“But you can also ‘tuck in’ to a meal, which means to sit down to eat it,” mused Nadi. “Though the riddle seems to indicate that the tucking in happens so whatever it is doesn’t get eaten.” She shook her head. “This is so confusing.”
“Well, if it was easy to solve, everyone could get into the mountain, right?” said the rock.
“Why don’t you want people to get into the mountain?” I asked. “I mean, what do you care if people want to go get barbecued by a dragon?”
“I don’t care at all,” said the rock. “In fact, I’d be delighted if you get what you want—you all seem nice. But, it’s not up to me—it’s up to whoever enchanted me.”
“If this enchantment is as old as we think it is,” said Whiska, “there’s no way the dragon lived in the mountain when it was enacted.”
“So, why did he, or she, or it—whoever created the enchantment, I mean—want to keep people out?” asked Nadi.
Whiska shrugged. “What do I look like, the Oracle at Vanataw?”
“Not really,” said Rummy. “You don’t have the head of a lion. And, well, let’s just say the vicinity around your décolletage isn’t quite as robustly proportioned.”
“If this enchantment predates the dragon, it means two things,” I said before Whiska, who looked on the verge of unleashing a tirade on Rummy, could respond. “One: there’s something in the mountain someone wants—or, at least, wanted—to protect. Two: there’s another way in and out, unless the dragon solves the riddle every time it comes and goes.”
“Does the dragon solve the riddle every time it comes and goes?” asked Rummy.
“I’ve never seen the dragon,” replied the rock.
“So, all we need to do is find the other way in!” I concluded (brilliantly).
“It’s possible that there’s another way in,” said Nadi slowly, thinking out loud, “but it’s also likely that the way the dragon goes in and out requires you to be able to fly.”
“Whiska—got any flying spells?” I asked.
“Go to Pemblach!” Whiska shouted before storming off, not that she could go too terribly far, given that the precipice we stood on wasn’t all that big. (It turns out that Whiska is particularly sensitive about the fact that she can’t cast flying spells, which, unbeknownst to me at that time, is a major limitation of Ratarian schools of magic. Apparently, the structure of Ratarian hands makes it almost impossible to form the particularly intricate gestures required to enact a flying spell—though I can tell you they work exceedingly well for non-magical gestures meant to suggest anatomically challenging acts. It’s rumored that one Ratarian mage, known by his stage name, The Great Tailini, once managed the feat…but, given that he was never seen again after that, it’s hard to say whether that’s true or simply a fanciful story meant to cover up the tainted cheese-related disappearance of yet another Ratarian wizard.)
(Pemblach, incidentally, is a town on the outskirts of the largest Ratarian kingdom that does not allow cheese to be made or served—what humans might call a “dry” town. Given cheese’s intoxicating effect on them, Ratarians really, really hate the place unless they belong to a particularly ascetic sect of Flomanism, which is the primary religion practiced by Ratarians (though not Whiska, who is such an atheist that she doesn’t even believe in atheism). I’m pretty indifferent about cheese as a general rule, so I’m not sure Whiska’s curse had the potent effect that she had hoped; she was really off her game today.)
“Well, then, I suppose we need to solve the riddle,” said Nadi.
“The Oracle at…Vanataw has the…head of an…eagle. Not…a lion,” said Borg.
“Ah, right!” said Rummy. “Thanks. I was thinking of the Oracle at Jargone.”
“Focus!” snapped Nadi.
“Sorry,” said Rummy. He squinted at the rock and rubbed his beard before turning toward me. “What do you think the ‘rest, not sleep’ part means? Is there anything that doesn’t need to sleep, but needs to rest?”
“There was this dwarven gigolo I used to know…” I started to reply before Nadi cut me off.
“Not helpful. Come on, think! We need to solve this.” She looked pointedly at me. “What rests but doesn’t sleep? There can’t be that many things. What about something that comes to rest? Like, something that moves, but then stops moving? Like…like a rolling stone.”
“I think you’re mixing your metaphors,” said Rummy. “But,” he hastily added in response to a death glare from Nadi, “maybe you’re onto something. It would have to be something that’s not alive if it doesn’t sleep. Unless it only doesn’t sleep during the one night in question in the riddle.” He shook his head and smiled. “This is a real humdinger, isn’t it?”
So it went for three straight days.
We attacked the riddle from every possible angle, but none of us could come up with a response we were confident enough to risk offering to the rock lest we lose our ability to enter the mountain for a year. (Borg suggested “grumpel,” which is apparently a rock giant delicacy made from live eels that don’t need to sleep, but none of us wanted to give that one a try—in any manner of speaking.) Just as I started to worry that Whiska might begin to electrocute various members of our party out of boredom and frustration, a small, high-pitched voice sang out, “Why are you trying to solve the riddle?”
I wouldn’t say I jumped in terror so much as I leapt into combat position. Everyone else jumped in terror. We spun around, weapons at the ready, to confront our foe, only to discover that the threat was…
A seven-year-old orc girl with a giant yellow flower woven into her hair and armed not with an elf-sticking dagger, but an empty basket.
The girl giggled. “You are good jumpers.”
“No,” I said (possibly huffily). “We’re good at instant combat positioning.”
“Oh,” said the girl, sounding unconvinced. I couldn’t help feeling that she seemed familiar somehow.
“Who are you?” asked Nadi as she looked around warily for other orcs.
“Etty Loo Betterken,” replied the girl. “Who are you?”
“That’s not important,” I said. “Well, no, that’s not true—it’s mostly not important. I’m Heloise the Bard.”
The girl shrugged. “Okay.”
“What’s more important,” I said, possibly through gritted teeth, “is whether there are any more of you.”
“Don’t worry—there’s only one Etty in our whole village.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I muttered perhaps too loudly. “There aren’t any grown-up orcs wandering around here with you? What are you doing here?”
“Adult orcs don’t go mushroom picking,” replied little Etty in her best know-it-all voice. “So why would they be with me?”
“That’s what you’re doing then?” interjected Rummy, clearly in an attempt to forestall what was going to be a curse-filled retort from yours truly. “Picking mushrooms?” He sounded genuinely curious.