In the land of Nodge, not far from Lake Glown, lived a little boy. He dearly loved his parents hugged them every morning when he got up and every night before bed. During the day, he played among the caves behind his parents' house, or helped his father by carrying things, or watering the horses, or digging pits for the fence posts. Marchan, for that was his name, especially loved digging. He would happily dig much deeper than his father wanted him to, but his father always asked him to move on and start digging at the next place. Marchan never tired of digging. Once, when Marchan was 10, there was an old stump in the field that his father said was taking up space that could be plowed. That night as the moon rose, Marchan sneaked outside and taking his pick and his shovel, dug around the roots of the stump. By the time the moon reached its zenith, Marchan had the whole stump out of the ground. He then filled the hole back in and dragged the stump from the field and went to bed. He was the first up the next morning and went out to check how well he had filled in the hole. He could see that the dirt was lower there, but, otherwise, it looked much like the rest of the field. He was proud of himself. When his father got up that morning and noticed the stump had been moved away, he considered it a miracle. Marchan never told him what he had done.

Not everything was perfect for Marchan. Whenever he saw other children his own age, they were always taller than him, and made fun of him for being so short and funny looking. They called him nasty names, like sub-man, malformed, and other names that would not even make sense to us. The younger children, who were the same height as he was, were simply afraid of him. He never knew how to play with them, so he much preferred playing alone in the caves behind his house. When he was eleven his father died and Marchan tried to keep away from the children even more. A year later, his mother took him to town and, while they were there, some children saw Marchan and started calling out the nasty names to him. He just shrunk from them and tried to hide behind his mother, but they came closer. Suddenly, his mother turned on them and screamed at them for being intolerant and bigotted and to just go away.

When they got home, Marchan asked her, 'Mother, what is intolerant?'

'It's when someone won't accept people that are different from themselves,' she said.

'Why did you call those children intolerant?' he wondered.

'Because they were. Have you never noticed that you are different than other children around here? You're shorter and stronger.'

'Oh', Marchan was not sure what to make of this. He thought there was something wrong with him. 'You mean I'm not malformed?'

'Who called you that? Those children? See that's just intolerance. You are perfectly normal for a Dwarf's child.'

'A Dwarf's child?' Marchan was confused. 'You're not a Dwarf.'

'No,' she said, 'but you are. I am not your real mother. Nor was the man you knew as Father your real father. There was a war twelve years ago, just after you were born. Father was a foot soldier in the army of the king. They were fighting Kloris, the great enemy. Beside them was an army of dwarves. The loss of life was horrendous, but we won. Your father, as he was leaving the field of battle, came across a young dwarf-woman. She had been at the battle, it seems that their women fight with their men. He could see that she was bleeding profusely. As he approached she cried out in agony. He got closer and asked what he could do for her. She cried again, then gasped, "The child, take the child home." He couldn't get any more from her. She died soon after. He looked around, and after a bit of a search, he found a small bundle with a baby in it. And that baby grew up to be you. At first he tried to find the home of the dwarf troop, but you needed a mother immediately to feed you, so when he found me, he asked me to feed you. We searched for a year for your natural family, but we could not find any news of how to reach the dwarf kingdom.'

Marchan thought for a little while. It was more than he could take.

Marchan stood still. The sound of blood in his ears silenced the rest of the world. His mother sat looking at him. He didn't know what to think of what he had just been told. No, she was his mother. She had rasied him. He could ask nothing more from her and he would still owe her his very existence. He shook his head.

'All the same, Mother. You are my mother and I owe you all. You are my natural family now.'

'Yes, my dear, and you are my beloved son. So I should tell you that we must leave this farm. Your father died a year ago and we had had a few bad years before that. He borrowed some money and now his creditors are looking for their money. All we have left is the farm.'

'Mother, what will we do?'

'I am afraid my son that we will not be much longer for this world. You might be able to get work as a digger or a labourer, but it looks like that might be our only way of getting money.'

So the next day, they went out looking to hire Marchan out as a digger. The first man they talked to seemed okay with it, until he realised that Marchan was not a manchild. 'I cannot hire a dwarf,' he said. 'The rest of my men would all quit. They would accuse me of all kinds of things.'

'Please,' said Marchan's mother.

'I would be ruined,' he said.

The other place in town said much the same thing. They returned to the town square.

A group of children who were not far away saw Marchan and started calling out rude comments. His mother yelled at them to just go away, but they were bolder this today and started calling after her. Marchan felt himself grow hot. Having grabbed a fencepost from a nearby pile, he ran into the group. The fencepost swung around, almost of its own accord. Children fell and groaned on the ground. Marchan turned again and again, the fencepost swinging like a bat. Anyone who hit him got shrugged off, then fell from a swing of the post. Soon he was the only one standing in the square. His mother had fainted. He walked over to her and picked her up. Dropping the post, he walked home.

Not long after he had placed her on her bed, she woke with a start. She looked around and exclaimed, 'Oh it was all a dream! I thought you had attacked some poor children in the town square.'

'I did not attack them, Mother. I was defending you,' Marchan replied.

'Oh, my son,' she said. 'Would that you had not. Now the townspeople will accuse you of all kinds of evil things.'

'What was I to do, oh Mother?' Marchan cried. 'I could not let them call you those horrible names.'

'That is as may be,' she said. 'Now let us pack some things, we have a long journey ahead of us.'

'Where are we going?' he asked.

'There is still one way we have not tried to find your family that could not be done while you were younger. We must travel to the City of the Great King. There they may have records of your people.'

'But, what of this town?' Marchan wanted to know

'We can no longer stay here, the townspeople will run us out or kill us if they catch us now.'

'Oh, I wish I had been born a manboy,' Marchan said.

'Hush, Child, 'his mother said. 'Now let's get something packed.'

They worked quickly for some time then heard noise outside. Looking out, they could see men coming up the path to the farm. They grabbed their packs and slipped out the back door. They raced across the field behind and Marchan led his mother into the caves. He took several seemingly random turns and they entered a large cavern.

'Marchan,' his mother whispered. 'Do you know where we are?'

'Yes, mother,' he said. 'I have thoroughly explored these caves. I know all the entrances and exits. Across the cavern and along a tunnel, then up a long slope and we will come out down by the lakeside. I have been there a few times, you can see another town from there which I think is on the main road.'

'No,' she said. 'I mean look at that.'

Marchan could make her out quite well in the gloom, like she was providing her own light. He let his eyes follow her finger pointing far off to their right. A small shaft of light shone down onto a large square on the wall of the cave. The square appeared to Marchan to be about three metres by 3 metres. On either side stood pillars sunk into the rock and across the top was a cracked lintel.

'Yes I've looked around there,' he said. 'There is nothing behind that. I think it is there to confuse someone looking for a palace here. Or perhaps it once led somewhere, but the tunnel behind has been filled in. I even tried digging, but could not find anything.'

'That would be too easy,' his mother said. 'Well, on we must go.'

They continued to follow Marchan's path through the tunnels and returned to the surface as the sun was moving into the late afternoon sky. Marchan pointed out the town and they started toward it.

Marchan and Dana (for that was his mother's name) travelled through the brush for sometime. It ripped their clothes, scratched their cheeks and resisted their forward movement. When they finally reached open country, they were so tired that the additional walk to town would have been a torment. They sat down on the grass and Dana got some cheese and bread out of her pack. They ate in silence. Talking would have been too much of a burden. After eating they lay back on the grass and rested. An hour into their rest as the sun almost touched the hills in the west, they heard the sound of dogs in the brush behind them. Marchan bolted upright. He had never liked dogs, and now the men had gotten dogs to follow his scent. He got to his feet and noticed his mother had done the same. They started to trek across the open field, looking for a road or a stream that they might hide their tracks from the dogs. Soon, they came to a small farm track through the fields. It was apparently used by sheep herders as the grass around it was quite short. They ran along it, hoping it would cross a stream. It did soon enough, but the stream was over grown with brush a short distance in either direction. They continued along the sheep path and soon saw before them a farm house. The clay brick house had many windows with a chimney poking out the top. A man was walking toward it from a sheep pen to the right. Marchan and Dana ran up to him.

'Help,' said Dana to him. 'We are beset by wolves.'

'Wolves!' the man exclaimed. 'They won't get near my sheep. Here you can hide in the house.'

He led them indoors and grabbed his bow from beside the door. He also took his shepherd's rod and went back out to defend his sheep. Dana led Marchan through the house and out the other side. 'That should keep them busy for a little while,' she said and they ran up the lane from the shepherd's house to the road that ran nearby. They followed it and were soon overtaken by a carriage. Dana flagged it down. Darkness hid the inside, but its occupant saw them, for he called to his coachman to stop.

'Help us, please, Your Grace,' Dana called out. 'I am the widow of a great warrior. I am beset by wolves and hunters.'

'What would you have me do for you?' a kindly voice called from within.

'A ride into town away from the wolves and the hunters, Your Grace,' she replied.

'I though the hunters would keep the wolves away from you?' the voice came again. This time playfully.

'If you listen, you can hear the bark of the dogs,' she said. 'And the yelling of their keepers.'

'Ah, you name dogs wolves as the great poet Brahneem did.'

'A dog is but another wolf
Who has gotten on with man
He eats the same food as his friend
And ever more beats the can,' she recited.

The voice from the carriage laughed gently, though loud enought to hear over the horses. The door opened and a light was struck.

'Come,' the voice called. The footman appeared from behind the carriage and set down a stool, then waited to help Dana into the carriage. His master told him to find a place for 'her boy', and the footman lifted Marchan up to the coachman who placed Marchan beside himself. Then the footman collected his stool, and returned to his place behind the carriage. Soon they were off again.