Whizbang Dustyboots
Gnometown Hero
Memos, records, forms (completed and otherwise), notes, announcements and changes in procedures (both proposed and approved) fell like rain all day on the Mountain.
Well, not exactly like rain.
Rain came from the sky.
Paperwork poured through the Slots.
They were arranged in a neat grid, 20 slots across and 60 slots high, in the Wall, reaching almost to the sky.
When the paperwork fluttered down onto the Mountain, it was collected by junior assistant clerks. They in turn handed the paperwork off for sorting to assistant clerks. Once sorted, the paperwork would be placed onto carts and wagons and taken to Lower Filing. The city of Upper Filing was now too crowded and too busy to build more libraries or repositories.
When the Requisition came in, the junior clerks were flummoxed. Nothing like this had ever come through the Slots. They weren’t sure how to sort it. Instead of putting it on a cart or wagon, it was carried by a fast rider up to Upper Filing and presented, after a great deal of discussion, to the senior clerks.
The senior clerks were also flummoxed, although they didn’t share that with the clerks or especially with the junior clerks. They examined the Requisition carefully, making sure it wasn’t a forgery. No one wanted a repeat of the Incident.
After determining that the Requisition, astonishingly, appeared to be real, a delegation of the most senior clerks made the trek to Goldwatch.
There they consulted the retired senior clerks, to see if they have ever heard of anything like this happening. The Requisition was so shocking that, when the senior clerks returned to Upper Filing, there were fewer retired senior clerks in Goldwatch than when the senior clerks had arrived.
And so, finally, the senior clerks sent for October O’Leary.
October O’Leary, junior assistant hero, did not live in Upper Filing. Or even Lower Filing. He and his family lived in Annex, down on the lower slopes of the Mountain. It smelled like sheep and cow in Annex, because that’s where the farming was done.
Truthfully, October O’Leary was junior or assistant to no one, as there were no other heroes on the Mountain.
According to his grandfather, August O’Leary, there had never been a need for a hero. When the previous heroes had died of old age, they had never been replaced. During a reorganization, managing heroes stopped being the responsibility of any supervisors on the Org Chart. Now, there was no one left to promote an assistant hero to hero, to say nothing of junior assistant heroes to assistant heroes. After the last heroes and assistant heroes died of old age, only junior assistant heroes remained.
Because the O’Learys were always junior assistant heroes. That was the family business. Although there was no chance for promotion, there had never been any actual hero work to do.
None of this stopped October O’Leary. He spent the day practicing sword fighting, archery, climbing, swimming and public speaking -- all the things a hero needed to do.
His daily combat practice and exercising was something of a spectacle in the pastures around Annex. When October O’Leary would wander back into town, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, plunging his head into a trough of icy mountain water to cool off, the milkmaids used to whisper and giggle.
But October’s father, September O’Leary, said the milkmaids would grow out of ogling heroes and marry farmers or merchants or something more practical. He was constantly slipping books about accounting or animal husbandry under October’s pillow when he was out in the field, practicing.
October wasn’t discouraged. The Mountain, he knew, needed heroes. Even if no one could remember it ever happening.
So it was a modest shock to August O’Leary, September O’Leary and October O’Leary when October opened the front door to their shack in Annex one morning to find a delegation of assistant senior clerks standing on their doorstep, clutching the Requisition in their hands.
“There has been an urgent and immediate request for a hero,” the most senior assistant senior clerk said.
Well, not exactly like rain.
Rain came from the sky.
Paperwork poured through the Slots.
They were arranged in a neat grid, 20 slots across and 60 slots high, in the Wall, reaching almost to the sky.
When the paperwork fluttered down onto the Mountain, it was collected by junior assistant clerks. They in turn handed the paperwork off for sorting to assistant clerks. Once sorted, the paperwork would be placed onto carts and wagons and taken to Lower Filing. The city of Upper Filing was now too crowded and too busy to build more libraries or repositories.
When the Requisition came in, the junior clerks were flummoxed. Nothing like this had ever come through the Slots. They weren’t sure how to sort it. Instead of putting it on a cart or wagon, it was carried by a fast rider up to Upper Filing and presented, after a great deal of discussion, to the senior clerks.
The senior clerks were also flummoxed, although they didn’t share that with the clerks or especially with the junior clerks. They examined the Requisition carefully, making sure it wasn’t a forgery. No one wanted a repeat of the Incident.
After determining that the Requisition, astonishingly, appeared to be real, a delegation of the most senior clerks made the trek to Goldwatch.
There they consulted the retired senior clerks, to see if they have ever heard of anything like this happening. The Requisition was so shocking that, when the senior clerks returned to Upper Filing, there were fewer retired senior clerks in Goldwatch than when the senior clerks had arrived.
And so, finally, the senior clerks sent for October O’Leary.
October O’Leary, junior assistant hero, did not live in Upper Filing. Or even Lower Filing. He and his family lived in Annex, down on the lower slopes of the Mountain. It smelled like sheep and cow in Annex, because that’s where the farming was done.
Truthfully, October O’Leary was junior or assistant to no one, as there were no other heroes on the Mountain.
According to his grandfather, August O’Leary, there had never been a need for a hero. When the previous heroes had died of old age, they had never been replaced. During a reorganization, managing heroes stopped being the responsibility of any supervisors on the Org Chart. Now, there was no one left to promote an assistant hero to hero, to say nothing of junior assistant heroes to assistant heroes. After the last heroes and assistant heroes died of old age, only junior assistant heroes remained.
Because the O’Learys were always junior assistant heroes. That was the family business. Although there was no chance for promotion, there had never been any actual hero work to do.
None of this stopped October O’Leary. He spent the day practicing sword fighting, archery, climbing, swimming and public speaking -- all the things a hero needed to do.
His daily combat practice and exercising was something of a spectacle in the pastures around Annex. When October O’Leary would wander back into town, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, plunging his head into a trough of icy mountain water to cool off, the milkmaids used to whisper and giggle.
But October’s father, September O’Leary, said the milkmaids would grow out of ogling heroes and marry farmers or merchants or something more practical. He was constantly slipping books about accounting or animal husbandry under October’s pillow when he was out in the field, practicing.
October wasn’t discouraged. The Mountain, he knew, needed heroes. Even if no one could remember it ever happening.
So it was a modest shock to August O’Leary, September O’Leary and October O’Leary when October opened the front door to their shack in Annex one morning to find a delegation of assistant senior clerks standing on their doorstep, clutching the Requisition in their hands.
“There has been an urgent and immediate request for a hero,” the most senior assistant senior clerk said.