Curesoon gazed out at the lake and sighed.

“I wish I knew who made that little bridge near your home,” the bard reflected aloud.

“You do,” the little man answered under his breath with a slight hint of pride.

Oblivious, Curesoon replied, “I do?!? Who made it then?”

Tippleglee scowled. “Aren’t you dull?!?”

Finally picking up on what the little man was implying, the bard asked with obvious disbelief, “Wait! You made it?”

“And why not?!?” the little man growled with contempt, for he took the sound of doubt in Curesoon’s voice as an insult.

The bard eyed Tippleglee with a look of contemplation. “Well, it that’s the case, do you think you could build us a sturdy little boat to carry us across the lake?”

“If that’s the case!” Tippleglee echoed with growing rage. “Do I think I can?!?”

The little man’s face grew as red as the pointed biggin upon his head. With an angry yank, he snatched the wine-colored cap off exposing, for the first time in Curesoon’s viewing, his bald head and his two large pointed ears.

Unlike the dark reddish-tan skin of his face and hands, his naked scalp was bright white, for it never saw the sun. A half-circle of curling gray hair bordered his bald head and hung down to his thin shoulders.

The little man gestured angrily at his pointed ears. “I’m a Gnome,” he exploded. “And there’s naught that my race can’t fashion from wood, so long as there’s some to be had!”

Curesoon’s mouth fell open forming an expression of complete and utter amazement. He had never seen the little old man without his pointed biggin, and so he had no idea that Tippleglee was anything other than a very small Common-man.

The Gnome returned Curesoon’s stunned gape with a searing glare and then replaced his cap without bothering to hide his pointed ears again.

Still enraged, Tippleglee slung off his pack and began to rummage through its contents. He brought forth all manner of wood working tools from his bag making it seem as though it had no bottom. With a small ax selected, he strolled back into the forest the same way they had come.

“I didn’t mean to offend.” Curesoon called after the grumpy little man as he followed him. “How was I to know you’re a Gnome – I knew nothing of Trolls only a few days ago! I suppose you’ll be telling me that Goblins are still in the world too!” he added under his breath.

“They are,” Tippleglee replied without looking at the other man and then tapped the head of his ax upon the trunk of a tree.

“Wait!” the bard almost shouted. “What?!?”

Purposefully ignoring him, Tippleglee went to another tree and knocked on it too while surveying the forest.

“Trolls, Gnomes, and Goblins?!?” Curesoon exclaimed. “What’s next?!?”

Still not answering, Tippleglee tapped yet another tree with his ax.

As was often the case with the bard, he was suddenly distracted from his bewilderment. Looking back toward the lake, he asked with a perplexed tone, “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to use the trees closer to the shore?”

Again, the Gnome didn’t answer.

Leaning against an oak, Curesoon asked irritably, “So what’s wrong with this tree?” He did not much like being ignored.

Wordlessly, Tippleglee came over and inspected the oak upon which the bard leaned and then gaped at him with an expression of horror mixed with disgust.

“Cut down a living tree? Do you know what she’d say if ever she found out I did any such thing?” the Gnome growled.

“Who?” Curesoon replied completely confused. Sometimes, he felt like the old man spoke an entirely different language.

Tippleglee eyed him for a moment and then barked, “No living trees!”

After a few minutes, Tippleglee finally located a tree in which there was no longer life, and yet, it was free of rot. Thus, with what almost looked like a smile, the little man went to work, and it was not long before the tree was felled, and a thin plank was harvested.

Giving up on getting answers from the Gnome, Curesoon made multiple trips to the shore carrying the lumber produced by Tippleglee. He piled the worked wood into a tidy stack, and between these trips, the bard made ready their camp by starting a fire and cooking a small dinner. He was forced to leave meat out of the stew he was preparing because he had none.

It was well after dusk when Tippleglee finally strolled into camp. The smell of food cooking was a welcomed aroma to his long Gnomish nose. Though he sat down with a tired slump, there was a contented expression upon his aged face, for Gnomes loved to work with wood.

“There’s no meat in it.” The bard mumbled to Tippleglee as he handed him a bowl of the vegetable stew. “Though I’m not unskilled with the bow, it does me little good. I’ve never been able to bring myself to kill anything I have ever hunted.”

The Gnome offered a grunt of thanks and began to eat without further comment.

When his stew was gone, Tippleglee sat back with a satisfied sigh, took out his pipe, and lit it with a stick from the fire. As his pipe’s sweet aroma filled the air, the Gnome almost seemed happy.

“I’m as tired as a Troll who’s spent all his fury,” Tippleglee grumbled, but even this sounded far less grumpy.

This was the best mood Curesoon had ever seen him in.

“But how work makes me thirsty!” the little man exclaimed and then turned to search through his pack. After a second, he retrieved the same round beautifully carved wooden flask. Unscrewing its matching cap, he took a long swallow and then sat quietly for a while.

This time, Curesoon smelled the fermented vapors from the Gnome’s strong drink, and it was not an aroma he cared for, though he said nothing.

After a few more full gulps, the little man began to smile slightly. Raising his gray bushy eyebrows in a questioning expression, he offered the bard a sip by tilting the flask toward the other man.

“Though unworthy, I am a knight of the Fellowship.” Curesoon explained. “And for this cause, I am not permitted to drink any fermented beverages.”

“Aye, like old Beset. He never had a nip either, though I guess it would have cured what ailed him.” The Gnome chuckled – a thing Curesoon had never heard him do before – and then commented dryly, “‘Tis your loss, sir knight, and my gain!” He took another large swallow from his flask.

Ignoring the remark, Curesoon sighed miserably. “How I miss my poor lute!” he complained. “It’s times like this that a little music always helps me relax.”

“You want music?” the old Gnome snorted and wave dismissably with his thin bony hand. “I can play you some wonderful music!”

With that, Tippleglee rummaged through his bag yet again, but this time, he brought out a beautiful little fiddle. There was a grapevine leaf carved upon its reddish-wooden face just like the one that decorated the stain glass window of his front door.

“Did you make that too?” Curesoon asked with a curious smile.

“I’m a Gnome, and there’s naught that we can’t make from wood!”

“Yeah, yeah!” the bard laughed and gestured for his friend to calm down.

Stumbling to his feet, Tippleglee began to play the most beautiful music. It was sad and sweet like some lovers’ parting kiss.

Curesoon looked amazed. He was beginning to realize that there were many things about this little man that he did not know.

“What other secrets hide behind his grumpy expression?” the bard pondered for a moment.

Shrugging the question away, Curesoon sat back and enjoyed the music.

Tippleglee played the lovely melody for over an hour, and as his song floated out across the still lake, tiny pointed ears twitched in the darkness. Faintly glowing golden eyes turned to watch him. Little noses sniffed the night air.