Village Idiot - The Tale of Dentwit Dunghaul

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- Prologue -
Names

Every village has its idiot, and in the village of Foulthrush there was no dispute that its was Dentwit Dunghaul.

Two day's journey southwest in the village of Moldstew, some, mostly those on the east side of the common square, would claim their village idiot to be Bartas Frittersby, while other good folks in the west side would tell you it's Pim "Piss-eyes" Pordurt. And not far from there, just over Tawdy's Bluff, left of the sunrise in Tallspouts, there are no less than a half-dozen individuals upon whom the title rests depending on who you ask, or upon who was last to be found babbling in the hogs' pen without his trousers.

But one would find no debate whatsoever in Foulthrush. Dentwit Dunghaul was the village idiot unanimously. This might be partially accounted to the fact that Foulthrush was a great deal smaller than most of the towns surrounding it. Nevertheless, the unfortunate truth was that poor Dentwit was simply a man of misplaced mind, clumsy in body and brain, forever with all well-meant sincerity toiling through one hapless blunder after another, and his fellow townsfolk had no qualms touting him as such.

This is not to say that the citizenry of Foulthrush bore ill will toward Dentwit, at least no more or less than they did toward any other of their neighbors. Though Dentwit was often the target of juvenile mockery and cruel public humor, never was he an object of disdain. Quite the contrary, on any rare occasion it seemed judicious to a villager of Foulthrush to commit some act of charity, Dentwit was always the most likely recipient. Thus the people of Foulthrush, being quite a morally miserable lot, were thankful to have Dentwit handy for their paltry displays of goodwill.

It was through such acts of conscience-gratifying generosity that Dentwit came to acquire a shovel and a wheelbarrow. These were his most prized possessions, being in practicality, aside from the clothes he wore, his only possessions. He had also been given a pair of boots, but they were much too small even for his unobtrusive feet and he only wore them when the need to do so exceeded his dislike for how they squeezed his feet and caused him to walk more awkwardly than usual.

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Dentwit truly treasured his wheelbarrow and shovel, because thanks to them he had a profession. Foulthrush was home to a bevy of livestock and was never lacking in the production of manure. The owners of the stables and barns were kind enough to allow Dentwit with his faithful shovel to scoop the manure from their facilities and haul it with his trusty wheelbarrow out to the workers in the pastures or to one of the dungheaps on the outskirts of the village. Dentwit took to the task eagerly and with pride. It was a simple labor befitting him perfectly, and he was overjoyed to be a contributing member of the community.

In the beginning there were a few accidents and missteps on Dentwit's part but, aside from one incident involving a newly-built water cart, none were too costly, and within a short time Dentwit prided himself as quite proficient in his duties. He discovered how to hold and thrust his shovel properly to lessen the risk of blisters and backaches. He accustomed himself to the the delicate balance and steering of the wheelbarrow. He never had a mind to show off, but he did like to think that his fellow villagers could only regard him as the best manure shoveling wheelbarrow driver they had ever seen. As for the villagers themselves, they did take at least a moment to consider Dentwit's newfound skill and for it christened him "Dunghaul." Whether the name was meant for ridicule never seemed to concern Dentwit. Having never had a second name due to his orphanhood, he accepted it as his own.

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"I would like to name something," Dentwit thought aloud to himself one morning as he set off to begin his duties. "I don't think that's something I've ever done. I wonder if I could do it."

He arrived at the cheesemaker's cowshed and bid a good morning to the portly young maiden milking the brown-spotted heifer they called Blossom. She responded with no more than a nettled glance.

"If you don't mind my asking, ma'am, how did you name that one Blossom?" asked Dentwit.

"What?" came a sharp reply from the other side of the cow. Dentwit raised his voice in case he had not been heard over the drumming of Blossom's milk against the sides of its pail.

"How did you name that cow Blossom? What was the trick to it? You see, I would like to name something but I don't really know how to go about it."

The drumming stopped for a moment and the maiden's face peeked out from behind the cow's hindquarters to where Dentwit could see her bemused smirk. "Sorry," she said, "but I didn't name this cow."

With that she went straight back to her milking, more hastily and louder than before, and Dentwit knew it was time for him to begin his own work. But still his mind was occupied with what a thrill it might be to name something of his own. He tossed his troublesome boots from inside the wheelbarrow and lifted out his shovel.

"It doesn't seem like it should be too hard, naming a thing," he thought aloud to himself. "They named me Dunghaul because I haul the dung around the village. That makes sense." He delved into a dry heap for his morning's first shovelful, and that's when it occurred to him.

"Well now, bless me head to haunches," he exclaimed. "I would never be hauling dung if it weren't for this fine shovel, and then I'd still be just plain ol' Dentwit! I say it ain't one bit fair that I should be blessed with a proud new name while this here just goes on being called 'shovel.' So," he held the scoop of the shovel up to face him and pointed a sportive finger at the dull worn head, "you're what I'm going to name! And right now, too!"

The milkmaid had ceased her work to eavesdrop, secretly tittering at what she heard. Now there was silence for many moments, so she inquisitively leaned herself to one side of her milking stool to peek around Blossom's backside to where Dentwit stood. And there he was transfixed, motionless, holding his shovel upright in front of him, staring at it face to scoop, with an intent but altogether vacuous expression. She expected him to stir or speak at any second, but he did not, and she herself became frozen in an agog stare.

"Nebra!" came a shrill call from the window near the house. The maid jolted, as did Dentwit and Blossom, and she scrambled to assure the milk pail did not tip at the hoof of the startled heifer. "Quit your daydreaming," scolded the cheesemaker's wife. "And you, Dunghauler! My boys will be bringing the bales in soon and they will not want you in the way."

The maiden gathered up the milk pail and lead Blossom out by her rope as the master's wife followed to berate her further on matters of idleness and the stoutness of her hips. Dentwit looked again at his shovel and pondered all the harder what a fitting name for it might be. "This is not as easy as I had hoped," he avowed as he set his body back to work. "I wonder if naming a shovel is easier or harder than naming a cow. Or naming a person. Gnats, I bet that must be quite a skuller! But then again, I suppose with a person, if you can't think of a good name for a very long time, they'll sooner just tell you what they'd like to be called. How about you, shovel? What would you like to be called?"

At this he delved the shovel again into the dry patch and heard an unmistakable "chrook" as its reply.

"Well bless me, that's it then!" beamed Dentwit. "Your name is Chrook! And a dandy fine name it is, I say."

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The conversing with Chrook continued as Dentwit worked his way through the stalls of the cowshed. Now that his shovel had a name it was much easier to talk to. So Dentwit praised Chrook for his hard work, discussed the previous season's impressive barley crop, voiced his dissatisfaction with his boots, and argued that it was still another day until time for his next wash.

Amid the chitchat his work went by quickly, but as Dentwit deposited his last shovelful of dung into his wheelbarrow he became suddenly aware of a horrendous oversight. All this time and he had not once thought of the wheelbarrow. Being Chrook's essential companion, was it not also worthy of a name?

"Gnats," whispered Dentwit. He had relished the task of naming Chrook, but the idea of naming the wheelbarrow seemed all too arduous.

About that time the cheesemaker's sons arrived and Dentwit moved on to his next station. The rest of that day was spent in awkward silence around the wheelbarrow, and Dentwit only spoke to Chrook in hushed tones for fear that the wheelbarrow might grow resentful.

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By the day's end, however, Dentwit had worked himself to such exhaustion that he forgot to care any further about the wheelbarrow's feelings. He sheltered in the last place he had worked that day, as was his allowed custom, this night being at Clom Martuck's stable. He arranged a bed of loose hay within the wheelbarrow and laid down upon it, face up, gazing lazily past heavy eyelids into the shapeless shadows suspended beneath the rafters above. The still of the breezeless night surrounding him and the lullaby of crickets soothed him into slumber, and just before his first snore sounded his exit from consciousness, Dentwit remembered to wish a good night to Chrook, resting faithfully at his side.

Many more days and nights like this passed without much variation. It could be said that Dentwit's life was not much different from his mind: simple, rarely eventful, and without much scope beyond its present task.

It could be said, however, for only so long.

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- CHAPTER 1 -

Momentous days do not necessarily begin as such, but Dentwit Dunghaul might have guessed this day would be one of note had he such a mind to consider how peculiarly it began.

The coarse squawking of a chicken woke him suddenly just after sunrise. Startled but still half asleep, Dentwit gazed about lazily from his bed inside his wheelbarrow (which by now he had settled upon simply calling Wheelbarrow) as the fog of sleep before his eyes slowly cleared. The cries of the chicken continued, adding even more difficulty than usual to the task of Dentwit's brain realizing where he was and what was happening.

Soon enough things became mostly clear to him. He was in Braddock Mowler's tool shed. His charge first thing this morning was the pigpens, which would load him enough to take to the nearest dungheap without another stop. And being how this was the northeast corner of town, t'would be a good day to visit the Beldam's cottage for a much-needed wash.

Dentwit smiled a greeting to the morning in his usual good-natured way now that his immediate world was more lucid to him... But he frowned again at the feeling that there was still something confusing him. A moment passed before Dentwit realized that there were still the cackles of a very agitated chicken upsetting the otherwise peaceful dawn. Yet by now the squawks had escalated to very piercing and off-putting shrieks, and now to even more disturbing screeches.

"Mr. Mowler doesn't keep chickens," said Dentwit to himself. He sat up inside Wheelbarrow and turned to see what was the meaning of all this racket going on behind him.

Near the corner farthest from where Dentwit sat peering over his shoulder was a window, and upon the sill of the window was perched the most majestic falcon Dentwit had ever seen. The massive bird nearly filled the window's entire opening and only the slightest trickles of light leaked in past its imposing frame. With one claw it stood fixed upon the timbered sill, it's wings unfurled only a fraction of their span to balance it as, in the other claw, it grasped a very fat and unfortunate hen.

The hen, still very alive in the deadly clutch of its foe, flapped and shrilled and fought with all its remaining strength, but to no avail. The falcon's victory and ensuing breakfast where assured. But still the ill-fated chicken did not relent its struggle, nor did the falcon move to deal its final blow. The predator seemed to be waiting in patient tolerance of its prey, as a prudent schoolmarm might indulge a pupil's tantrum but pay it no mind before continuing on with the day's lesson.

Then in a moment when the hen quieted slightly for a mere instant, the falcon thrust its beak in two swift jabs and relieved its catch of both eyes and a decent portion of its brain. The hen immediately took again to its fretting with renewed vigor born of greater confusion, it's cries now a deafening trill. Just as immediate but much more surprising, the falcon released its grasp and the chicken fluttered in a jagged loop to the shed's hard-packed floor.

Dentwit watched with repellence as the blinded chicken ran chaotic laps throughout the tiny room, slamming headlong into every wall and obstacle at breakneck speed but never slowing its maniacal dash in all directions, all the while screeching warbles like the screams of a stunned lunatic. Dentwit wrenched his eyes away for a split second to glance at the falcon. Had the beast done this for its own entertainment? Dentwit expected so, but was taken aback to notice the falcon was paying no attention whatsoever to the clamorous plight of its victim. Instead the falcon was staring, very intently, straight at Dentwit.

The chicken collided with Wheelbarrow, and atop the wheelbarrow Dentwit lurched in fright. He and Wheelbarrow toppled over. Dentwit landed on his side and rolled onto his back just as the chicken sprinted across his chest and nearly onto his face. Dentwit flailed and screamed in terror and disgust, quickly finding his way to his feet and somehow managing to grab his shovel, Chrook, in the process. He spotted the haphazard hen as it was nearly upon him again, and with one well-aimed thrust of Chrook he half-scooped, half-batted the chicken into the air, propelling it across the room, directly at the falcon.

With the grace of a Sowerstide wind yet the reflexes of lightning, the falcon caught the hen in its beak and severed the head with the aid of its talons. Blood spurted and poured as the hen's body continued to thrash and spasm in the falcon's grip, but it was enough that the tumultuous din had immediately diminished to only the beating of small feathered wings and the heavy breathing of a startled young man.

Once again the falcon was staring intently at Dentwit. Out from between its furrowed feathery brow and the nibbed jaws holding its latest sport peered two yellow-rimmed black beads. A faint shine, like an unflickering torch at the bottom of the earth's deepest well, was all that gave surface or shape to those inky dots, and Dentwit, even in his limited understanding, somehow knew that those eyes had something to do with death. The falcon's claws and beak where sinister and sharp for rending, but it was in the eyes where mortal doom truly lurked.

Dentwit held the raptor's stare for a long while. He didn't know it, but there were very few other men alive at the time who could have matched that gaze as long as he did. The falcon knew it however, and for this it glared all the more intently. Ultimately Dentwit felt a chill and gave a shiver. At that the falcon turned away, lighted from the window and took to the sky.