The Curse of Greg Page 10

  But it would all be pointless if I couldn’t convince the Council it was worthwhile for other reasons. They likely wouldn’t see fixing my dad as a dire enough need to require an allocation of precious, limited resources (i.e., trained soldiers). And so I decided to keep pressing them with talk of the Elves’ larger plan—hoping it would be enough to make them agree.

  “But Stoney said what the Elves are planning is akin to ‘universal annihilation,’” I pleaded with the Council. “I mean, surely that trumps whatever other reports you’ve gotten. This isn’t some pyramid scheme to make money. We could be talking about an all-out war!”

  “Well, see, that’s the thing,” Elder Heb Blazingsword said. “Your information came from a Rock Troll. And, well, how do I put this delicately? They’re morons, Greg. Big dumb beasts that should hardly be considered reliable sources of actionable intelligence.”

  “But that’s not true,” I said. “Stoney is just as smart as you or I. Probably even smarter!”

  This was met with a chorus of condescending chuckles, offended gasps, and boos from the Council and the audience of onlookers. Dunmor merely shook his head with a wry, yet frustrated grin on his face.

  I couldn’t believe this. My worst fears were being confirmed: most Dwarves were indeed just as ignorant and prejudiced as their ancestors. Perhaps living modestly Underground, while admirable, had also shielded them from becoming more open-minded. Not that I could say the Human world was perfect in this area, far, far from it. But at least a lot of Humans were trying to be better. This felt like a collectively heartless dismissal of Stoney’s value to a society. A stubborn refusal to open their minds beyond their precious sacred texts.

  “Just because you like this—this Rock Troll . . .” Elder Dhon Dragonbelly began saying.

  “No,” I interrupted. “He can speak fifteen languages. How many do you speak besides modified ancient Dwarven English and modern English?”

  Ooj, the often loud and angry Leprechaun Dwarven Elder, scoffed loudly from the end of the table.

  “That barely matters,” he said. “Anyone can be taught to repeat words. That’s hardly evidence of superior intelligence. Cannot even dogs learn words? Or to ‘speak’ on command? I mean, really . . .”

  I shook my head, not quite believing what I was hearing. Did their prejudice toward Rock Trolls really go this deep? Or did others think as I did but were simply too afraid to voice it? I was flabbergasted, so frustrated that I spoke again without even thinking.

  “But the key to fixing my dad is there!” I blurted out.

  My dad stood suddenly, looking bewildered, as the crowd settled into an awkward and anxious silence. Though most of them still revered him as the One Who Predicted Magic’s Return and/or the One Who Destroyed the Elf Lord, they were still well aware of his new, bizarre ailment. Even as much as they tried to ignore it.

  “Greg, what on earth are you babbling on about?” my dad said. “I’m perfectly fine! Tell my son I’m fine.”

  He looked around at the other Elders. They shifted their gazes away uncomfortably. My dad didn’t seem to notice. In fact, his eyes were already glazing over; yet another “episode” was imminent, possibly even brought on by the stress of what I was doing.

  At least three of the Elders groaned loudly as my dad’s finger shot into the air like he had an important declaration.

  “A Kernel of Truth for such times as these!” he shouted.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Dunmor said sadly in my direction.

  “Whenever ignorance rears back its ugly head,” my dad began, giving me hope that perhaps this time it wouldn’t be complete and utter drivel. “Which, might I add, looks an awful lot like the head of a panda bear! They say ignorance has no physical appearance, but I assure you as sure as I’m standing here today that it very much resembles a lovable panda. But only with more green grass on top. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was describing this narcissistic orangutan in a bad wig I once knew. He was a blowhard for a monkey, which, since monkeys can’t talk, is quite a feat, buffoonery notwithstanding. Now, the difference between a wig and a Whig is a bit more nuanced. It begins with . . .”

  I slowly sat down as my dad rambled on.

  The entire Council knew there was nothing really to do in this moment but wait for him to finish. But as I sat there, defeated, knowing I had no more arguments to make, I was at least comforted by the knowledge that I’d tried. After all, what had I really expected? Dwarves were still Dwarves—constantly driven to inaction by their own negativity. The looming return of magic hadn’t changed that. Perhaps no argument I could have made would have changed anything.

  The official vote would happen much later in the meeting, of course. It was hard for me to harbor much hope at that point. Then again, as a Dwarf, I sort of had fully expected to fail. But as a concerned son who had already saved his dad from death once, part of me wanted to believe I was finally overcoming our curse and that a vote to send me and a team of warriors to New Orleans might actually stand a chance. Maybe seeing this most recent episode of his (which lasted almost ten full minutes, I might add) would convince many of them that fixing my dad was worth the resources, not even mentioning the possible malevolent Elven plot.

  But for now, I would just have to sit back and wait.

  * * *

  – –

  Later in the meeting, during the MPM-review phase of the Session, Eagan stood before the Council and the Elders and did his thing—looking rather important in his new Councilperson robes (which were made from bison hide, bison having long been considered by Dwarves to be the most regal of all animals):

  Eagan passionately pleaded for Stoney not to be treated like a prisoner. He said we’d be no better than Elves if we continued treating him like that. We’d also be liars. He really dug in hard on the whole Dwarven pride thing, suggesting somehow that Stoney’s case alone could define whether Dwarves really were as virtuous and trustworthy as we all claimed to be, or if we were more like the Elves than we thought: deeply flawed and totally capable of being every bit as self-centered and unenlightened, even if it manifested in different ways.*

  There was very little follow-up discussion to his speech since there was still a lot of other MPM business to attend to afterward. So we both sat there in our separate seats (Eagan with the other Council members up in the stadium seating behind the Elders, and me at a stone table in front) and anxiously waited through all of it. Finally, at the end, the Council cast its votes on all matters discussed during the long, grueling Session.

  And it resulted in both good and bad news.

  Which one do you want first?

  The good news to soften the blow of the bad news? Yeah, that’s what I would have picked, too. Okay, then, the good news:

  Eagan succeeded. He somehow convinced the Council to narrowly (by three votes!) approve unlocking Stoney’s chambers. It did come with some conditions, however, such as: armed guards would remain outside, in the hallway, at all times; and Stoney must always have an escort with him wherever he went within the Underground, at least for now. I figured Stoney would be okay with this. It was certainly better than being locked up the whole time.

  But now for the bad news:

  “By the official vote of one hundred eighty-six nays to twenty-nine ayes, motion denied,” Dunmor announced. “No action will be taken by the Council regarding the reported Elven activity in New Orleans.”

  I immediately jumped up and shouted at the Elders before I even realized what I was doing.

  “No! This is ridiculous!” I knew I should stop, but I was so frustrated and angry I literally couldn’t help myself. “Do you all want to die at the hands of these Elves? Is that it? Are you so self-defeating that you secretly want their plan for ‘universal annihilation’ to succeed? Huh?!?”

  Murmurs erupted throughout the Dosgrud Silverhood Assembly Hall. People began sho
uting at me to sit down and shut up, which then prompted Foggy Bloodbrew (my dad’s best friend on the Council) to rise up from her seat and shout at them about having manners. This elicited more yelling, including at least one nasty insult directed at my dad (apparently some of the other Dwarves were starting to lose patience with him, even in spite of his celebrity). We were seconds from an all-out brawl when Dunmor pounded a huge rock onto the stone table and called the proceedings back to order.

  “Greg, please sit down,” he said. “You can’t do this every time you disagree with our vote. That’s not how a republic works.”

  “Not until you tell me why,” I said. “I came here with vital information. Everyone’s safety, the future of the whole world is—is possibly on the line. I mean, why—why would we ignore this? It just doesn’t make sense!”

  Dunmor sighed, knowing all about Stormbelly stubbornness. And also likely knowing the truth: that although I was worried about what the Elven sect in New Orleans might have been planning, that was not the main reason I was so upset by the Council’s inaction. He knew it was more about my dad and the potential cure for his condition that the New Orleans Elves might possess.

  Speaking of my dad, he was seated a few chairs away from Dunmor at the table of Council Elders, beaming at me proudly. He’d always been the sort to stand up for what he believed in, even when everyone else called him a fool (which they had for decades before he’d eventually been proven right).

  “We owe Trevor’s son an answer,” someone shouted.

  “Yeah, he’s a Stormbelly, after all!” another added.

  This was met with a surprisingly thunderous rumble of agreement, showing that (for now at least) the majority of Dwarves were still beholden to my dad’s status and willing to overlook his new and disruptive idiosyncrasies.

  I was starting to like being the son of a famous Dwarf. Sure, it got me stared at a lot in the Arena by other kids. But clearly it also had its perks.

  “Okay, fine,” Dunmor said. “Please anyone here who voted nay, correct me if I misspeak. Greg, we aren’t going to do nothing. Rest assured, we’ll certainly pass the information along to the local Dwarven sect there in New Orleans, like we do with all reports of Elven activity in other areas of the world. But that’s all we can do. The local branch will have to take the rest from there. Frankly, we can’t really help any of them at the moment, even if we wanted to. We’re simply stretched too thin as it is, as you well know.”

  I slowly nodded and then sat back down.

  Dunmor was right. Besides, I was being sort of selfish. I knew for me this was more about my dad than about Stoney’s claims that the Elves were planning something evil, and so to expect the Council to use invaluable resources (and risk their lives) investigating something a thousand miles away so my dad would get back to normal wasn’t really all that reasonable, considering the other issues we were up against. Namely: all the mythical monsters showing up with each new day, with each new burst of Galdervatn.

  However, that didn’t mean I was simply going to do nothing. I knew Stoney was telling the truth. And that meant I had to do something.

  Herein was the real problem: What exactly could I do?

  How could I face a whole army of Elves a thousand miles away all by myself?

  But then I allowed myself to smile as the reality of my new life in the Underground hit me in the best way. I wasn’t alone. I already knew a trained army of Dwarves (if you wanted to call us that) who would back me up no matter what I was facing.

  CHAPTER 17

  Yep, That’s Me Just Stuffing a Bunch of Poop into My Pockets

  STONEY LIBERATED!” Stoney squealed delightfully in his booming, gravelly voice.

  I had just broken the news to him: that his chambers would no longer be locked. I made sure he understood the other conditions and he nodded excitedly.

  “GRATITUDE,” he said, moving toward me.

  “No, no,” I said quickly, taking a step back, not wanting another painful, crushing hug of appreciation. “That’s okay, Stoney. You’re welcome!”

  Stoney grinned his lopsided rock grin.

  “This is amazing,” Ari said. “How did Eagan pull that off?”

  “He’s a Mooncharm!” I said.

  She laughed and nodded.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Despite Stoney’s abundant elation, I was finding it increasingly difficult to stand there and focus on anything else but his bathroom trough. In it were two huge piles of glittering diamonds, sparkling brilliantly even in the dim light of the stone chamber. There were thousands of them, and they ranged in size from tiny pebbles all the way up to golf balls. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of Troll poop sitting right there in front of me.

  I smirked.

  In part because it truly exposed just how little that stuff mattered anymore. Growing up, money had never really been important to me or my dad to begin with. But soon the New Magical Age would change everything for everyone. Money and valuables as we knew them would soon be completely useless. Once the Dawn of Magic finally arrived, concepts like luxury would cease to exist. At least in the way they did now.

  But even so . . .

  I walked over to the trough and dug my hand into the pile of diamonds.

  “GREG!” Stoney bellowed in horror. “REPULSIVE!”

  And I suppose from his perspective it was pretty gross: I’d just dug my hand into a heap of his poop. Seeing the gems up close, I noticed that they didn’t look like diamonds from jewelry store commercials.

  They sparkled, but were also rough and uneven—not symmetrical at all. Much more like rocks you’d find lying on the ground. Except much glitzier. Ari must have noticed the way I was looking at them.

  “They’re uncut,” she said. “That’s why they look like that. Diamonds don’t just come out of the earth in perfect, polished shapes. Jewelers cut them down and shape them.”

  I nodded and then stuffed a huge handful into my pocket. Stoney shook his head in horror as I lined my pockets with his waste. Ari shot me a confused look.

  “I think these may come in handy,” I said, putting another handful into my pocket. “I’ve got some big news. And big plans. I’ll tell you about it later. You’ll see.”

  Ari smiled slyly and nodded.

  She knew I had something in mind. Some sort of plan. And she was always on board. Though I loved all my new Dwarven friends, I had to admit that over the past few months my relationship with Ari was the only one that had come close to being like the friendship I’d had with Edwin. I didn’t yet feel like I could tell her anything in the world like I could have with Edwin, but there wasn’t much that I’d leave out.*

  I also trusted Ari completely, and she trusted me. Which is a vital element to any close friendship. I knew this because she would always back me up when I had a crazy plan. Like, for instance, the time she helped talk the rest of our friends into infiltrating a secret Elven base to rescue my dad even though we had barely any training and no idea what sort of resistance we might run into. Or, less dramatically, the time a few weeks ago when I suggested we ditch our History of Dwarven Political Theory class to go get ice cream. And instead of talking me out of it, her face lit up excitedly. We had a ton of fun that day eating ice cream and then walking through the Garfield Park Conservatory (a tree-lover’s paradise). It was well worth the three days of tunneling duty (the Underground was undergoing a massive expansion project—in part to help make room for new MPM allies) we’d gotten as punishment for skipping class.

  “Okay, Stoney,” I said, turning to face him. He looked like he was still having a hard time getting over watching me stuff his poop into my pockets. “We have to go now. But you’ll be okay here? They won’t lock the doors.”

  “AFFIRMATIVE.”

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said. “I’ll come by and see you again late
r tonight. But after that I may be going away for a little bit. And you will be starting daily meetings with an MPM committee to evaluate your loyalty and stuff. But my really good friend Eagan will always be present. He promised me.”

  “EAGAN UNSCRUPULOUS?”

  “No, not at all,” I assured him. “You trust me, right?” Stoney nodded. “Good. Well, you trust me, and I trust Eagan, and so therefore you can trust Eagan.”

  Stoney hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” Ari chimed in. “Eagan is the nicest person I know. I trust him more than anyone in the world. Even Greg!”

  I tried to pretend I wasn’t a little offended. Stoney looked aghast, as if I were the Patron Saint of Honesty and there could be no others more honest. Which of course wasn’t true. In fact, Eagan was probably the most honorable person I’d ever met.

  “I’ll be back tonight to say goodbye,” I said.

  Stoney nodded as he picked up a hunk of talc from a massive pile in the corner. He crunched down on it with his teeth, taking a huge, crumbling bite. Even though talc was often called the softest rock in the world, and thus was very common Rock Troll food, my own teeth ached just from watching as Stoney calmly chewed it like bread.

  “Is that good?” I asked.

  Stoney shrugged.

  “SILICATE TALC TOLERABLE.”

  “Well, I’ll see if I can’t trade some of these diamonds for some gold for you,” I said from the doorway.

  Stoney looked skeptical as to why anyone would trade the most delicious mineral of all for a handful of Troll dung. But he shrugged and nodded.

  Ari and I waved goodbye and then stepped out into the hallway. The armed guard closed the door behind us but did not lock it. He glared at me like he was an on-duty cop and I’d just taken away his bulletproof vest.