Part 3

They were three now, a little knight, a tiny princess, and an ancient druid, sailing the misty waters between mortal reality and the Otherworld. Merlin had produced another minuscule pendant for Thumbelina to help combat any language barriers they encountered.

The miniature girl was in a tizzy of excitement. “I have so many questions!” she said. “How many homunculi are there? Are they all as small as me? Why are we like this? Are we pygmy-sized humans or another race entirely? What is—?”

“Calm yourself, lass,” Merlin laughed, as he rowed the barge through the supernatural waters. “I am still determining how many homunculi have been brought into being. I have identified four of you so far, including Thomas, but more are likely out there. And yes, they are as small as you, some even smaller.”

“As for why you were made,” he continued, “you are the culmination of a long-sought goal for practitioners of the secret arts: the creation of life. This was thought to be the province of the gods alone, but man has ever been an ambitious creature.”

“So the enchantress who gave my mother the barleycorn,” Thumbelina began, “she was simply trying to play god and create new life?”

“I cannot say for certain,” the wizard answered. “Mayhap her motives were altruistic. Your mother was childless and desired a daughter. This enchantress you speak of had the means to deliver this, while also plying and perfecting her craft.”

“And this life I’ve been given—what does it make me?” the princess asked hesitantly. “Am I human? Do I…do I have a soul? Or am I just an empty shell, a walking automaton of magic and flesh?”

Merlin smiled cryptically. “Ah, my child, even the wise cannot answer these questions. The mysteries of the soul and what makes us human are subjects that many struggle with in this life. What does your heart tell you? You think, you reason, you feel. You have dreams and ambitions, passions and fears. Is that not human? Beyond this, you must search within yourself for answers, princess.”

Thumbelina sat back, taking this all in. Tom also was deep in thought as he listened to this exchange. The little knight had wondered many of the same things over the years. This had all happened so fast, he’d barely had time to consider the implications of it. A mere day ago, he had not even known there were others like him; let alone what that might mean.

 “Where are we going next, sir?” Tom finally inquired.

 “According to my scrying pool,” Merlin said, “a homunculus exists in the kingdom of Germania.”

Tom nearly fell off his seat in the boat. “Merlin, have you gone mad? Germania is the Saxon homeland!”

For many years, barbarian tribes of Saxons and Angles had been invading the island of Britain, bringing unrest and violence to the land. The British High Kings had fought long and hard to stem the bloodshed. Arthur had won a decisive victory over the invaders early in his reign but it was only a matter of time before the Saxons retaliated.

“I do not choose our targets, Thomas,” declared Merlin. “And I do not like it any more than you do. We have all lost much to the Saxons. But shall we condemn this potential new ally before we even meet him? We cannot judge an entire race by the actions of its more unsavory members. I thought I taught you better than that.”

 “You’re right of course,” Tom said, begrudgingly. “But I still don’t like it.”

The barge was moored along a riverbank when the mist cleared and Merlin set his tiny allies upon the shore. They found themselves deep in the heart of Saxony, the veritable lion’s den from the Britons’ perspective. Before them was a vast and ominous-looking forest and a small, humble cottage nestled beneath the trees.

“The one you seek lives in that hovel in the distance,” Merlin said. “Be on your guard. Forget not that we are in enemy lands.”

 “Are you not accompanying us, Master Merlin?” Thumbelina asked.

  “Alas, no. I must meet with the Saxon chieftains,” answered the magician. “Since their defeat at the Battle of Mt. Badon, they’ve curtailed their invasion of Britain. For the moment. But raids continue along the coastline and more Saxons will eventually follow their kinsmen to our shores. My hope is to arrange a treaty and prevent further violence against the British people.”

“Besides, if this team of wee warriors is to be effective,” he said, “then you must learn to function as an autonomous unit, my little friends. You can’t always rely on me. Now, fare thee well and exercise caution.”

The druid was gone in an instant, disappearing down a winding forest path to accomplish his diplomatic errand. The two tiny folk looked at each other with uncertainty but started towards the wooden cottage.

After a moment, Thumbelina depressed a button on her harness. Golden faerie wings unfolded majestically from a compartment strapped to her back, spreading outward from their formerly collapsed state. They were accompanied by a sparkle of twinkly dust. Tom marveled at this ingenious mixture of engineering and magic.

“Forgive me, Tom,” she said, “but we’ll make more progress this way.”

Before Tom knew what was happening, she had grabbed his arm and lifted them both into the air. Tom was used to being carried at great heights but never like this. Swift as a butterfly, she flew them over the bushes and underbrush to the front of the cottage. They lighted gracefully on the threshold and Thumbelina’s wings folded back into the harness silently. As she slipped under the door, Tom was still somewhat dazed by the experience of flight, staggering slightly and appreciating solid earth below his feet as never before. After a second or two, he followed her.

The cottage, as it turned out, belonged to a master craftsman. The hiss and clang of his forge could be heard from another room. In the front room of the little house they saw a blonde-haired woman, presumably the craftsman’s wife, standing before a table. Like all humans, she towered over the little people enormously. This was magnified all the more by her stout, somewhat heavy build. She was not fat, but was no wilting waif either. A plain brown peasant dress hugged her curvaceous form, which seemed positively mountainous to the two tiny creatures approaching her sandaled feet.

Tom and the princess turned their gaze from this full-figured Saxon wench towards the individual she was speaking to. High above them, they could just make out a small human-like shape on the tabletop. They guessed that up close, he’d be no bigger than they were.

“Lamb stew again, mistress?” the little man called. Tom and Thumbelina were thankful for the translating power of their pendants for neither of them spoke the Saxon language. “That’s the twelth time this month! I’m sick to death of it!”

The lady of the house stomped forward, causing the tiny people to duck for cover behind a table leg. “My little Thumbling, what am I to do with you? Always complaining, this one! The stew is good! It will help you grow strong!”

“You and I both know I’m not growing any more than this!” said the wee man. “Have you nothing else to cook for supper?”

In an instant, the woman snatched him up, giant fingers dangling him in mid-air by the collar of his tunic. The little knight and princess were startled by this and sneaked back out from under the table. They nervously eyed the massive feet several times their size and kept a cautious distance. But they simply had to see what was happening.

“Perhaps a Thumbling stew then?” the mistress snarled at her tiny captive. “Would that stop your chattering complaints, you ungrateful little mouse?”

In a huff, the woman dumped the tiny creature into the bubbling stew pot. Thumbling gave a sudden shriek as he hit the boiling water. The furious wench took up a wooden spoon and began to roughly stir the mixture, spinning Thumbling about as the stew became a swirling maelstrom. She dunked him under the surface a few times with the base of the spoon and tossed slices of carrots and cabbage and handfuls of spice on top of him for good measure.

The little people below her were appalled. Thumbelina made ready to release her wings again and fly to Thumbling’s rescue. But before she could act, the lady dipped the spoon in and scooped out the shaken little man. Thumbling lay in the hollow of the spoon, soaked to the bone with a strip of lamb-meat strewn over his midsection and chunks of salt clinging to his clothes.

“Well, my little morsel?” the woman asked, certain that the impudent manikin had learned his lesson. “What do you think of my cooking now?”

 Thumbling coughed and sputtered a bit but was not turned from his trickster ways. “I-- *hack*-- I think it smells even worse up close, mistress!”

At this, the woman was positively enraged. Acting rashly, she thrust the spoon—and Thumbling—into her mouth. This elicited horrified gasps from the tiny observers below. Thumbling, however, was quite amused by the “game” and began to leap about inside the lady’s jaws. He bounced wildly on her tongue and dodged huge teeth that could easily bite him in half. His puckish laughter echoed inside the woman’s head, defying her once more.

Finally, the mistress of the house had had enough. She had endured months of mockery, complaints, jeering pranks, and a general lack of gratitude from her husband’s miniature apprentice. Hoping to rid herself of the tiny pest forever, she tilted back her head to swallow him in a single, decisive gulp. She would think up a story to tell her husband once the horrid little imp was in her belly where he belonged. That was all that such an insignificant little creature was good for. And after all, food was scarce in the troubled Saxon lands.

Thumbling slid down the slippery surface of the woman’s tongue as it lifted, plummeting towards the black depths of her gullet. He grabbed hold of a back tooth and dangled there over the yawning chasm.

Still he mocked her, even with certain doom at hand. “Are you sending me to my new quarters, mistress?” he called. “Most unaccommodating. It looks so dank and dark down there. Do you treat all your guests this way?”

“Why, you miserable little—” the woman mumbled through a mouthful of homunculus. She took hold of a wooden cup filled with water and lifted it towards her lips, intent on washing Thumbling down like a pill.

Thumbelina had seen enough and was by now in mid-flight with Tom being dragged behind her. The faerie princess launched herself at the lady’s face and the two little people desperately tried to pry open her mouth. The Saxon wench was completely startled by this and offered no resistance. As her lips slid open, Tom planted his feet on her lower teeth and pushed against her upper ones with his hands. He was soon supporting her jaw on his shoulders like mighty Atlas holding up the heavens. As he strained to hold this position, the princess dove inside to retrieve Thumbling.

The tiny winged girl flew into the giant mouth, nervously eying the strands of sticky saliva and rows of massive teeth on each side of her. She knew she had to move fast for with a mere flick of that quivering tongue, this irrational giantess might swallow both her and Thumbling alive. Quickly, she grabbed the little trickster and pulled him from the deadly cavern back into open air. Thumbling took a bewildered look at his savior and smiled.

 “Thanks for the assist, beautiful,” he said, planting a sloppy kiss on Thumbelina.

 The little woman’s eyes shot open in alarm and she pushed away this unwelcome advance. By mistake (at least that’s what she told herself later), she let go of Thumbling and let him fall. The wee man dropped like a stone and aimed for a safe landing. In seconds, he bounced onto his hostess’s shoulder and scrambled for cover down the back of her collar.

 The lady gave a bloodcurdling shriek as he tumbled down her back, which subsequently dislodged Tom from his perch on her molars. The tiny knight went flying from her face and was sent hurtling directly at Thumbelina, who had doubled back to try and save him. The two collided in mid-air and plunged into the stew pot with a splash.

 Meanwhile, the mistress continued caterwauling and shaking out her dress, trying to get Thumbling out. He tumbled down to the floor and quickly scrambled away from the jumping feet of the agitated woman before they could crush him utterly. Laughing hysterically, Thumbling climbed up the table leg and onto the side of the stew pot. He leaned over the edge and waved to the soaking wet figures below.

“You two are fun,” he said, as the lady of the house continued to shriek angrily in the background.

            A door burst open and the woman’s husband, the smith, came bursting into the room, clutching a large iron hammer. “Here now, what’s all the commotion?” roared the burly bearded Saxon. Huge muscles rippled on his bare arms as he searched the room for invaders.

            “Thumbling was saucy to me,” his wife declared. “He mocks me and takes advantage of our hospitality. And now he has brought his tiny verminous friends to eat us out of house and home!”

            “Excuse me?” Thumbling chuckled. “You were the one about to do the eating a few moments ago, you great ugly ogre!”

            “What did you call my wife?! Why, you ungrateful wretch!” the smith roared. “After all I’ve done for you!” He swung his hammer in Thumbling’s direction but the little man leaped gracefully away.

            “Out!” the woman bellowed. She grabbed a rolling pin and began brandishing it like a club. “I want all of you little monsters out of my home!”

Furiously, she struck the pot with a crushing blow. Though rattled by the vibration, Thumbelina grabbed Tom by the collar and flew them out of the stew. The mistress and her husband chased the three of them across the tabletop, slamming the rolling pin and hammer down here and there for emphasis. The wooden surface splintered and broken objects scattered about the room but the duo narrowly missed their tiny targets.

“You heard me!” the wife screeched. “Get out of here now before I gobble up the lot of you for supper!”

“Hold still so I can squash you!” the smith added, making another futile swing with his hammer.

“Not a very good incentive to hold still then,” Thumbelina answered as she buzzed about his head. Tom held fast to her hand and tried not to look down.

“Come and get us, ya big bullies!” Thumbling called back. He spun around and wiggled his fingers beside his head, sticking out his tongue at the couple.

The mistress gave one final scream and flung the rolling pin across the room at him. Thumbelina swooped down and carried off her two companions as the pin struck the table and bounced away.

* * * *

Elsewhere, Merlin sat pensively in a candle-lit longhall, face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered Saxon chief. Around his neck, the magician wore a large pendant gem that served as the source for the smaller models worn by his tiny charges. Through its power, Merlin understood every word that was spoken by his host. They had been conversing for some time and with every passing moment, the enchanter liked the man less and less.

“Tell me again why my people should stay away from your island, old man,” the chieftain asked. He took another swig of mead, wiping the foam from his thick yellow beard with the back of his hand. “As I recall, we were invited there. Your old King Vortigern hired Saxons as mercenaries to fight his wars. My father’s fathers were promised lands and wealth for their services.”

“I remember,” Merlin said. “I was there.”

“Were you now?” laughed the Saxon lord. “That was two generations ago. Just how old are you, wizard?”

“That is immaterial, I assure you.”

“Then you will also remember that it was you British dogs who broke the agreement. My people did not receive their compensation.”

“Your people went wild and began pillaging the countryside after Vortigern’s death,” Merlin countered.

“Only because the new Bretwalda, your British lord, declared the pact dissolved and vowed to banish us from his land,” the chieftain sneered.

Merlin sighed, dreaming of old memories. Ah yes, Aurelius Ambrosius. A fine king he had been, if a bit too eager in his efforts to undo Vortigern’s mistakes. He could have been Britain’s savior if he’d lived but a poisoned wound had claimed Aurelius and his brother Uther inherited the throne. Uther was not half the man Aurelius had been, though Merlin had done his best to advise him as well. Now Uther too was gone and his son Arthur ruled. How many kings had Merlin seen come and go? How many had he failed? The magician hoped not to make the same errors with Arthur but his visions of the next few years were troubled.

The Saxon shook him from his reverie. “I ask again why we should stay away from Britain and our just reward.”

“King Arthur recognizes your grievances,” Merlin told him, “but the raiding and murder of British citizens must stop. We offer you peace terms and a trade agreement that could be beneficial to both our peoples.”

“It’s not trade we want, old grandfather. It’s land,” the chief insisted. “Britain is green and fertile. Good for farming and the raising of livestock, rich in precious ores and metals. Why should you British keep it all for youself? Why should we not take what we were promised and kill every last one of you?”

“If the violence continues, sirrah, we will be forced to return it in kind,” the wizard said darkly.

“Big talk from an old greybeard armed with only a stick.”

All around him, Merlin could sense the chieftain’s guards and soldiers gathering. Hands fingered sword hilts or reached for quivers of arrows. Tensions ran high. One word from their leader and Merlin’s life was forfeit. The druid breathed deeply and steeled himself, readying his magicks and preparing a defense. But the gods of his people from whom he drew strength were far away from here. He was alone, a sheep among wolves.

Not a sheep, he told himself. A ram with horns, ready to fight. He prayed that even here, where the voices of the Mother Goddess and the Sun-God were faint, he had power enough for such a task.

* * * *

The miniature trio was finally able to catch their breaths as they gathered at the river bank a safe distance from the cottage. Tom and Thumbelina took a good look at the new addition to their company. As his name suggested, Thumbling was indeed the same size as they were. He was clad in a dark green tunic and breeches, a pair of miniature boots, and had a close-cropped mop of dark, sandy brown hair that framed his usually grinning face. They explained who they were and what their mission was, then implored the little Saxon to detail his own origins.

            “Dunno,” he said. “My parents always wanted a son, even a really little one. They prayed each night to the gods and, well, here I am.”

            “So you think it was divine intervention?” Thumbelina asked.

            “Could be,” Thumbling shrugged. “They say that All-Father Woden has a wry sense of humor.”

Tom, a devout Christian, doubted this pagan notion at first. But he had always respected Merlin’s faith, even if their gods were not the same. And, in any case, such explanations were no less likely than anything else he’d seen in his adventures.

            “Had you ever wondered if there were others like you?” said Tom.

            “Not really,” Thumbling admitted. “I kinda liked being the only one. I got into all sorts of trouble—duping travelers and robbers, getting eaten or almost eaten by cows and wolves and foxes and such. And angry hostesses. Heh. But I always came out on top. Nobody’s as crafty as the Thumbling!”

            The princess gasped as a thought occurred to her. “Please tell me that beast back there in the cottage isn’t your mother!”

            “What, her?” Thumbling burst into laughter. “’Course not! I was apprenticing with her husband, trying to learn a trade. Guess that’s over with now though. My pa is a tailor so maybe I could fall back on the family business. Ooh, yeah…wouldn’t mind taking the measurements of some pretty wenches.”

            “You could come with us,” Tom suggested. “We’re seeking others of our kind.”

            “Heh, why not?” said Thumbling. “You seem like a nice bunch. And if there are more back home like you, doll…” He winked at Thumbelina and gave a low, suggestive growl in his throat. She merely scoffed in disgust.

            “I’m married,” she told him, daggers in her eyes.

            “Darn shame,” he said. “You’re missing out.”

            Before their conversation could continue, Merlin burst back out of the woods, staff in hand. The old man was running faster than anyone thought possible, hiking up his robe above his ankles.

            “To the barge, my friends!” he shouted. “At once!”

            “Is something wrong?” Tom called up to him.

            “Diplomatic relations did not progress as anticipated, Thomas,” the wizard said, climbing into the boat. A great clamor of voices could be heard within the forest behind him, as well as the tramping of many boots. The need for haste became all too clear.

            “I knew this was a bad idea!” Tom squeaked, as he and the others clambered up into the skiff. Feverishly, Merlin began rowing the barge into the river and stammered out the words to summon the mists.

“Bloody Saxons!” Tom spat.

            “Hey now,” Thumbling shot back. “Them’s fightin’ words, kid.”

“Merlin, can’t you use your magic?” called Tom, ignoring Thumbling’s remark.

            “I’m not sure if I could defeat them all. This land is foreign to me,” the enchanter explained. “Different gods, different magicks. It would take time for my abilities to adjust. Time we do not have!”

            Behind them, a large troop of Saxon warriors emerged into the clearing bearing swords, bows, spears, and battleaxes. They did not look happy. The Saxons bolted to the shore and began flinging spears and arrows at the little boat furiously. As a hail of weapons fell from the sky, Tom and the others took cover while Merlin increased the pace of the craft as best he could. Arrows sank into the side of the boat and the wood of the wizard’s staff as he lifted it to shield himself.

            “Take your devil-magic away from here, dog!” a warrior bellowed.

            “And tell your Bretwalda there will be no peace!” another shouted, derisively sneering at the Britons’ king.

An archer took aim with his longbow, letting loose an arrow that sped directly for Merlin’s head. Thumbelina buried her face in Tom’s shoulder, fearing the worst, but the wizard never lost his stoic calm. By now the mists had fully descended and the boat and its passengers were becoming incorporeal, vanishing into the space between worlds. The arrow passed directly between Merlin’s eyes harmlessly to plunge into the water of the river.

            Thumbling’s voice echoed through the misty void. “Wow, gang. You sure know how to show a fella a good time.”

To be continued...