Skippy’s Worldby Frederick D. Rustam |
Table of Contents |
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| Part 3: The Little Man in the Tree | |
Straw into Gold
“Wow. What a place,” Skippy whispered.
The elaborate treehouse seemed a picture from a book of fairy tales. Gingerbread woodwork complemented its basic clapboard design. Its steep roof had a dormer window. Its multicolored paint scheme strongly asserted its presence among the brown of the late-autumnal forest. From its mullioned windows to its railed wraparound balcony, the aerie was a work of art and a labor of love. The tree’s radiating branches clasped the house so that it seemed to be held in the hand of a giant.
Near the ground, surrounding the tree’s thick trunk, was an aluminum collar that served as a roof over an almost-circular wire cage of guineas. How can the guy get up to his house with that cage around the trunk?
Skippy decided to present himself boldly, lest he be shot at by a suspicious householder. When he stepped into the clearing, the guineas began chortling. What’s wrong with those chickens?
When he heard his watchbirds, the occupant of the treehouse put aside his book, pulled his spectacles down his nose, and left his rocking chair to peek at the intruder below.
As Skippy moved farther into the clearing, a door opened and a dwarf straight from Grimm’s fairy tales calmly stepped onto the balcony.
“Who seeks Rumpelstiltskin?”
Skippy was stunned into silence by the sight of the little man, who was garbed like his namesake — brown and green clothes, pointed-toe cloth shoes, and a stocking cap with a red pompon.
“Uh...”
“Well, what is it, boy? What’s your business?”
Skippy’s mind raced, and his sense of humor prevailed. “I have some straw to be spun into gold.”
The dwarf grinned. “You’ve come to the right place, then, young feller. Go around to the other side of the tree.” There, Skippy found that the ends of the guinea cage were bent inward, leaving an access space to the trunk. A trapdoor opened in the balcony, and a rope ladder with wooden steps dropped down. Skippy climbed up to the opening, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s have your pistol, son — just to make sure your intentions are honorable.” Skippy was reluctant to part with his treasured weapon, but guessed the little man was no threat to him. He pulled his .38 police special from its holster and handed it up. “I wasn’t going to use it, sir. I only carry it for protection.”
“I see.” Rumpelstiltskin held the gun’s barrel in his tiny hand. “Come on up, then. I hope you don’t have another one strapped to your ankle.”
“Huh uh,” replied the visitor. “I’d like to have an ankle-gun, though. You can never have enough protection these days.” Skippy climbed through the opening and sat on its edge.
“Where’s your straw?”
“I don’t really have any. I was just kidding.”
“I knew that. Only God can spin straw into gold. I get my gold the hard way — mining it. People trade me good stuff for it.”
For a brief moment, Skippy considered trading his pistol for some gold. Naw. I can’t defend myself with gold.
Wise Little Man
“I went to court and got my name legally changed to ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’ I figured that name would be a good advertisement. The judge laughed at the little man who wanted to change his name to a fairy-tale character’s. I’ll bet he never laughed at any big guy who wanted to change his name.”
Skippy followed Rumpelstiltskin into his kitchen. There, the little man stooped and put Skippy’s pistol inside a large floor-level cabinet. “I don’t have any guns, myself. Too dangerous.”
“You’re taking a chance, though. What if a trader decided he wanted all your gold?”
“I don’t keep gold here. I take orders for it, get it from my mine, and people have to come back for it. You’re thinking that someone could force me to take them to my mine, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen bandits in action.”
“So far, they’ve left me alone.”
Back in the living-room, Rumpelstiltskin sat in his child’s rocking-chair; Skippy sprawled on the Persian carpet. TreeTops was for small-scale living: small furniture, small kitchen utensils, even paperback pocket books.
“You’re wondering why I allowed you up here.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t, usually. I climb down to trade with visitors. You’re a shorty — not like me, of course — but not real tall, either.”
“Yeah. I’m a half-pint.” He was five-feet-five.
“Tell me about yourself. Where’re you from and where’re you headed?”
“I’m comin’ from Hell and goin’ to I-Don’t-Know-Where-the-Hell,” Skippy joked. Then, he began his tale at Day Zero, when his city’s New Sun was born. He spoke of life in suburban Duketown, his migration westward over mountains and through forests, and his capture by bandits. Afterward, he queried Rumpelstiltskin about the old Kansas railroad town of Prairie Junction.
“Bartertown?” The little man shuddered. “They’d have to drag me to that place of evil, Skippy. I’ve only heard about it secondhand, of course.” His gray eyes smiled at the visitor. “Don’t let me discourage you from going there, though... Come with me. I have something appropriate for a peregrinating young fellow.” He led the way into a storage room filled with collectibles. From a trunk full of old toys, he took something star-shaped and shiny. He held it up so Skippy could read its inscription.
“‘Chicken Inspector’?”
“People used to wear badges like this as a joke. It looks official until someone gets close enough to read it. If you’re going to roam the countryside with a holstered pistol, you ought to be viewed as an officer of the law.”
Skippy was too polite to protest that he didn’t want to be seen as an armed clown, but he forced a “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” The little man closed the trunk lid. “Let’s have lunch. You must be hungry.”
“I’ll say.” These days, Skippy was always hungry.
Real Gold
Rumpelstiltskin gave a high-pitched belch and patted his ample middle. “Do you have anything you’d like to have plated with gold, Skippy?”
They were enjoying dessert, an old can of lychees from some ruined delicatessen. It was typical of the trade-goods the little man received for his gold. Most of the meal Rumpelstiltskin served his visitor was from cans, but it tasted pretty good to Skippy.
“Plated? I don’t think so... oh, wait a minute... my St. Christopher medal.” He pulled out the medallion’s neck-chain. “It’s the patron saint of travelers.”
Back in the kitchen, the little man placed an old olive jar on the table. It was almost-filled with a pale-golden liquid. “I actually do have some gold here. This is a mixture of gold salts and formaldehyde.” He unscrewed the lid. “Give me your medal.” Skippy handed it to him. “Hmmm. Needs some cleaning, first.” He applied soap and a brush to the grime the saint had accumulated. “Now, watch.” He dipped the medallion into the liquid. When he pulled it out, it was coated with gold.
“That’s a neat trick. How thick is the gold?”
“A few thousandths of an inch, just enough.” He wiped the medallion dry and handed it to Skippy.
BAM!
Skippy jumped at the unwelcome sound of a gunshot, followed by the loud cackling of the watchbirds. Rumpelstiltskin only raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like somebody wants to trade. Some guys let off a shot to let me know they’ve arrived.” He went to a window. “Here they come.”
Skippy joined him, but he was careful not to show himself to the strangers. His experiences had taught him to be extra cautious. Several men with pack-mules moved into the clearing. “They look to me like bandits. You’d better be careful, Mr. Rumpelstiltskin.”
“I’ve dealt with bandits before, Skippy. Better safe than sorry, though. Come with me.” He unlocked the kitchen cabinet into which he’d put Skippy’s police special, handed the pistol to him, then crawled inside. He pushed open the rear panel of the cabinet and backed out.
“You see that open space behind the cabinet?”
“Yeah.” Skippy squinted into the dim interior as he holstered his gun. “Where does it go?”
“There’s an escape shaft cut into the tree’s dead heartwood. It has a ladder that drops to a tunnel in the ground that runs into the woods.” He sized up Skippy. “It’ll be a little tight for you, but try it.”
Skippy backed into the cabinet. He reached the ladder and climbed down a few steps. Satisfied that he wouldn’t get stuck in the shaft, he rested his arms on the floor of the cabinet and waited.
Rumpelstiltskin handed a flashlight to his visitor. “Take this in case you have to use the tunnel.” The little man closed the cabinet door, and Skippy fought a sudden wave of panic when he found himself plunged into darkness. Thus entombed, he nervously awaited the arrival of the traders.
Frustration
Even within the escape shaft, Skippy could hear the angry voices.
I knew they were bandits! Hearing sounds of argument, he left the cabinet and peeped cautiously through the living-room window into the clearing below... in time to see two of the bandits grab Rumpelstiltskin and hoist him.
They aren’t trading. They’re stealing his gold. Skippy drew his pistol.
One of the bandits suddenly punched the hoisted little man in the belly and delivered a string of curses which came through the walls of TreeTops loud and clear.
Skippy’s finger tightened on the trigger as the bandits took Rumpelstiltskin to a tree at the edge of the clearing and tied his arms painfully behind him around its trunk, hanging him above the ground. It seemed clear that the bandits intended to make the little man reveal the location of his goldmine in a nearby range of green hills. They probably knew how he handled his gold. Skippy considered rushing out onto the balcony and drawing down on the bandits. But he was afraid they would recklessly fire at him. It was too late for bravado.
Lashed helplessly to a tree, the little man showed a stubborn courage to his captors. Skippy could see his mouth moving as he refused their demands. Suddenly, the boss bandit turned and fired a shot into the guinea cage. Skippy could see Rumpelstiltskin wince at the loss of one of his beloved birds.
Skippy fingered his now-golden St. Christopher medal through his sweater and trembled in agitated frustration. I’ve gotta do something. But what? I can’t just pick ‘em off. I’m no marksman. There were four bandits. His gun had six cartridges.
Then the screaming began.
Rage
Skippy couldn’t watch anymore.
Rumpelstiltskin’s screaming had become groans. The bandits had ripped off the little man’s clothes and were using their knives to slash and gouge him in an orgy of crude torture.
Skippy shook with rage at what he heard. Finally, he could absorb no more reality. He lay exhausted on the living-room carpet. He pushed his pistol away from him, lest a tense finger fire it by mistake and bring the bandits rushing up the ladder into TreeTops.
After a time of horror, the groaning stopped.
Skippy peeped out the window. The boss bandit was pointing at TreeTops and giving orders. Then, the thug headed for the rope ladder.
He thinks there’s gold up here! Skippy hastened to the escape cabinet, backed into it, and closed the door. He eased himself through the opening at the rear and into the escape shaft. He stood quietly on the shaft’s ladder and aimed his pistol with both hands at the cabinet door.
He knew the bandit would inspect all the cabinets in his search for Rumpelstiltskin’s gold. When the guy pulled open the door to this one, though, he’d find something he didn’t expect. “I’ll give you some gold, pal,” Skippy muttered through clenched teeth. “I wish I had dumdums. A full metal jacket’s too good for him.” While he waited, he whispered a Polish prayer for the dead which his mother had taught him. He guessed his little friend was now beyond all suffering.
He’s inside! The bandit was moving around the house and cursing because he had to stoop to avoid the low ceiling. He was turning the place inside out. He’s keeping his men down below, so if he finds anything, he can keep it for himself. I’ll give him something to keep. Come on! Come on! Skippy’s hands trembled. He relaxed his grip on the pistol and waited.
Justice
The bandit boss stopped searching and looked to make sure his men weren’t coming up the rope ladder to check on him. Last month, he’d had to kill one of them to keep himself top dog, and he was willing to do that again, if necessary.
“Where the hell does he keep his stuff?!” The bandit — whose name was Delmar Scaggs, but who went by the name of “Capt. Del Quantrill” — pretended to be descended from the notorious Civil War guerilla raider, William Clarke Quantrill. This didn’t give him much leverage with his historically-challenged men, but it impressed those victims who remembered their school history about the bad old times in the Missouri-Kansas border country, farther west.
Capt. Quantrill swept the last of Rumpelstiltskin’s books from their shelves. He’d given up paging through them to look for gold foil. Now, he just wanted to see if there was anything stashed behind them. He found nothing. “The kitchen... all those cabinets.” He headed for the little man’s little kitchen, bumping his head on the top of the doorway.
“When I’m finished, I’m gonna fix this place so’s nobody’ll ever use it again.”
* * *
He’s here! Drawers and cabinets were being pulled open, their contents thrown onto the floor. Dishes, cans, and utensils were loudly cast aside. The olive jar with the liquid gold awaited the frantic searcher in an upper cabinet he would never reach.
The tall bandit growled. His back hurt from having to stoop so much. For relief, he dropped to his knees to check out the floor-level cabinets. This proved to be a mistake because it deprived him of the posture he would soon need.
He pulled open a cabinet door. Inside was a collection of old paper grocery bags. “That little pack rat!” He pulled bags out and threw them aside. Rumpelstiltskin’s kitchen floor was rapidly becoming a junk-pile of household goods.
He crawled to another cabinet. Inside, Skippy took a deep breath and aimed his pistol. The bandit yanked open the cabinet door and peered inside.
“What the...” A kid was pointing a gun at him!
Skippy found himself facing a dirty-faced, bearded, ruffian with bad teeth. His Confederate officer’s hat was hanging from the back of his red neck by its chinstrap. He smelled of rotten sweat. He panted. His long-barreled .357 magnum was in its holster... He hesitated, fatally.
“This is for Rumpelstiltskin.” Skippy squeezed the trigger. BAM! Inside the cabinet, the report was deafening. The bandit lurched backward and fell to one side like a discarded paper bag.
Skippy closed the rear door of the cabinet and clambered down the ladder of the narrow shaft. His leather jacket chafed against the rough-carved heartwood. It would bear those marks for a long time.
Cruel Mercy
Skippy crouched behind a tree and listened.
When they’d found the body of their leader, the bandits had panicked. Instead of conducting a systematic search for his killer, they’d run amok, grabbing things and throwing them from the balcony. Then they’d torched TreeTops, leaving their leader where he lay among the paper bags. They’d hastily loaded their pack-mules and departed, leaving the crucified Rumpelstiltskin behind.
Skippy waited until their loud voices faded, then ran to the clearing. Incandescent debris was falling from the flaming treehouse. He tore down the chickenwire cage and freed the guineas. They rushed like wild turkeys into the forest, chortling as if celebrating their liberation.
Then, Skippy had to do something really painful. He checked the dead Rumpelstiltskin for signs of life he guessed weren’t there. But the little man opened his eyes a little and looked at him.
“You’re still alive!”
He had to put his ear to the man’s mouth to hear the hoarse reply. “I should have listened to you, Skippy.”
Tears welled up in Skippy’s eyes. “Forget that. What do we do, now?”
“Use your gun.”
Skippy wept. “I can’t do that.”
“Please... finish me.”
Skippy turned and stomped off a few paces. He waved his arms in the air. He used words his parents wouldn’t have approved of. Then, he turned and drew his pistol. “I wish things could have been different,” he said.
“They are different, Skippy.”
Skippy put the barrel of his pistol at the same spot on the little man’s head where he’d shot the bandit. The irony of this violent act of mercy didn’t escape him.
* * *
Skippy wiped spatters of blood from his jacket as he trudged into the forest. He left Rumpelstiltskin’s body where it hung. He had nothing to dig a grave with, and he guessed that the little man would rather serve as a grisly monument for all passers-by to see and learn from.
He swore eternal revenge against all bandits that day. Fingering the silver badge pinned on the front of his jacket, he recalled the little man’s advice about roaming the countryside, looking like a lawman.
“You’d better look out for the Chicken Inspector!”
To be continued...
Copyright © 2010 by Frederick D. Rustam
