Garvol the Green

His strong hands are short fingered, stubby and square at the knuckles, and more palm than finger. His whole body is built much along the same lines: short legs and arms, a compact frame, every cubic inch densely packed with muscle. His dwarven body is perfectly constructed for the life of labor his people live. In fact, he could easily squeeze the life out of the small kitten he cups in his hands simply by closing them. But his hands are not the hard, calloused and eternally dirt stained hands of his fellow clansmen. His hands are clean and soft palmed and gentle as they carefully cradle the small animal angrily mewling about with its eyes squished shut, oblivious to the nourishment Garvol is offering in the unfamiliar form of a glass dropper.

"Come now. This is it. It was good enough for your brothers, and there they are, curled up in a warm basket with full bellies while you are out here in the cold with pains in your stomach. There is no good sense to obstinance for obstinance sake." And in a gruff whisper as the tiny white kitten finally accepts the milk, "There's a girl. Now isn't that good? It's not the best, but it's what we have and soon enough you'll replace it with those blasted rodents that come in here and eat holes through all my books, won't you? Yes, I think you are going to be a good hunter."

There is heavy pounding at the thick wooden door quickly followed by a booming voice, "Garvol? Are you in there?" There is more insistent pounding which ceases simply because Garvol pulls the door open and moves it out of the reach of the hammering fist.

"Lindol! Come in?" Garvol pulls the door wider to accommodate the sturdy dwarf, and stands to the side in silent invitation.

"Oh, I can't, Garv. I am here to fetch you to the field. There's a problem with the --"

"Mew!"

Both sets of eyes move to the tiny wriggling form pressed into the rough brown sweater covering Garvol's broad chest.

"Oooh, I don't think he likes that, Garv."

"She."

"What?" The dark eyes flash back up to Garvol's pale gaze at the correction.

"She's a she. And what she doesn't like is having her breakfast interrupted."

"Well, what are you doing feeding it breakfast? You are not exactly equipped with the proper mechanisms for feeding baby cats."

Garvol brandishes the dropper with a flourish before he turns and sets it on the rough wooden table that serves as his desk as well as his dining table. The dark eyes follow Garvol as he makes his way to the large basket full of sleeping kittens and ever so gently deposits the squirming white one in with her grey brothers. Inevitably, her agitated movements rouse her littermates to a chorus of tiny mews and the whole basket writhes in demand of another feeding.

"Well, the mother better finish up with whatever has taken her away and get back here. Who would expect such small critters could make such a racket?"

"She won't be coming back."

"Who won't? Oh, the mother? Why not?"

"This is Krilla's litter and she died bringing them into the world." Garvol reaches down to pick the white kitten up again. He holds it in front of his kind face as he remembers a motherless kitten from years past who needed him in the beginning as much as this one needs him now; they are loving memories of a stubborn, white kitten who grew into a grand mouser and helped preserve the integrity of her master's books.

"Krilla was that big white mouser of yours? What a shame. Well, at least you have a replacement so you won't be overrun with these blasted mice. But what are you doing keeping the basket of the rest of them in the house? The incinerating is going on at the heap right now. And that means you are going to have to put up with this blasted noise for another day." Lindol jerks Garvol out of his bittersweet thoughts with this abrupt observation, an observation which might be considered minimally as unfeeling or maximally as completely diabolical by anyone other than a dwarf.

"Yes, Lindol. I will put up with this noisy bunch for the next two cycles. They will not be going into the incinerator."

"But they'll starve! It is much better to end it quickly than to drag it out for weeks." Dwarves may be helpless when it comes to nurturing anything other than their own offspring, but they are not a cruel people. They are all pragmatic and built for survival , and they focus their energies as a community on the tasks at hand to keep the city running as it should. Well, all of them except Garvol. He has untraditional pale hair and eyes, almost delicate skin, and the fact that he uses his uncanny knack of caring for all living things is just as untraditional. Garvol Greyson is an altogether different sort, inside and out.

"It is even better for me to feed them in the absence of their mother and see them all grow into happy mousers. Less death down that path. Well, unless you're a mouse stealing my bread or gnawing on my books!" Garvol returns to the table to refill the long glass dropper with his homemade concoction of kitten food.

"You can't be meaning to feed them again? Not when the mare is foaling?"

"Mist is foaling? Why didn't you say so?"

The easygoing dwarf picks his feet up a bit more rapidly and his grey eyes glow a bit in excitement. "Belinda? Belinda! I am going out and I need your help. Belinda?" He makes his way to the only other room in the house--the kitchen-- and peers around the doorjamb. "Belinda? There will be a fine dinner for you when I return. Chicken! Fish? Belinda?"

Another grey cat, this one fully grown and rather large, arches its back and yawns sleepily as it curls from under the trunk where it was hiding from the loud cries coming out of the basket.

"Garvol, how many cats do you have in this place?" Lindol's voice is full of reproach.

Garvol turns in time to see the grey cat trying to slink under the trunk once more. "Belinda, it will only be for a short time. Please, all you have to do is keep them in the basket until I return...with your fish."

The cat lazily approaches the basket and lays her ears back as the cries intensify. She sits down and flicks her tail against the rug and her eyes seem to tell him that it is going to cost him far more than one fish dinner.

"Fine. Chicken, too then. Just keep them safe and warm until I can take over."

"Garvol Greyson! Who in the world are you talking to? And who is Belinda? You surely are not talking to that cat!"

Shrugging into his heavier jacket and wrapping a dull woolen scarf around his neck, Garvol merely looks into Lindol's hearty brown eyes.

"Oh, Garvol. What is it with you? First keeping motherless kittens to feed for days on end and now talking to a cat?"

"Orphans."

"What?"

"They are orphans. As much so as any of the younglings found in Mother Mirga's shelter."

"I suppose then, that this Belinda cat is the proud aunt?"

"Half sister, actually. And very much more reluctant than proud. If you recall, I had to seduce her to the task with the promise of a fine dinner."

"Half sister? Bribery! Garvol Greyson, I believe you might be mad." And on that note, the mud splattered dwarf twirls and stomps out the door, her long reddish braid swinging in agitation.

"I believe I might just agree with that deduction...if I didn't know better." This is whispered through generous lips shaped into a wry grin. Garvol scurries after Lindol. He also knows better than to dawdle.



* * *


The cat sits, licking her paws and Garvol can hear her purring contentedly from his spot at his desk. He shifts with the sleeping kitten, reaching to deposit her again on top of her brothers. This time, there is no wiggling and crying to wake up the entire basket. Belinda stops purring and cleaning herself long enough to eye the basket warily.

"Never fear, Belinda. I have the night watch. You were wonderful for helping out today, and now you should rest."

The cat moves in to curve her sleek grey body around the dwarf's stout leg, hoping for a scratch behind her ear.

"There, is that the spot?" Garvol absently reaches down to scratch in precisely the spot the cat was hoping for.

"Mrrrrow." Belinda arches her head into his capable hand.

"Of course it wasn't so bad. They are only babies, after all. And you performed wonderfully. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't agreed to help."

Both jump as there is more pounding on Garvol's door.

"Garvol? Are you in there?" More pounding and more bellowing bring the tired dwarf to his feet.

"I wonder what it is this time, eh, Belinda? This late at night it is most likely the sickly Jurgen boy. Or I suppose it could be the old mule foaling early at the Porten's farm."

Once again the abuse of his door stops merely because Garvol removes the bruised surface away from the assaulting fist.

"Garvol, it's the Portens. They sent me to fetch you."

"Hello, Burtrand. The mule is early?" And at the youngling's nod, Garvol again opens his door wider and stands aside to allow the messenger to wait indoors while he wraps his soggy scarf around his neck and tucks it inside his even soggier brown jacket.

On his way out the door, he remembers the basket of orphaned kittens. Belinda is sitting in front of the fire still licking at her paws. Her green, feline eyes look into his grey, dwarven ones. The cat seems to sigh and roll her gaze to the rafters.

"The Portens run a dairy farm. And I am sure they would be willing to part with a carafe of cream for my services." One blonde eyebrow arches in question.

"I am sure they would, Garvol, if you asked them."

Garvol crams his limp hat on his head and looks over his shoulder as he follows Bertrand out the door. "But of course they will." Winking at the cat he quietly shuts the heavy door and once again tromps into a world blanketed in hip deep snow.