In the end, Trevor could not make hide nor hair of Chicken`s informal collection of landmarks, just as Chicken saw a map as no more than kindling. They resolved to turn around and drop the passengers off at the dwarven mining port, where they could be sure to give them everything they needed to return to the bush.

　　Later, in a second meeting, Cookie stressed the importance of seeing them off, lest Chicken be tempted to remain at the port and cause no end of trouble for the miners. Everyone present agreed.

　　Chicken and Amerigo spent the few days` voyage relaxing as much as one could relax on the Hereafter until they finally arrived at the sulfur port again.

　　"You can see where they`ve patched things up from the attack," Trevor noted curiously as the small party disembarked. James and Yggril weren`t listening to him. Their minds were on other things.

　　"But did you check your socks?" Yggril asked with all the aplomb of a mathematician probing the logical nuance of a tricky problem.

　　"Just the usual there," James said sullenly.

　　Gorestomp walked silently, his eyes straight but his attention on the kobold and gnome who he was escorting. The six of them headed to the general store. Out front was a trough of water, which Amerigo climbed into, relief spreading across his face.

　　"We`ll wait out here with him," Yggril said.

　　Chicken marveled at the scant supply of goods there. It was wealth beyond his imagining.

　　Gorestomp knelt and whispered something to him, at which Chicken turned resolute. He nodded and set off among the few shelves of moderately priced necessities.

　　"He had looked like he was going to bolt. What did you tell him?"

　　Gorestomp leaned over and whispered, "I explained how money works."

　　"In just a few seconds of whispering something?"

　　Gorestomp shrugged. "In a way he`d understand."

　　Trevor watched Chicken as the kobold inspected a jangle of stone trinkets.

　　Through the door, which did only a nominal job of separating inside from outside, he heard James snap his fingers suddenly.

　　"It must have rolled behind a box. That has to be it," the halfling said to his brother.

　　"We tore that place apart, though. What else could it have hidden behind?"

　　They returned to their dual contemplation.

　　Trevor shook his head and turned to watch Chicken while pretending to be interesting in some metal-wrought contraption, obviously useful in a mine, hanging on the wall. The kobold approached Gorestomp and pointed at a cord of rope. Gorestomp picked it up, and Chicken returned to looking at the goods.

　　This went on for a few other items, and eventually Gorestomp was carrying a small bag, some lidded bowls, a water skin, a coil of rope, and a wide-brim hat.

　　"Nothing more?" the minotaur asked the kobold. Chicken shook his head.

　　"Then I shall have the medicine man," indicating the bewildered vendor, "purify these things for you." The dwarf tallied the cost of Chicken`s purchase and Gorestomp supplied the coin.

　　"They are now clean of evil spirits," the minotaur said.

　　"What were those stones in your pouch?" Chicken asked.

　　"Gold, silver, and copper. They are required for the ritual."

　　Chicken nodded. "I can see they come in handy."

　　The trio exited the shop and rejoined the halflings, who barely noticed, their brains each a piston in a joint dual-stroke engine, puffing merrily away.

　　"You!" a voice came from across the main road. It was gruff and deep, and very not like a dwarf`s.

　　Trevor looked at the source, finding a tall, muscle-bound green-skinned man with tusks. It was pointing at him.

　　It walked angrily his way. Trevor stole a glance at Gorestomp, who was delicately maneuvering between his group and this stranger.

　　They came chest to chest.

　　It pointed not at Trevor, but at Chicken.

　　"What are you doing here?" it bellowed.

　　Gorestomp was unperturbed and crossed his arms. "Do you have business with the kobold?"

　　"Business?" the thing growled, "If it weren`t for that thing, I wouldn`t have any business."

　　Trevor noticed the proximity of Gorestomp`s hand to the hilt of his weapon was rapidly shrinking.

　　"Any business with this kobold," he said slowly, "will be conducted through me. Kindly leave."

　　Chicken pushed his way forward, inadvisably close to the agitated orc.

　　"Sigildred?" Chicken said, astonished.

　　"If it weren`t for you," it said, finger pointed rigidly at Chicken before moving in an expansive motion behind him, "I wouldn`t be here with all these crops."The author`s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

　　Back the way he came, there was a crude cart, laden with hand-woven sacks of grain and vegetables.

　　"I wouldn`t imagine a farmering spirit like you bein` in a place like this," he added, scratching his head under his straw hat.

　　"You know this&orc?" Gorestomp said, still wary.

　　"I kinda&" Chicken said, catching himself and trailing off. He started up again. "I`m responsible for the watering of his land."

　　Trevor and Gorestomp both had a moment of processing before deciding the situation had been defused.

　　"I was jus` about ta head back," the orc said, "and I could still use your fluence on the farm. Would ya like t`come back wit me, spirit?"

　　James and Yggril, abruptly pulled out of consternation by the threat of a street fight, were the first to answer.

　　"Send him home with this guy he knows," James said. "Sounds simple to me," Yggril added.

　　Gorestomp looked at Chicken for an answer. Chicken looked at Trevor and Amerigo.

　　"Give me some time to say goodbye," he said to the orc, and pulled Trevor and Amerigo aside.

　　"You trust this guy?" Trevor asked. Amerigo nodded, and Chicken added, "Oh yeah. He owes me."

　　"Alright then," he said lamely before changing tack. "It`s been an adventure having you on board." He gave a warm smile.

　　Chicken adjusted his pack. "I can`t wait to tell Auntie about it. I think she`d like you."

　　He hugged Trevor`s thigh. Trevor patted the kobold on his pack awkwardly. "I think the water level is going back down. Maybe, eventually, what you guys did will heal what`s been going on."

　　Chicken shrugged. He turned to Amerigo.

　　"Let`s get back and see how everyone`s been getting along."

　　He stopped when Amerigo shook his head.

　　Trevor and Chicken were both surprised.

　　"I got enough supplies for both of us. Did you forget something on the ship?"

　　Again Amerigo shook his head.

　　Trevor spoke.

　　"Chicken, I think Amerigo isn`t coming with you."

　　Amerigo nodded.

　　Chicken dropped his arms from the straps on his pack.

　　"What do you mean? Everyone`s probably worried sick about us."

　　The gnome, in a few simple gestures, told Chicken everything the kobold needed to know.

　　"You have your own home to go to," he translated sadly.

　　Amerigo nodded. They looked at each other for several moments. Chicken reached out and hugged Amerigo.

　　"C`mon!" came a shout from the cart. Sigildred and Gorestomp had been awkwardly standing aside together, not talking, and the orc couldn`t take much more.

　　Chicken held Amerigo`s shoulders at arm`s length.

　　"I`ll miss you, friend."

　　Amerigo nodded. He held up something for Chicken, who took it curiously. It had six sides, each with different shapes. One drew Chicken`s eye. The shape of a swan in profile.

　　"Is that a Pucky`s piece?" Trevor asked in harsh hushed tones. "They`ve been looking for it all morning."

　　Chicken pocketed the icon and hugged Amerigo quickly before trotting over to the cart. Sigildred had already shouldered the handles and was ready to pull it back to the farm.

　　Nestled between a sack of leafy greens and a bushel of some kind of grass, he waved at the group there to give him a send-off, and they disappeared from his view.

　　****

　　The goblin stood before the great pot. It had taken nearly an age, having to do the work himself, but the fire was roaring, the liquid was boiling, and everything had been prepared.

　　He cursed the great raindrop for the umpteenth time. They had come so close to having a successful goblin boil. The sacrifice had already been made. It was wasteful.

　　But now that was all in the past. The goblin boil was about the future.

　　The goblin adjusted his chef`s hat and started climbing the rickety scaffolding he had constructed to reach the rim of the pot.

　　The grey oily goop bubbled and swirled. He thought it called to him. This might have been a trick of his exhausted mind, having scrubbed the pot of its previous attempt at the goblin boil.

　　Now was almost time.

　　He sighed and pulled off his chef`s hat. He reached inside and extracted the large brown mushroom, which was looking rather decayed from the time spent in the world since it was harvested.

　　He sniffed it, recoiling only slightly. It would have to do.

　　The goblin shrugged and drew his sharp knife. Pausing only to look up, fearful of another freak raindrop, he sliced and diced the mushroom over the pot, letting the bits and pieces fall haphazardly into the stew.

　　It pained him to go against the order laid out in the recipe. First, the sacrifice, then the mushroom. Then the other sacrifice.

　　He would have to make do without the other sacrifice. There was nothing for it.

　　Gingerly setting his chef`s hat down on the scaffold landing, he prepared himself.

　　He took a deep breath, stretching towards the sky, and exhaled, bringing his arms low again.

　　He did it again, as he was feeling extra nervous.

　　What would it be like after the boil? He didn`t think this thought in so many words, but the gist of the sentiment swam in the primordial ooze of his subconscious. Given a few thousand years, it might have eventually become something like existential lament.

　　He opened his eyes. He walked tentatively towards the edge, looked down and backed away again. Too soon. More breathing.

　　How had the old coot done it so peacefully?

　　The chef, again, steeled his resolve. This was about more than him. It was about others. It was about those who would come next.

　　This was for this goblin boil and all the goblin boils to come. It was now or never.

　　He took a running leap and cannonballed into the hot goop.

　　It pulled him down immediately as it closed over him. The bubbles of his escaping breath surfaced anonymously amidst the roil.

　　He did not resurface. The goblin chef had given everything.

　　Eventually, in the due course of time, the boiling stopped, the hungry fire below starving for fresh fuel. It died down to embers beneath the pot.

　　The liquid settled.

　　It solidified, cooling overnight.

　　Days came and went. Animals inspected the pot, deciding after a whiff to instead find something more appetizing, like carrion. It otherwise went unmolested for weeks.

　　Then, on a day like any other, the pot began to move. The only audience was a small deer-like creature.

　　The pot twitched. It gave little suffocated noises. It rocked back and forth.

　　The deer chewed its cud, its tiny features fixated on the strange pot.

　　A hand breached the crusty top of what used to be soup, but which now was like, in every unappetizing way, the consistency of quiche.

　　The hand scrabbled, digging away the horrible substance, covered in animal droppings, dust, and dirt.

　　More hands broke through, like the turf of a graveyard in a B-rated horror flick.

　　From the concoction crawled naked, greasy goblins. One after another, they reached the surface and breathed their first breath of life-giving air.

　　They scrabbled over the edges of the pot, falling heavily to the ground. Once free and breathing, a few fights broke out. They were starving. First one, then in quick succession, several, of the goblins noticed the deer and stopped.

　　The little deer froze in mid-chew.

　　One of the goblins gave a cry, then as one, they rampaged towards the deer, which had taken the cry as its cue to scamper away with as much haste as its spindly legs could give it.

　　With the sounds of starving goblins chasing the little deer like the last chocolate 閏lair in the world, there was yet more movement in the pot.

　　One more goblin, beyond the two dozen or so that had already come to, sat up and shook its head of the slightly damp muck in which it had found itself.

　　It found the lip of the pot and pulled itself onto the rampart, breathing and coughing like a formerly drowning man.

　　Resuscitated, it rolled onto its side and noticed an odd thing.

　　It picked up the off-white and dirty chef`s hat and examined it curiously. It beat it of the dust and dirt from the several week`s exposure to the element.

　　It looked inside. It was empty except for a small, terrified lizard, which the goblin quickly subdued and snacked on while it continued examining the hat.

　　Very carefully, allowing instinct to guide its actions, it put the chef`s hat on its head.

　　And the world seemed right.