The first part of Myth’s plan succeeded without a hitch. Late in the afternoon, Ori, the beardless dwarf, made an appearance in the City Proper. Quite conveniently, he situated himself alongside a busy thoroughfare—one that was near Ronnie Bridge’s mansion. Hundreds of people flocked to see this freak of nature. The traffic jam he caused lasted for hours. It also delayed Ronnie Bridge’s arrival to the stage.
The second part of Myth’s plan went splendidly, too. Ronnie Bridge’s pitchfork-carrying admirers arrived at the rally to discover a dozen ogres positioned around the stage. Each ogre held a sign that read, “SILENCE PLEASE.” Dim though most of the mob was, none of them was stupid enough to tangle with an ogre. A pitchfork in the bum might make it angry, after all. So the people just stood there, silently staring at the stage.
Fortune was smiling upon us, for the third part of Myth’s plan worked as well. Earlier in the afternoon, she had schooled some goblin youths in the art of swine slopping. The goblins had mastered the skill with ease. They were sent to stalk Ronnie Bridge, with orders to slop any human who accompanied him—but not to slop Ronnie himself. They performed admirably. Ronnie’s closest cohorts, dirtied by slop, abandoned him in favor of chasing the goblins around the City Proper. So it was that Ronnie Bridge made his way alone to the rally for his big speech.
The stage was set for the confrontation between a bulbous bigot and an elf named Mythilda.
Myth awaited Ronnie backstage, the curtain hiding her from the crowd’s gazes. She stuck to the shadows, nervously wringing her hands. I was there with her, comforting her as best I could. My task was to cue some goblins to raise the curtain when Myth gave the word. I also planned to slap Ronnie Bridge so hard should Myth lose her nerve.
Ronnie Bridge arrived backstage. He seemed to be in a foul mood, grumbling to himself about foreigners.
Taking a deep breath, Myth stepped out of the shadows and approached Ronnie Bridge. Her feet brushed against the ground as she shuffled over to him. Her arms trembled nonstop. She kept her gaze fixed upon the floor. And her head was bowed so low that she looked like a hunchback.
Her fear was palpable. How I longed to rush over to her and comfort her. To hug her and tell her that she did not have to do this. But I knew that was a lie. Although her past was still a mystery to me, I sensed that Myth had to confront Ronnie Bridge… For the traivellin fowk… For the elves… For herself… But I did not know if her nerve would hold out long enough for her to unmask that bulbous pig’s true nature.
Ronnie noticed her. “What are you doing back here, Coney?”
Looking at her closely, he went on, “I know you. You’re that attractive trollop I met last night. Come to give me some cheer before my speech, have you, Coney?”
“I have a name,” mumbled Myth.
“What did you say, Coney?” said Ronnie in a loud, belligerent voice. “Speak up. That’s an order.”
Myth was panting anxiously. She looked on the verge of sobbing.
I was certain she would lose heart. Any moment now, I grumbled to myself, she'll abandon her plan and act like a good, docile elf.
Then the unbelievable happened. Myth steeled herself. She told me later that she had longed to cower before him. But she reminded herself of what would happen to non-humans if she backed down. That knowledge stiffened her resolve to stand up to him.
Breathing deeply, Myth stood upright, towering over the bulbous man. She looked him in the eyes. In a clear voice, she said, “I have a name.”
“So what?” said Ronnie. “Even dogs have names, Coney.”
“I am not a Coney,” said Myth. “Yes, my ears are long and pointy just like a coney’s ears. But a coney’s ears are covered with fur. Mine are not, as you can plainly see. So obviously, I am not a Coney. I have a name.”
Ronnie was becoming aggravated. It had been a frustrating afternoon for him. Having an elf teach him some basic principles of lagomorphology was an irritation he did not need. “Alright!” he shouted. “I’ve had enough of this. Get out of here, Coney, or I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”
“I have a name.”
“So you keep saying, you stupid Coney. Do you want a prize, maybe a coin or two? I have a name, so give me a coin. Well! Out with it! Say your blasted name. Maybe I’ll give you a coin as well as a sound thrashing.”
“I don’t want a coin, you vile man. I wanted you to acknowledge that I have a name by asking me what it is. My name is Mythilda—or Myth. Either one will do.”
I nearly jumped for joy when Myth said that. She had accepted my nickname for her. Oh, Mister, you have no idea how happy that made me.
“Pleased to meet you, Coney,” said Ronnie as he bowed mockingly. “Now get out of my way.”
“I told you, I am not a Coney. My ears aren’t covered with fur. That’s a giveaway. I am an elf. And I know what you are, Ronnie Bridge.”
Ronnie’s face was beet red. I expected steam to shoot from his ears at any moment.
“Do you now?” he said.
“Yes,” said Myth. “You’re a vampire. You’ve feasted upon the hopes of hardworking, simple folk. After you bled them dry, you put them aside to serve as a late night snack. Because you knew the feast wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, the simple folk would start to ask questions, wondering what had happened to everything they cherished.
“Ah! But you had a plan—a scapegoat tailor made for such an event. Talk loudly, Ronnie! Everyone knows that he who talks the loudest is the wisest of them all. ‘Look at all your misfortunes,’ you said to the simple folk. ‘It’s those devils, the traivellin fowk, who are to blame.’
“Of course, the simple folk believed you—they always do. It’s so much easier to blame some unknown persons—some foreigners—for your woes than it is to face reality. You’re a vampire, Ronnie Bridge. I’ve met others like you.”
“You filthy wench!” roared Ronnie. “I’ll make life miserable for all you Conies because of this abuse. Just you wait.”
“Oh, I know you will. People always ask questions, Ronnie. Someday, they’ll put two and two together and realize that the traivellin fowk aren’t to blame for Narrows’ woes. You’ll need a new scapegoat—who better than the elves.
“But that will run its course, too. We’ll survive as we always have—scarred and bloodied, but alive.
“But you, Ronnie, you’ll need a new scapegoat, yet again. Who will it be? Why! There’s only one group left—the simple folk you claim to protect. And after that, you’ll be all alone, Ronnie, with no one to blame but yourself.”
“Do you think those people matter?” roared Ronnie. “Do you think I care about those idiots? I’ve bled them for years, and I’ll continue bleeding them until they’re dead. They don’t matter. Nobody matters except me—Ronnie Bridge. I’ve taken their jobs from them. I’ve taken their coins. And they still worship me. I’ll take everything from them because I’m Ronnie Bridge—the only person who matters.”
Ronnie trembled with rage. He lunged at Myth, grabbing her by the throat. “And no dirty Coney is going to stand in my way,” he growled as he squeezed Myth’s throat, “even if it does have a name.”
I rushed towards Myth and Ronnie. My arm tensed in anticipation of slapping that bulbous man so hard. But then… something wonderful occurred.
You see, Mister, simple folk cannot stay silent for long. Not even when they are confronted by ogres carrying signs that read, “SILENCE PLEASE.” Eventually, they will need to vocalize the babble that passes through their heads.
The crowd had patiently listened to Myth and Ronnie. Now they needed to speak in order to make sense of what they had heard.
“Did Ronnie Bridge just call us stupid?”
“No. He said we’re idiots.”
“Is that better or worse than bein’ stupid?”
“It’s about the same. I think.”
Ronnie looked horror-struck. He paused mid-throttling of Myth and glared at her.
Myth gently extracted herself from Ronnie’s clutches. Looking at me, she smiled and said, “And curtain.”
I signaled for the goblins to raise the curtain.
And there… Before Ronnie and Myth were a thousand pained faces trying to come to grips with the treachery of their savior.
Myth stepped forward and addressed the crowd, “Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you Mr. Ronnie Bridge, the man who took your jobs and ruined the Holding Narrows.”
The crowd stared at Ronnie Bridge for a moment, dumbstruck.
Then Skeeter pointed a finger at Ronnie and said, “He stole our jobs.”
“Let’s git ’im!” shouted Di Betty.
Confronted by an angry, pitchfork-carrying mob, Ronnie did the only thing he could do—he bolted. Soon, he was no more than a bulbous blur speeding away from the City Proper with a thousand pitchforks charging after him.
I walked over to Myth. Reaching out my hand, I caressed her elbow and said, “You were terrific.”
Myth rubbed her throat. Her hands were shaking. Smiling, she said, “Thanks.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Myth shrugged. “I’ve suffered worse hurts.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t stop him,” I said as I glanced at the ground.
A few tears formed in my eyes. That bulbous man throttled Myth, I told myself. And I wasn't able to help her. I'm useless—nothing more than excess baggage weighting her down. Myth doesn't need me.
Myth put her hand beneath my chin and gently lifted my head upwards. When our eyes met, she smiled again.
“Don’t worry, Iz,” she said. “I’m fine. He didn’t throttle me for long. Besides, I knew you were there to help me if anything went wrong. That means a lot.”
Seeing her smile cheered me. How could I continue to blame myself when that smile was beaming so radiantly upon me? And Myth knew that I would have helped her. She did not think I was useless. She may not have needed my help, but perhaps she did want my company. Perhaps having sweet, quirky Izzy around was important to her. Maybe that was what she needed. Well, I definitely knew how to be Izzy.
“I’m glad you’re plan worked,” I said. “And I’m so proud of you.”
I folded my arms across my tummy and then went on, “But I’m also quite cross at you for not letting me slap him.”
Huffing, I shrugged my shoulders. “Oh well, at least it’s over.”
“Is it?” said Myth. “People like Ronnie Bridge never disappear for good. He’ll be back in a few years, claiming he’s seen the error of his way. The people chasing him tonight will applaud his redemption. And this will happen once again.”
I stuck my tongue out at her.
“Well,” I said, “aren’t you a little Miss Sunshine? You may be right. But that shouldn’t stop us from celebrating what happened here.”
Myth gasped. “Did Izzy MacDonald just call me little? What’s that old saying… something about a pot calling the kettle black?”
I punched her arm playfully.
“Easy there, tiny,” said Myth. “I got throttled tonight.”
The sound of clapping interrupted out merriment. Looking behind us, we saw Knee-Biter and Ori approaching us. The old goblin was applauding Myth.
“Gowd o’ ya” he said.
“Well done,” said Ori. “If we’re lucky, that mob will put those pitchforks to good use and poke a few holes in Ronnie Bridge.”
“So,” I said, “does this mean the Fair will stay in Narrows?”
Knee-Biter nodded his head and said, “Eiy.”
Then he tapped Ori’s arm.
Nudging his head towards Knee-Biter, Ori said, “This old coot wants to invite the two of you to the Fair tomorrow night—free admission. But you will have to pay for rides and food.”
Myth gave Knee-Biter a wry grin. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the Fair let everyone in for free? It did when I was a girl.”
Knee-Biter cackled. Then he tapped Ori’s arm again.
“Oh yes,” said Ori. “Knee-Biter wants to give something to your friend.”
“To me?” I gasped.
The old goblin reached inside a pocket of his coat and pulled out… My dolly! It was the very one I had coveted so many years earlier, right down to the lavender dress and golden hair.
Grabbing the dolly, I hugged it tightly against my chest. “Thank you so much, Mr. Knee-Biter.”
After nodding to Myth and me, Knee-Biter turned and walked away. Ori followed him.
“Well,” said Myth, “to the victors go the spoils… Hey! How come I didn’t get anything?”
“You’re right,” I said. “In honor of all you’ve done, I think I’ll name my dolly Mythie.”
Myth chuckled and said, “How about you don’t.”
“Too late,” I chirped. “So? How about it? Shall we go to the Fair?”
Myth looked at the ground. “Iz, I really don’t have enough coins to waste some on trifles. Even though I wish I could.”
“Well, I have coins to spare,” I said. “And a heroine needs to be rewarded for her bravery. Let me treat you, please. I’m not going to let you refuse, so you might as well give in.”
Myth smiled. “Since you put it like that, I accept.”
“It’s settled,” I said. “The Fair opens tomorrow night, and you’ll be my date.”