that country road a few days earlier.
"I remember the rain…the man in the road…" he said softly to himself. "What else?" He thought for a moment, trying to comb through his memories then said.
"Oh, yeah, and the super dogs from hell! What did the guy call them? Gor…gorg…" He shivered and whistled in amazement as he recalled the chase and his narrow escape.
I had broken ribs and a concussion, he thought. Nevertheless, the girl said I have only been here a week? How could I have healed so fast? It's impossible, I know, but it has happened. Where am I? How did I get here?
All these questions prodded at his mind with a relentless passion as he entered the public room of the inn.
In fact, his mind was so engrossed in its questions that he nearly bumped into a mature-looking woman as he turned the corner of the stairway. She avoided the collision with a graceful mobility gleaned by years of practice moving through drunken crowds with heavy-laden trays of mugs.
"Excuse me," he said.
The woman was obviously Mara's mother, for her daughter resembled her in many ways, especially in the eyes. She had a load of dirty dishes in her arms, which she was apparently taking to the kitchen for washing.
"No, excuse me, sir" was her reply. "It is good to see you on your feet after so long. How do you feel?"
He felt good and rested, and he told her so. She smiled at the news and quickly hurried on her way into the kitchen.
"Good. I'll be right with you, all right?" she called to him from the other room. "I am slightly busy at the moment, for the patrons love my breakfast and can't seem to fill their bellies with enough of it."
She soon reappeared, arms laden with dishes of every sort.
"Sometimes," she said, still smiling, "I regret being such a good cook."
Gideon smiled.
"Well, Mrs. Valora, my breakfast was also delicious," he said truthfully. "Tell me, what was it? It tasted familiar, but I couldn't quite place all the ingredients."
"Oh please, call me Bessa. Everyone around here calls me Bessa. Anyway, let me see." She thought for a moment.
"There was my special sweet bread, elven wine from the Menelorn Forest—we import that special, you know, cause there's such a demand for it—and elderberries in sweet sauce."
"I see," said Gideon, realizing he did not recognize any of the ingredients she had listed, save for the elderberries. He decided to turn the conversation onto a different path and asked again one of those little questions that had been festering in his mind since he awoke. "Could you perhaps tell me exactly where I am? I seem to be a little lost now. You see, I had a car accident, and I have to phone my insurance agent to see if my policy will cover it. May I use yours?"
"Use my what?" asked Bessa, somewhat confusedly.
"Your phone, surely you have a telephone?" prodded Gideon.
Bessa's eyes were uncomprehending.
"I hear, but I know not what a phone is. Perhaps if you describe one, I can send for one in Taros."
Gideon was beginning to lose patience with the entire scene, but he contained himself, for he realized that the woman was speaking the truth.
"That's all right. Perhaps I can probably find one elsewhere. Could you at least tell me what town I'm in?"
Bessa's eyes lit up at that question. "Aye, that I can. You are in the town of Briarwood, just ten leagues northwest of the capitol city of Taros in the province of Calendor."
Gideon was taken aback! That was not what he had expected to hear. With that, he replied with a soft thank you and found his way to an oaken table where he pulled out a barrel chair, then sat dejectedly and pondered his predicament.
As he sat there brooding, head in hand, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that someone was watching him intently. Gideon turned his head fully on the watcher and was startled by his discovery.
Sitting at a table and writing in a small book was a tiny man, no larger than a child, sporting a small white beard. As Gideon looked up, the little man rose from his seat and walked over to him, studying him carefully. Gideon too studied the diminutive figure with a sense of bewilderment.
He stood only about two feet five inches in height and was proportioned athletically for one of such stature. He wore a dark-green cloak, and his features, gnarled by wrinkles, gave him a dour but wise appearance. He walked right up beside Gideon and said in a gruff but not unpleasant voice, "A good day to you, Master Gideon. I trust you're feeling better today?"
Gideon looked down at the little man through his outspread fingers.
"Who are you?" he asked disbelievingly.
The little man made an eloquent bow and said softly, "I am Pyne Calandon of the fair city of Noordlindian."
"You're a dwarf," said Gideon, and then he added quickly, "or do you prefer the term little people?"
Pyne's eyes widened in surprise. "Dwarf?" he repeated. Then, an instant later, his eyes softened, and he let out a light chuckle. "Dwarf? Goodness me, no. My people are actually called Norgtor or, if you prefer, gnomes."
"A gnome?" said Gideon with a grin of disbelief. "As in the mythic-fantasy type? Riiight."
"I can assure you, young fellow," sniffed Pyne with a bit of stiff indignation, "that we are not a myth, nor are we a fantasy."
Then he looked around the room, taking in the faces of all the patrons in the rather large common room, and studied them cautiously. This whole day was starting to become surreal, and it was beginning to freak him out.
"Listen, little fellow," said Gideon. "I want to know where I am and how I got here. Can you tell me that?"
Pyne stood next to him and casually gestured toward a chair, which suddenly moved on its own and began to slide toward him and the table.
With a little thump, he sat down in the chair, his feet dangling, and answered matter-of-factly, "You know you were injured in several places when Ragan came to get me. You had four broken ribs, a broken arm, and a minor concussion. My healing spellweave fixed most things, but you are still recovering, and I'm afraid you won't be in fighting shape for at least another day."
Gideon nodded in numb understanding and then gestured to the chair and the far table. "How…how did you do…? Was that some kind of magic trick?"
The little man chuckled, his ancient eyes bright with an inner sense of mischief. "Yes, you could say that it was magic. I used a series of spellweavings." He then leaned forward, pointing his smallish index finger at Gideon's face, and continued, "Where is your circlet?"
"I took it off," replied Gideon. "What the hell was it doing on my head anyway?"
Pyne slowly shook his head and made a tsk tsk sound. "That, young fellow, is a circlet of language translation. Without it, after several minutes you will not be able to understand what people here are saying to you, nor them you. I even enhanced it so it will even protect your head like a helm."
"Huh?"
