Bladeshire 25

By David C. Daoust

Chut was dumbstruck. The old women were just milling around, all the while the doggie was barking endlessly at the hole in the ground. He felt like he knew where the pups head was at, but the old women, they just, were not paying attention. He supposed it was a pretty nondescript hole in the middle of a fairly unkempt yard…

The dogs attempt to get their attention was not going to work. The elder wives were chatting, making comments about what they would say (and do) to their husbands once they returned from wherever the wives decided they had gotten off to.

Chut needed a new plan, a better plan. Admittedly, he had left his first plan undone. He had attempted to drop a line down to where his friend had fallen. While he successfully managed to get the rope tied to the pigsty, he had failed to drop the other end in the hole before the small group of humans interrupted him.

Lest he risk repercussions, he was stuck at his normal, Spriggan size. The rope was huge, it’d be like trying to drag a log, a really long, and thick, log. And the dog was no longer paying him any attention.

There were ways; Chut knew it. Spriggan ingenuity indeed! He’d managed to find the cross– Chantilles’ cross, that had haphazardly flown from her hand right before she took a tumble down the hole. He dragged it with him to the end of the rope, looping its strong leather strap, best he could, around the thick rope. He stood the cross up on its end and then heaved it forward. He pushed and pushed, and finally the rope budged, only an inch or two, but he only had to go about six inches to the hole.

The cross worked as a lever pulling the rope forward as the cross tipped to the ground. It was a slow long process, but he managed to right the cross again, and push it forward until it hit the ground, effectively dragging the rope another inch. Chut was getting tired. If the ladies were not there, he would surely switch to a larger size; rules be damned! As it were, he’d have to just keep forcing the rope forward an inch at time…

One more time, he was sure of it. He was right up by the edge, yet as he pulled the cross into an upright position, the ground gave way beneath him. Chut slipped and fell; arms still gripped around the cross as it followed him down. The last three inches were a gimme as the combined weight of him and the cross was enough to pull the rope, practically into the hole. It got hung up on something!

Chut was dangling from the cross, the rope no longer budged. Just one good pull, he thought, and the whole long rope would go tumbling down into the hole.

Chut was sure he’d survive the fall; Spriggan could take a walloping. He swung toward the wall, trying to plant his feet; get some traction. If he could pry himself just right, he could get that last good yank, he was sure of it.

One big pull, and suddenly enough of the rope was into the hole, that it just dropped down, the weight of the rope pulling it forward, all the way down till it hit the bottom—Chut first!