Structural enchantments. The words echoed in the dusty confines of my skull, refusing to dissipate like the last, precious vestiges of the Dragon's Leaf caffeine buzz.
I held the chipped mug, now empty save for a few pathetic, spent tea leaves clinging forlornly to the bottom. Adequacy had been achieved, briefly. Now, the familiar landscape of low-grade irritation reasserted itself, like stubborn weeds reclaiming neglected pavement.
Grumbleson's terrified retreat, his face alight with the dawning horror of mystical interpretation, should have been amusing. On some theoretical level, perhaps it was. Observing sentient beings actively choose nonsensical explanations over obvious reality held a certain academic interest, like watching lemmings enthusiastically embrace cliff-diving as a viable migration strategy.
But when you were the rock they insisted on perceiving as a divine signpost pointing towards those cliffs? The amusement rapidly curdled into pure, undiluted annoyance.
Structural enchantments. Performed with a wobbly hammer and rusty tin. Applied to a roof threatening imminent collapse due to sheer builder incompetence. What's next? Am I going to be credited with 'aligning the foundational ley lines' if I trip over a loose floorboard and accidentally correct its positioning? Given the trajectory of Oakhaven's collective delusion, probably.
My reputation, already a fragmented mosaic of contradictory nonsense (Protector, Curser, Compost Mystic, Sign Pacifier), had gained a new, profoundly irritating tile: Magical Handyman. I needed business cards. "Bob: Formerly Chronoclasmically Indifferent. Now Offering Vague Metaphors and Mystical Roof Repair. No Refunds. Satisfaction Highly Improbable."
A scraping sound at the door. Not the frantic scrabble of a displaced rodent. Not the hesitant tap of a confused adventurer. This was the purposeful scrape of someone adjusting their footing before launching an assault. An assault of bureaucracy and misplaced expectations.
I didn't need cosmic senses to know who it was. The ambient air pressure shifted slightly, burdened by impending platitudes and poorly articulated requests. Grumbleson. He was back.
Why? Hadn't I sufficiently terrified him with my display of 'vital foundational work'? Didn't he have council minutes to misinterpret? Turnips to adjudicate? Village idiots to placate? Apparently not. My existence seemed to be a black hole for his administrative focus, sucking all sensible priorities into an event horizon of pestering me.
With the sigh of a dying star relinquishing its last photon, I opened the door.
There he stood. Mayor Grumbleson. No longer panicked. Oh, no. That brief flash of understandable terror had been replaced by something far worse: Purpose. He puffed out his chest, straightened his mayoral chain (which was slightly askew), and beamed. A wide, official beam. The kind that precedes monumentally stupid requests delivered with utmost confidence.
"Bob! My good fellow! Excellent!" He peered past me into the gloom. "Foundations still... firm?" He winked. A conspiratorial gesture that made my skin crawl, metaphorically speaking. Mostly.
"Shop's still standing," I replied, my voice flat enough to calibrate surveying equipment. "Barely."
"Ah, modesty! Ever the modest Guardian!" Grumbleson chuckled, apparently deciding 'Guardian' was my official title now, superseding 'Magical Handyman'. Keeping track was exhausting.
He stepped inside, uninvited but unstoppable, like a slow-motion avalanche of mediocrity. "Bob, the Village Council sends its profound… appreciation!" He clasped his hands together. "Your insights! Your diligence! Your… structural fortitude! Remarkable!"
He was laying it on thick. Buttering me up. For what? A request to magically guarantee a prize-winning turnip at the upcoming festival? A plea to enchant the village well against... excessive frog populations?
"The roof patch will likely fail by the next rainy season," I stated, injecting a dose of dreary reality into his inflated praise balloon. Let's see him turn that into a positive metaphor.
Grumbleson blinked, momentarily thrown. Then rallied instantly. "Ah! A profound observation! A reminder that even the strongest foundations," he patted his ample belly, "require continuous upkeep! That vigilance is key! That the cycle of decay and renewal affects even… roofs! Truly, wisdom in every utterance!"
Deflating his delusion was like trying to compress water. Impossible. He simply absorbed the negativity and reshaped it into more proof of my baffling sagacity.
"Bob," he finally got to the point, his tone becoming serious, almost reverent. "The Council, inspired by your… proactive maintenance… humbly requests your insight. Your guidance."
Guidance. Again. The word hung in the air like stale cabbage fumes.
"We face… a structural challenge," Grumbleson continued, lowering his voice. "A matter impacting the very flow of village life. Our artery. Our connection."
He paused dramatically. Waiting for me to ask. I waited for him to spontaneously combust from sheer self-importance. Stalemate.
"The bridge!" he finally blurted out, unable to sustain the suspense. "The old wooden bridge over Gurgle Creek! It wobbles, Bob! It wobbles!"
He pronounced 'wobbles' as if describing the impending collapse of reality itself. Which, given Aerthosian construction standards, wasn't entirely implausible for the bridge.
"We fear for the children! For the livestock! For the integrity of turnip transport during high market season!" Grumbleson wrung his hands. "The council debated repairs, of course. Thicker planks? New ropes? But then… Councilor Willowbrook," (probably the village idiot emeritus), "recalled your profound work on the… upper structures." He nodded towards my leaky roof. "And suggested we seek your deeper understanding. Your metaphorical insight into strengthening its foundations."
My brain bluescreened for a fraction of a second. They wanted mystical advice. Metaphorical insight. On fixing a wobbly wooden bridge. Based on my demonstrated expertise in nailing rusty tin to rotten thatch. The stupidity… it was evolving. Achieving new, unprecedented levels of irrationality.
My first instinct was to slam the door in his face. My second was to explain, very slowly, using small words, that I was not an oracle, not an enchanter, not a metaphorical engineer, just a deeply annoyed individual trying to be left alone. My third instinct, born of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and a desperate desire for him to leave, was to give him exactly what he technically asked for, stripped bare of all mysticism. The most boring, practical answer possible.
"Fine," I sighed. The word felt heavy, like dragging anchors through cosmic sludge. "The bridge wobbles?"
Grumbleson leaned forward eagerly, practically vibrating with anticipation. "Terribly!"
"Probably inadequate bracing," I stated flatly, picturing the likely slapdash construction. "Check the diagonal supports. Are they properly seated? Bolted securely? Or just nailed?"
Grumbleson blinked. "Diagonal supports… yes, I believe there are some timbers… criss-crossed?"
"Ensure they form proper triangles," I continued, my voice a monotone drone of engineering basics. "Triangles are strong. Resists shear force. Basic geometry. Use bolts, not just nails. Thick ones. Galvanized, if available, to resist rust." Doubtful anything galvanized existed within fifty parsecs of Oakhaven, but worth mentioning the principle.
"Triangles..." Grumbleson repeated slowly. "Strong... Bolts, not nails..."
"Check the piers," I went on, warming slightly to the topic only because it was preventing me from screaming. "The vertical supports in the creek bed. Are their bases secure? Scoured by the current? Undermined? Pile rocks around them. Gabions, if you can manage it – wire cages filled with stones. Stabilizes the footing."
"Gabions..." he murmured, sounding slightly dazed. "Wire cages... stones..."
"And the deck timbers," I concluded, running out of obvious bridge-related failure points. "Replace any rotten ones. Ensure they span adequately between supports. Use thicker timbers if possible. Distributes the load better." My gaze drifted towards the door. Almost done. Almost rid of him.
I finished. Silence. Grumbleson stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. His eyes were glazed over, not with confusion, but with the incandescent glow of someone experiencing profound, world-altering revelation.
"Astonishing," he finally whispered.
Oh no.
"Absolutely… breathtaking," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion. "Bob… the depth! The layers!"
I braced myself.
"The diagonal supports!" Grumbleson exclaimed, clutching his mayoral chain. "Properly seated! Bolted! Forming triangles! It's not just about wood, is it? It's about the connections within the village! The interlocking bonds between families! Properly seated in tradition! Bolted with loyalty! Forming the strong triangle of community – Elders, Adults, Children! Yes! Bolted, not just nailed with temporary whims!"
My jaw might have actually dropped slightly. Metaphorically.
"And the piers!" he went on, gaining steam, practically vibrating now. "Check the footings! Scoured by the current! The current of time! Of change! We must examine our foundations! Our history! Pile the rocks of shared memory around them! Build the gabions – the strong cages of custom and law – to protect our base from the eroding tides of the outside world!"
He was practically hyperventilating. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"And the deck timbers!" he gasped. "Replace the rotten ones! The outdated ideas! The unproductive members! Use thicker timbers! Bring in stronger voices! Distribute the load… the load of responsibility!"
He beamed at me, tears welling in his eyes. "Bob! You haven't just told us how to fix a bridge! You've given us a blueprint for strengthening the very soul of Oakhaven!"
He bowed deeply, a maneuver that strained his waistcoat alarmingly. "Thank you, Guardian! Thank you for your profound, multi-layered wisdom! I must report this to the Council immediately! They will be overjoyed! Overwhelmed!"
He then turned and practically ran out of the shop, presumably to share his mangled interpretation of basic engineering principles as divine village policy.
Leaving me alone. Again. In the dusty silence. Staring at the space where the Mayor had stood, vibrating with metaphorical fervor.
Blueprint for the soul of Oakhaven. Derived from advice about bolts and rocks.
I slowly walked over to the wall. Considered banging my head against it. Gently, at first. Maybe it would dislodge the sheer absurdity. But then I remembered Grumbleson's reaction to the roof patch.
Hitting the wall might be interpreted as 'Testing the Vertical Foundations of Village Morality'. Or 'Communing With the Spirit of Plaster'. Or something equally, depressingly moronic.
No. Head-banging was out. Too risky.
I needed tea. More Dragon's Leaf. Now. The pouch felt tragically light. Maybe I could try re-steeping the old leaves? An act of desperation. A metaphor for my dwindling hope?
No. Stop it. Must resist the urge to think metaphorically. It was clearly contagious in this dimension.
Just... tea. Plain, literal, hopefully still slightly caffeinated tea. My last bastion against the encroaching tide of applied metaphorical interpretation.