opined.
“Nay. Sets off alarms.” White brows drew together. “It’s said even in Nifelheim that you are quite mad.”
“I occasionally get upset, ’tis true.” Malone wished for the pleasure of his pipe, but now was not the time to break away for a smoke. “But I hold to my word. Will you and yours break off this futile conniption and accept my proposal?”
The chief paused, then turned and moved to rejoin the mass of his fellows. There followed a good deal of gnomish disputation, at the conclusion of which the chieftain returned to the waiting Malone and stuck out a thickly callused hand.
“’Tis a bargain then. If you can deliver your side of it.”
“A bargain set.” Malone straightened. Tilting back his head, he studied the sky, inhaled deeply of the air, felt carefully of the ground with his booted feet. He was here. They needed to be there. The projected transposition had to be voluntary on the part of those being sent, otherwise he could have tried it earlier. But he disliked involving himself in mass transplantations. They tended to induce colic.
Stepping clear of the assembled little people, he once again raised an arm: the left one this time. As he declaimed he waved his hand toward the mob of watching gnomes. The result was to dust them with a sprinkling of clotted bear fat and jerked deer meat with a pinch of eagle feather added for thaumaturgic seasoning. Whether one happened to be conversant with transcendental auguries or not, this would not have struck a casual onlooker as a particularly efficacious combination.
“Gnome långt hemifrån, flyga till guld, tid att ströva.”
A white cloud appeared. Broad and capacious, it descended slowly to cover the assembled gnomes until at last it reached the ground. The last thing O’Riley and McLaughlin saw of their gnomish tormentors was the chief, glaring at them and threatening murder and dismemberment if Malone failed to follow through on his promise. Then the cloud, like a prime San Francisco fog, lifted and was gone. With it went the gnomes, down to the last sharpened pick and pointed cap.