Now, you were born in the good times. The Metiano you know are artists and craftsman, smiths and artisans. They sing their songs, tell their tales and work for themselves, setting standards far higher than any from the outside world. These are the Metianoj you grew up with - creators of the strong and beautiful, creators who toil beneath the earth to suit themselves.

But sometimes the mines play out. The hills give no silver, no gold, no iron, no copper, no tin. Times grow hard and evil when the mountains grow barren, and with families to feed, even the best and proudest Craftsman may stoop to work with the Hoarding Sidha. Then the Metianoj, powerful creators of the strong and the beautiful, the Metianoj become the lowest and most abused of servants.

Thus it was for Ginden. Put to hard times, he took hard work, contracting with the Sidha for a year and a day. Those days drug by, an endless string of hard, crude, nasty and dangerous tasks, jobs meant to break the back and the spirit. For the Hoarding Sidha saw their wealth as a way of owning not things, but the people who needed things. They delighted not only in getting the most work during the year and a day, but testing the limits of their hirelings.

The sun was sliding down the sky to set on the last day of Ginden's wage slavery to his master, a thin, knobby Sidha who called himself Dark Moon Dancing. Ginden ached from his months of hard work, bad food, harsh quarters. It had been a silent year. He had not uttered a word since starting his time, and Dark Moon Dancing wanted a sound, a grunt, a moan from the silent Craftsman. With only an afternoon till freedom, Dark Moon Dancing told Ginden to help with the gardening - to move an oak tree. From this spot - to, ohhh, let's see, to that spot.

Ginden moved the tree; there was enough left in him for that, but not much else. He uprooted the tree, bore the giant oak on his back, and replanted it in just the spot he'd been told. By sundown he'd finished. Then he slowly shuffled to the table where Dark Moon Dancing sat watching. Still in silence, the Metiano stretched out his right hand for his wages, his left hand clenched tightly at his side.

"Well done," sneered Dark Moon Dancing. He dropped the bag of coin onto the callused, outstretched palm. "So well, in fact, that you should consider taking another year's service. My gifts would be most generous."

Stiff, tired and silent, Ginden turned his back without answer and walked toward the sundown, toward the mountain home where he'd left his Missus, Sacer, and his infant son, Rol pen Ginden.

But even for the Craftsmen there are limits, and Ginden had reached his. Reached it and passed it. Dawn broke on the first day of his new freedom, and Ginden had not reached home. At first light, sleepless Sacer took Rol in her arms and went in search of Ginden. She found him on the path, halfway up the mountain, face down on the trail. He'd nearly made it on his own, and it was short work for his friends to carry him the rest of the way. When he woke on his first day home, he knew he would never rise from his bed. He waved Sacer to his side, and for the first time, unclenched his hands. In his right lay the bag of coins, pitiful return for a Craftsman's life; in his left, nearly lost in the crease of his palm was an acorn, tiny, compacted and nearly crushed. He'd taken it from the oak, the one he'd moved his last day.

"Sacer," he whispered, hoarding his strength so he finished his message while life was left to him, "take them. Take the coins and live. Take the acorn and make it live. Care for it, grow it to a powerful oak. Let Rol test himself against it, and when he can uproot it, tell him about me. Show him the things I made and tell why I will no longer make them."

And before the day was done, the Vjord had taken Ginden to our ancestors.

Time and life passed for all. Within a year of Ginden's death, the Metianoj struck a new vein of silver, pure and thick with metal and promise. The forges again were hot, the hammers large and small rang and pinged in the mines and huts, and none of the quietly proud Metiano artists were burdened with service to Dark Moon Dancing or his Sidha ilk.

The Craftsmen take care of their own, and with Ginden gone, the rest of the mountain village helped rear Rol. He grew strong, as befits a Metiano lad, and learned as much of the ways of the craft as he could.

And all the while the oak tree grew, faster and stronger than any the village had seen. Its branches stretched broader, its leaves shimmered brighter, its shade spread expansive, and each fall whole blizzards of acorns snowed to the ground. It was an oak like no other, Ginden's Oak.

And each autumn, after the nests were empty of that year's birds, after the squirrels had finished their harvest, after the land about was ankle-deep, knee-deep, hip-deep in oak leaves, Sacer and Rol would wade through them to the oak, Ginden's Oak, and Rol would try to push it over. He would try, he would groan, he would sweat. As he grew older and more Craftsmen-stubborn, he would try longer each time. But he was a boy, and though a Metiano boy is something to behold, he was a boy nonetheless. And the tree stood.

"Sorry, Mother," he'd say with a different voice each autumn.

"Oh, don't you worry, Rol," petted his mother, feigning a little sadness, joyous inside that her son was still her boy. "Don't you worry. We'll try her again next fall, eh?" Then she'd drape an arm across his shoulders and back home they'd go.

"Step away, mother," Rol said quietly. "I'd not want to do you an injury by accident. Where should I take this?"

"Just set it back where it was," Sacer answered just as quietly. "Maybe it will grow again..."

The earth had cracked when the tree came up, and it rumbled when it came back down. Kicking the loosened soil from his boots, shaking bark chips from his waistcoat, Rol turned to his mother.

She'd never moved, never showed a fear. She was waist deep, now, in the leaves, and more were drifting slowly through the branches to land on her and the boy. 'No,' she thought, 'not the boy.'

"Rol," she said quietly, "I want to tell you about your father."

"You tell me what you want," Rol said, pushing falling leaves away from his face. "But tell me about you and him. I know about him and his work."

Sacer turned her better eye toward him and frowned with it. "How?"

He shrugged. "The other craftsmen. Do you think they'd keep quiet about Ginden the Craft? I've seen swords and maces and brooches and buckles he wrought. Shields no sword could cleave, silver filigree fine and light was lace. I know of Ginden the Craft. And Ginden the Drudge."

Sacer's frown grew harder. "Those busy tongues spoke of the time of his shame?"

"They did. They told of his year and a day, and of the oak he moved at the last. They told of the mean times that led him to it and the love of his family that drove him on. They told of Dark Moon Dancing and all his Hoarding kin. They talked of Ginden's shame, of the acorn, of Ginden's Oak. Don't be angry." Rol took a step through the leaf blizzard, a step closer to his mother. "They also spoke of Ginden's Widow and how hard it would be for her to tell all this to Ginden's Son. And how they would spare her the telling."

Sacer quivered with rage that her family and village had so meddled in her affairs. But she saw the truth in it, the concern and wisdom her friends had shown her. Slowly she unclenched her hands.

"And now," said Rol, brushing leaves from his mother's shoulders, "tell me the things they could not tell. Tell me about the Ginden they did not know, the one I'd have known growing up in his house."

Sacer silently nodded and turned toward the Metiano village. They were halfway home before her rage was replaced by memories, and long before she was talked out, she was tired. At dawn they slept, mother and son, and somewhere near, the more peaceful memory of Ginden the Craft.

Now, whether or no you know the story of Rol, you know what he did next. Same thing you or I or any Metiano of the Craft would. He spent the day visiting friends, slept soundly through the night, and the next morning left his village, hiking east for many days, to the land of Dark Moon Dancing and the Hoarding Sidha.

It was sundown when Rol arrived at the Dark Moon Dancing's compound, the time of their first supper of the evening, just after the closing of the main gate. Like Dark Moon Dancing himself, the walls around the castle were short but thick. They were carved with likeness of Dark Moon Dancing and his court, the images so skillfully made that Rol knew they had been done by other Metiano, Craftsmen down on their luck who had taken work as drudges in the Sidha compound.

"Hullo the gate," Rol shouted into the gathering gloom.

"What do you want?" came the answer from an unseen guard.

"In. Food. Work."

"Too late. Gates closed. Sunset-Supper already on. Everything closed for the day. Lord Dark Moon Dancing is sitting to table. Go away."

"Not good enough," Rol said to the guard and stepped up to the thick wooden door.

Rol kicked in the door of the dining hall, knocking the door loose, and threw in the three guards he had picked up since tearing the main gate off its hinges.

"Rol," said the young Craftsman. "In. Food. Work. Told this bunch the same thing, but they told not to go away."

"And?"

"And I thought that a bad idea. I've come a long way, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've come to find work."

"Work. Looks like maybe I should hire you as a guard."

"As you will, your worshipfulhood. What should I guard?"

"No, no. We will have no non-Sidha guards for our castle. If you wish to take service in our employ, you will work for the standard non-Sidha terms."

"And those terms?"

"You will be in our employ for a year and a day, or until I no longer desire your services, whichever shall be the sooner. Your title shall be Drudge and you shall be at our beck and call during the whole of the time, performing any service demanded. You shall do this without argument or complaint."

"And my reward."

"Your weight in purest, Metiano-mined gold."

"And the penalty if I fail or wish to break the contract?"

"Your head."

"Done! When do I begin."

"Tonight. Now. Take these three," he waved at the guards lying in the litter of the feast hall. "They will show you where you drudges stay. Then return them to their posts at the gate. Perhaps they can keep the castle's cats from wandering in and out all night. They can't seem to do much with two-legged travellers."

"Most gladly, your goodliness."

"It's been a long time since we have had a Metiano drudge in our employ. We may have many tasks for you. Perhaps a bit of landscaping." This brought a chuckle from around the tables. "Come see us in the morning."

"Most gladly, your royalhood." Scooping up the wriggling, cursing guards, he took their belts in one hand so he could carry them all, made a small salute with his other hand and strode cheerfully out of the hall.

"Besides," he told them, "I already have a job in mind." When he told them, they laughed, they cackled, they hooted and howled the way that only the greedy, grasping Hoarding Sidha will. And then they started the Supper-That Begins-at-Moonset.

"You interrupted our supper last night," Dark Moon Dancing told Rol the next morning. The Meitano had been summoned to appear in Dark Moon Dancing's throne room before all the court, who were still sleepy and stuffed from the Supper-Just-Before-Sunrise. "I believe you need to make amends. You will get us something we need for our special feast, the Supper-of-the-New-Moon."

The rest of the court mumbled and nodded, rubbing their bellies just thinking about having a special, larger supper.

"Certainly, you goodfulness," said Rol. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked from heel to toe. "What is it you need?"

"To make the special Supper-of-the-New-Moon stew, we need a special, overlarge cookpot. And since it is the finest of stews, it needs the finest of pots. Rol the Drudge, you shall bring me the golden cookpot of the Frayg the Woods Giant."

"Certainly, your brevarity." Rol gave a small wave of his hand, turned on his heel and started for the door.

"And -" Dark Moon Dancing called after him, slightly nervous since Rol had been so casual about it. "And, remind him that he owes us this year's tribute. Tell him just to fill the pot with gold coins and bring those along, too."

Rol did not slow or turn around. He waved one hand over his head to show he had heard and understood, then strode out the door.

Dark Moon Dancing sat in silence watching Rol's back shrink in the distance. His court sat in silence, also, until their master finally spoke.

"Who's for brunch, then?" he asked.

It turned out that all the court was up for a snack.

With a kick that knocked the door back off the hinges, Rol burst into the banquet hall again. On his back was an awful kicking, squalling, oinking, honking, cursing mound of creatures and things.

"Your highmindfulness," Rol shouted above the noise, "we have a small problem."

Fear froze Dark Moon Dancing in place, though many of his court found their feet quick enough. "What?" the Sidha finally managed to squeak.

"I found the Frayg fellow you spoke of, but he swears he does not know you. Further, he claims to have only one cookpot, and it a pitiful cast iron one. To top it off, he not only says he does not owe you tribute, he has no gold coin with which to pay you. Says he owns nothing but the boots on his feet and the metal in his teeth, and ain't none of it gold. So, just so we can straighten this all out, I brought him, his cook pot and all the farm animals I could find for tribute. I thought you could get your Sidha guards to watch him and you could work it out between you." With that, he dropped his burden in the floor, turned on his heel and left.

The mess and damage done in the banquet hall by the giant, his goat, his geese, his chickens, his dogs, cats, pigs and pigeons is beyond description. No one died, but many were bruised and battered and all had lost their appetites before Dark Moon Dancing let out a squall to bring in Rol.

"Sireful master?" Rol stepped briskly into the wrecked banquet hall.

"Get them out of here!" Dark Moon Dancing shouted from under a table.

Rol bowed to the cowering Sidha. "You holy-fulhood," he said, and turned to his task. In a few minutes he had shooed the giant and his angry barnyard animals out the door. "You can keep your fillings and your boots," he yelled to the giant. "But I'm keeping the cookpot. Dark Moon Dancing sent me for it, and I must do what he says."

Frayg roared and smashed up an outhouse in his anger. Then he realized his animals were running away, trampling the Sidha's gardens in the process. The last any of them saw of the giant, he was charging over a hill in pursuit of his ducks, leaving a mass of stomped cabbage and corn behind.

It turned out that Dark Moon Dancing did not really want the cookpot after all. Seems he already had one big enough (though it was not made of gold, either). Rol, who could not bear to see so much metal go to waste (and what good Metiano could) took the giant's cookpot to the compound forge. With the skills of the Craft and the eye of a Craftsman, Rol transformed the iron of the cookpot into the steel of a razor sharp sword. It was a working blade, keen of edge, clean of line and with the weight of a giant's stew pot. Not a Sidha lived who could lift it, so Rol kept it for himself.

Meanwhile, Dark Moon Dancing and his people cleaned up the mess, dressed their wounds, sulked at the interrupted meal, and planned a special trip for Rol's next task.

"Though we have the stewpot for the Supper of the New Moon, we do not have the meat we wish for that stew. At the horizon to the east you will find the Forest of Lugh. A herd of cattle roam those woods. They are large and their hides are red like gold, but they are gentle, living in the abundance of the forest, and we are told that their meat is like no other. Find that herd of beasts and bring us the largest to put in our stewpot."

"Just as you say, my lordlihood."

Now, Dark Moon Dancing, like most good liars, who wish to make their lie easy to swallow, had wrapped his lie in a truth. The Forest of Lugh did lie one horizon away to the east, cattle roamed it, cattle with red hides and hair, and they were much larger than normal. The part about them being gentle, though, that were a whopper. These were no sleepy creatures, happily feeding on the grass of a greenwood; these were meat eaters. They were smart; they knew how to gang up on their victim whether it was a pig that had strayed into the wood to look for acorns, or the swineherd who had gone to look for his pig, for these wild creatures were not above eating a man, a Sidha or a Metiano. And they were tough, their bright red hides like armor, deflecting sword blows and arrow points like biting flies.

Rol learned much of this within a minute of finding the cattle. With a roar like, well, like a giant angry bull, the largest of the herd charged the young Craftsman, hooves thundering across the forest floor. For a league all around, animals of every size ran for cover, fearful of the roar of the angry red bull's charge. But Rol stood his ground and sleepily pulled his cookpot sword.

With his first blow he knew the sword was not the weapon of choice. Although he cut a deep gash in the bull's shoulder (a new-made Metiano blade being so good it cut where others could not), it would take many, many such cuts to put the beast down, and Rol might not be able to jump aside at each attack. When the enraged monster charged again, Rol had his new weapon, for he grabbed the creature by the horns, swung it up over his head and used it as a club to beat the rest of the herd into submission. The sounds, of the sounds, the bellows, the grunts, the booms of cow hitting cow were horrid to hear; trees were knocked off their roots and woodsmen thereabouts say that even the bears and wolves hid in their lairs for days after. But when the fighting was done, amid all the dust and smashed trees there stood Rol, the largest red bull still held over his head in case one of the others tried to rise.

The local woodsmen and villagers were only too happy to loan Rol rope to tie all the crimson monsters together. When the whole evil lot firmly linked together, he picked up the free end of the rope, threw the largest bull over his shoulder (for the vicious, blood-drinking beast had not survived being used as a weapon, little bless its man-eating soul), and started toward Dark Moon Dancing's castle.

"We have changed our mind," called Dark Moon Dancing from his perch in the rafters where he had run to hide. "We do not wish to eat a thing that may have eaten a Sidha. Get rid of those monsters."

"As you wish, worshipfulnesshood," answered Rol evenly, pulling his sword. With a few quick strokes, he cut the lot of them free. Not a one wasted time on revenge for their lost leader, but the whole herd, every bull, cow and calf, charged back out the banquet hall door. When they had gone the door was much larger than when they had arrived. Most of the wall, in fact, was gone with them. And the west wall of the compound. And the guard's barracks. And most of Dark Moon Dancing's remaining vegetable garden that happened to be in their way. Where the Cattle of Lugh's Forest are today, well perhaps Lugh knows, but they have troubled no one, not Metiano, Sidha or Human, since that day.

Dark Moon Dancing and court could not deny that Rol had accomplished his given task quickly and fully. However, they wanted nothing to do with the dead bull. Using Metiano steel, Rol skinned the creature and fashioned himself a heavy, crimson leather cape with the strength of armor. When he wrapped himself in the weighty cloak, nothing but the blade of a brother Craftsman had a chance of harming him. The court was quite content to have him work on this thing; it kept him busy while they considered a task that could get this pesky foreigner out of their employ.

And this is what they decided.

"We are reconsidering our menu for the Feast of the New Moon. But no matter what we choose, we will need wood for the cooking. Lots of wood."

"Shall I gather up what's laying loose in here, you worshiptude? There should be enough for quite a bonfire."

"No! The wood knocked loose from our recent...accidents is not appropriate for a feast fire. We need spice wood. Lots of it. You shall, therefore, go to Ruff Mountain. The north slope is well timbered with tall stands of spice wood. You shall bring back a large pallet of spicewood timber for the feast fire."

"Your royalfulness." With a tug of a forelock he did not have, he spun on his heel and headed for Ruff Mountain.

Now, we've seen time and again that Dark Moon Dancing was like the rest of his ilk were not above telling bald-faced, clear-eyed lies when it suited their needs; they didn't do that this time. Instead they simply didn't bother to mention that the woods on Ruff Mountain were guarded by a large and very anti-social dragon.

This was not one of your talking, treasure hoarding, story-book dragons with a colorful personality. This was an ancient fire-breather, lonely and pained in his old age, and he guarded his privacy as others did their gold. It was his way to attack anyone who set foot on the mountain, and Rol was no exception. Sword in hand, the son of Ginden had knocked down barely enough timber to build a pallet with the old wyrm charged out of its cave after him. It belched clouds of sulfur smoke with every step, and when it spotted Rol it gave neither warning nor quarter but spat a ball of fire at him the size of a wagon and team.

Rol pulled his red-bull armor-hide over himself and let the fire rush against him and around him. 'This is not good,' he thought. 'This creature will slow me down and burn the wood besides. But he is just defending his home, so....'

You know what happened next. With the flat of his sword, Rol beat the creature into submission; with the edge of his sword he cut what he thought to be enough wood. Then he crafted a pallet and roads, loaded the wood, and hitched up the beaten dragon for the return trip.

Into the compound they went, and into the banquet hall, as well. Out windows and gaping cracks in the walls went the Hoarding Sidha, all but Dark Moon Dancing and a few at his table who were trapped.

"Leave the wood," he called from under the banquet table. "Leave the wood in the court yard and get rid of the beast."

"You've no end of orders my leigeness.." With a swing of the sword, Rol cut away the ropes that bound the dragon to the pallet. Freed from his bindings, the ancient beast stretched his wings (knocking new holes in the walls), took to flight (smashing open the roof of the dining hall), and coughed a parting ball of fire at the demolished building. The spice wood (and the splintered banquet hall) immediately burst into flame, thick clouds of odorous smoke rolling off the spicewood. Rol, following his orders, wrapped himself in his bullhide armor cloak, scooped up the flaming logs and threw them into the courtyard where they set fire to the newly rebuilt guard barracks.

"Your lordfulnessship," Rol called through the flaming wreckage. He bowed low to his Sidha master and turned to go. At the bottom of the pile of spicewood he found a trunk as yet unburned. He took it with him and that night, to while away the time while the rest of the compound put out fires, he used his sword to trim the trunk into a massive, weighty walking staff, beautiful to see with the intricate carvings he put on it, beautiful to smell with the heavy spiced oils in the wood.

And Dark Moon Dancing, as he crawled out of the smoldering timbers that had been his banquet hall, realized he must try a new route if they were be rid of this troublesome, over-strong Metiano drudge.

Dark Moon Dancing and his heavy eating friends decided it did little good to send Rol where he would be eaten or beaten by foul and abusive creatures. Instead, they thought to trick him into breaking his side of the contract so his sense of honor would force him to forfeit his head. They took counsel together to devise a task he could not perform, not for it's danger, but it's simple impossibility.

"Bread," said Dark Moon Dancing around a mouthful of it. "We will need bread for the Feast of the New Moon."

"Shall I bake some, your honorable-na-ity?"

"No, we have people to do that." 'Though that might be something to keep in mind if this doesn't work out,' Dark Moon Dancing thought. "We need you to thresh the wheat and grind the corn for the bread."

"And where is this grain, holy-ful-ship?"

"That granary is full. We need it all prepared. By lunch. Noon lunch. You may pick up a flail at the armory, if the guards have finished raking the ashes out of it."

"Your gloriosity," answered Rol, bowing.

Much to the relief of the guards and carpenters working to salvage the armory and rebuild the barracks, Rol strode past without stopping. Over his should he carried the spicewood tree trunk he have carved into a walking stick and this it was he took into the barn with him.

The Sidha granary was piled floor to rafters with grain. There were mountains of wheat, hillocks of yellow corn, hummocks of wild rice. A nation of rats (or a single castle of Hoarding Sidha) could have lived off the mounds of grain stuffed in the barn, an army of millers could supply a legion of bakers with flour from this store. Rol had barely enough room to step into the building. Behind him he heard the cackling, snorting, mouth-full-of-food giggles of the Sidha who watched him from their picnic tables (for you see, the banquet had been moved outdoors, since there wasn't much indoors left in the compound).

*Swish!* went the spicewood walking stick as Rol drew back to swing. *Wham!* Down came the tree trunk on the first pile of grain. Chaff flew in a cloud around him, and the grain was pulverized into the finest flour. *Swish!* The tree trunk went back again. *Crack!* This time it banged into the barn door, knocking it from its hinges. *Slam!* Rol clubbed another mound of grain. *Crunch!* The floor gave way under the newly made flour.

So it went for the rest of the morning. Tree trunk walking stick in hand, Rol smash pile after pile of corn, wheat and rice. Chaff flew in great clouds, grain was ground to flour, and with each stroke another hole was knocked in the granary. Sometimes it was when he drew back, knocking loose a rafter or slat from the roof, sometimes it was on the swing itself when he shattered floor boards or cracked a new hole in a wall.

Dark Moon Dancing and his feasting friends watched this performance in growing horror, but found little they could do about it. They were not going to stop him themselves and no was guard willing to even look toward the barn.

The sun climbed higher, and just before noon there came a strange quiet across the compound. From the shattered mound of flour and splintered timbers stepped Rol. He was coated thickly with dust, chaff and grain, his pockets and creases full of the stuff, his tree trunk staff even heavier now for having a layer of flour several inches thick over its length.

"My lord-li-tude," the Metiano called across the courtyard at the horror- stricken picnicking Sidha. "Your grain is ground." The Drudge threw his staff over his shoulders (knocking down the last of the barn's supports in the process) and strode off to the tents and hammocks the guards had set up till the barracks was rebuilt.

"So it is," mumbled Dark Moon Dancing biting into a bitter nut. Flocks of crows and jays were already circling to feast on the acreage of flour exposed to the sky, whole battalions of ants were already moving through it. "It is indeed ground." He dispatched some guards to shoo away the scavenger birds and bugs, but by next morning fully half was gone and the rest so riddled with bugs and beetles that not even a Hoarding Sidha would make bread of it.

Dark Moon Dancing looked mournfully at a stale dinner roll and thought how long it might be before he had better. "We need a better plan," he told the picnicking faeries.

The lot of them thoughtfully munched their dry bread and sipped from overflowing goblets. And wonder of wonders, one of them had a thought, one that kept them working throughout the night.

Dark Moon Dancing and his breakfast club sat to their morning meal. They did not glorify this dish with a name, but just sat and ate and whispered among themselves, waved away flies, and yelled at the guards when they slackened in chasing away birds. Most of the flour was gone or blown around the compound (and over the table, tent and dishes), and the remainder was lumpy from morning dew, but the ants and flies did not care.

"Drudge," Dark Moon Dancing called to Rol, flicking a black ant off his wine goblet, "we have nearly everything we need for the Feast of the New Moon. But there is a tradition that the stew must be made with spring water." The Sidha stopped lying to take a sip from his goblet. "Not just any water, you understand, but spring water, and that from a newly dug well. You must dig us this well, a new well for new water for a new moon."

"Your honor-ness-itude," answered Rol and marched to the tool shed next to the pile of cinders that had been the guards' barracks. He emerged carrying a pick, mattock and shovel. Without another step, Rol dropped everything but the pick, swung that over his head and flew into the work with a will, digging his well at the tool shed door. Clods of dirt, clouds of dust and shovelfuls of rocks flew from the hole, blew upon the breeze and settled with a hiss or thud onto slow moving guards, yesterday's flour, and the tent the Sidha had erected in place of their destroyed banquet hall. The ground opened a shallow pit, then a hole, then so deep that Rol dropped out of sight. Earth flew from the hole, dusting and dirting everything in the compound. When the tent collapsed under its load of soil, the filth settled on the remainder of breakfast and the breakfasters.

But few of the Sidha sat at table when that happened. Soon as Rol had dug his way out of sight, the bulk of them jumped to their feet, ran to the gate and waved the guards to follow them. With the guards busy, the birds and bugs settled in for a feast, but the former feasters were too busy to worry. With many grunts and groans, the lot of them slowly rolled a giant mill stone through the gate and across the dusty courtyard.

It was a fierce, hot fight, the Sidha against the mill stone, pushing it through the storm of dirt and dust that rained up from the well-in-progress, the swarm of flies and bugs coming for the feast, and the faeries quaking in their booties the while that Rol would emerge to find them at their treachery. But they did it. They got the mill stone to the edge of the hole, and with one final grunt, pushed it in, sending it down the well to crush the troublesome drudge. There was a soft thud and the fountain of dirt stopped.

The dirty Sidha froze for a moment, and then a nasty cheer rang from their back-stabbing throats. They'd done it! What dragons and giants and man- eating cows could not, the Hoarding Sidha themselves had done with a rock! Wise Sidha, they said. Courageous Sidha. They had rid themselves of the troublesome drudge and could resume their happy life.

Then it happened. A shovel full of dirt sprayed from the well, then another, another, another and another. Dirt flew from the hole again, as fast (and as full of rocks) as before. The Sidha were too amazed to run, glued to the ground with earth and rocks raining on them. An especially large clod struck Dark Moon Dancing atop the brainpan, spraying cold, damp earth over his plate and giving him another idea.

"Shovel it back it!" shouted the Sidha leader. "Bury him!"

Grabbing any tools at hand (including their hands), the filthy, exhausted faeries scraped and scooped dirt back into the hole. Earth, rocks and rice they shovelled and flung into the hole, but faster than they could pitch it, out it came again.

*Thunk!*

Out came a chunk of earth large as a wagon wheel. The Sidha it landed on squawked under it's weight. This chunk was different - colder, wetter - muddy. And when it landed, things grew quiet.

A pair of rough Metiano hands appeared at the edge of the well, and out climbed Rol. Atop his head sat the mill stone, the top of his fuzzy skull poking through its hole.

"My thanks to the considerate soul who threw me this hat. Some crows must have been looking for worms in the dirt and they kept kicking dust back down on me. This kept it off nicely. And for the well..." He stretched his right arm over the hole and dropped in the pick. From the pit came a groaning and a grumbling and a hissing.

"Back!" screeched a guard, dropping his shovel and racing for the gate. The other guards (as usual, the savviest fellows in any group) wasted no time asking why or where. The Hoarding Sidha, who trusted no one, did.

From the well sprayed a geyser of water, cold, muddy and strong enough to spray more rocks around the yard. Filthy, soggy, well-bruised Sidha stumbled in all directions away from the muddy fountain. Rol stood his ground, arms folded, spicewood walking stick in hand, his new wide-brimmed hat keeping him dry (and caked with dirt and yesterday's flour). From the sad remains of his breakfast table, Dark Moon Dancing watched as the well filled, then overflowed, then flooded out across the courtyard. The escaping waters carried before it the tool shed, many of the guards' tents, the bulk of the cabbage patch, most of the dry firewood, and when it hit the eastern wall, it washed that away as well. Before the sun set that day, the Hoarding Sidha were the proud owners of a new spring-fed creek and a three-walled fortress.

"Your gracefully-ness," said Rol above the noise of rumbling water and smashing timber. He bowed low to Dark Moon Dancing before striding off, his new millstone hat cocked rakishly back on his head. His barracks and tent washed away, the Drudge made himself a new home in the small keep where the Sidha stayed. No one bothered to evict him.

"You lot are not much help," said Dark Moon Dancing to the filthy, dripping faeries that gathered around table that night. As they munched their collard greens and drank the cloudy creek water (there being not much left in the storehouse) Dark Moon Dancing realized he would need the counsel of other, wiser heads. Long dead heads, 'tis true, but wiser than the ones that sat to supper with him.

"We are grateful for all your hard work, my Drudge," lied Dark Moon Dancing the next morning as Rol stood at attention to receive his next orders. The Sidha waved a fly away from his bowl of this and that what was doing duty as his breakfast. The guards had not been able to save much from the army of possums and raccoons that had moved in during the night to pick a supper from the debris in the littered courtyard, though courtyard is a bit glorified for a patch of littered, bug infested dirt with creek run through it.

"My liege-itude," answered Rol.

"Yes, well. We were all looking forward to tonight, it being the night of the new moon and thus the night of the Feast of the New Moon. But, you see, we have a small problem."

"What might that be, my honor-iness?"

"It's most embarrassing, you see, but we have lost the recipe for the stew. You know, the stew for which you obtained the pot and the meat and the wood and the new spring water?"

"I remember, my grace-honor-itude."

"Well, it seems my grandfather was the one who knew the recipe. It was a secret recipe, you see, and well, when he died, well, he took the recipe with him. We need to speak to him, you see, to get the recipe for the stew. We need you to go to the Land of the Sidha Dead and fetch him back for us so we can get the recipe from him."

"And how will I know him, my lordli-fullness?"

"Know him, ah, yes, know him. Well, he has long white hair. I'm told he looks much like me. Oh, and if you find the dead sitting to supper, he ate his soup with a noise."

"My gloriosity-ness," answered Rol. Squaring his mill stone hat on his head, tree trunk walking stick in hand, stew pot sword at his belt, cow hide cloak around his shoulders, Rol spun on his heel and strode away to the west, the location of the Land of the Dead no matter where you are.

"And that, I think is that," said Dark Moon Dancing with satisfaction, plunging his spoon into his bowl of who-knows-what.

Come noon (and a hot, buggy noon, too), it was certainly something. Dark Moon Dancing and his lads knew it was something when the guards, who were trying to rebuild something, anything in the compound, dropped their tools and ran for what had been the gate wall. The dogs, birds and bugs soon followed, and it seemed but a few seconds before Rol came in through the missing east wall, driving before him what must have been half the souls from the Land of the Sidha Dead. And strapped in a bundle on top of his mill stone hat were not a few of the imps, daemons, ooger-boogers and whatnots that did guard duty in that dreary place. This kicking, cursing bundle he dropped to the courtyard in front of the terrified Sidha.

"I must tell you, my masterfulsomeness, half the souls in the underworld looked like you. Most had long white hair. And all made the most annoying noise when they are their soup. Rather than chance not getting the right one, I brought the lot. I figured you could pick the one you want and these helpful guards - " here he punched one of the deamons in the ribs with his walking stick; it squalled " - they could shoo the rest of them back home. Though I must own they were not enthused about coming."

"We see you, Dark Moon Dancing" screeched the deamons in unison. "We see you all. And we remember you. You miserable faeries better lead a better life. If you wind up with us, your misery in the underworld will be legend!"

"Send them away," shouted the Sidha from beneath his feasting table. "Send them away."

"But what about the recipe, huge-iness?"

"We've found an old recipe book. Send them back to where they belong!"

"As you say, my lordfullitudeness," answered Rol. With one swipe he cut the chains and cords that bound the deamons. Then he sheathed his sword, squared his hat and walked to his new rooms to take a nap.

And nap he did, though how he slept through the noise is beyond me. The mob of angry deamons beat everything in sight. Since Guardians of the Dead have no power anything alive, they could not harm the terrified Sidha. However, since the remainder of the compound was built with non-living stone and wood, they had no problem smashing everything in the place to gravel and kindling. When they were done, not one stone stood atop another, not two timbers joined anywhere. Except for the little room Rol had taken from himself. That they left alone; they were ornery, but not stupid. As Dark Moon Dancing and his brood peeked out from the rubble, they saw the gaggle of Sidha souls and their tormenters stumbling over the hills to the sundown in the west.

"I don't know that I would give everything to be rid of that troublesome Drudge," said Dark Moon Dancing to the shivering Sidha crouched in the trash beside him, "but I know I will give a Metiano's weight in gold. 'Cause I give up."

"And did you enjoy your Feast of the New Moon, my graceful-holitude?" asked Rol the next morning when he reported for his orders.

Dark Moon Dancing, sitting on a stump the guards had rolled up for him, ignored the question. "You have been a good and faithful drudge," he said instead. "You have done well and we have been honored to have you in our service." (See, even in the worst of times, a Hoarding Sidha can tell a lie with a straight face.)

"My liege-itude," answered Rol.

"And so, with all that you have done for us - " One of the guards coughed to cover a laugh and Dark Moon Dancing shot him a hard look. "With all these works done, we wish to cut short your contract. We will pay you!" Dark Moon Dancing cut off Rol's protest. "We will pay you the full amount just as though you had worked your full year. You have done more for us in your month than all other drudges have in their full year." Here the other Sidha nodded and mumbled their agreement.

"I agree, your worshipness."

"Then let the guards bring forth the scales."

Now, even though giant had destroyed the gardens, the red cattle had destroyed the banquet hall, the dragon had burned most of the outbuildings, the creek had washed away the east wall, and deamons had smashed everything else in sight, none had touched the underground storehouse of the Sidha. You do not grow as rich as the Hoarding Sidha without knowing how to hide your riches. Out from its storeroom came the giant wooden scales of the Sidha, and with it some bags of gold.

"Please step onto the scales, my drudge. And please remove your, ah, hat."

"Take off my hat? I shall no such a thing."

"But you must! We wish to weigh you, not your hat."

"A fine thing, telling man how to dress on his pay day. No, my lordfulliness. There was no talk about dress codes when I took this job, no 'wear this, don't wear that.' Why, next thing you know you'll be a-wanting me to remove this sword I made from the giant's pot. Or drop my walking stick. Or take off my cloak. Or jump in the creek to rinse the mud off me. Or turn out my pockets to empty this clumped up flour. No, my grace-itude-iness. It ain't right to tell an honorable Craftsman to get undressed. You'll be taking me as I am, thank you."

"But," spluttered Dark Moon Dancing. "But -"

"Please," said one of the Sidha, kicking at a large rat, one of many roaming the rubble in search of a meal. "Please, go ahead and let him. Pay him off. Pay him off while we still have a plot of land to rebuild on."

Dark Moon Dancing sighed, visions of his beautiful gold being hauled away by the drudge. But one of the rats was eyeing the dried crust of bread he held in his hand and he knew they'd not survive another of Rol's jobs.

"Very well," Dark Moon Dancing said at last. "Climb on."

Well, a hard working Metiano drudge weighs more than you think. And the only ones the Sidha had ever paid before had been paid at the end of their year when they were exhausted skeletal shells of themselves. And the cow hide cloak weighed more than they'd guessed. So did the spicewood tree walking stick. So did the mill stone hat. Even the caked on mud and flour were more than they'd guessed. When they ran out of gold, they brought out the silver. Then the platinum and then the jewels. Still the scales did not balance. It was only when they had shoveled a mound of copper onto the pan that Rol was finally lifted from the ground and declared himself satisfied.

"It's not everything I'm owed," he sighed, "but the remaining coins are of dubious value and possible counterfeit origin They won't be worth hauling home."

Dark Moon Dancing ground his teeth but said nothing. He knew there was no guard or Sidha who would lift a hand to the ex-drudge. "And now you must be off," he said. "And we shall resume our feast."

"Surely," answered Rol. It was the matter of an hour for Rol to knock together a large, rough sledge and load all his wealth onto it, and another hour to round up the Sidha's horses that were running loose in the woods now that their stables had been destroyed. With a cheery wave to his former employer, he took the lead reins in his hands and started for home.

Well, it's true. He did go home and the Starving Sidha dispersed, never to torment the People of the Craft again.

But that's not the end of the story for Rol. For some would have bought many lands with this wealth, built fine castles, lived high and mighty for the rest of their days, perhaps becoming as grasping and cruel as the Sidha themselves. But Rol took the hoard back to his village. He took the gold, the jewels, the silver, the platinum, the copper and the rest. He returned it to his village and his fellow craftsmen, and the Metianoj of that region (your region, now that you know the story of it all) treat it like a mine, using the metal and materials to make their wares, using the time they would have spent mining and smelting to carve and craft and create.