The Dungeoneers

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Colm Candorly had nine fingers and eight sisters. He was born short the finger and quickly learned to make do without it. He would trade five more of them and the better portion of his toes for a moment of peace and quiet.

They came in bunches, the girls, as if they couldn’t bear to be alone, even for a moment. Triplets first, then a set of twins bracketing each side of the Candorlys’ only boy, and finally the baby, Elmira. Mrs. Candorly insisted little Elm would be the last, but Mina Candorly was an indisputably healthy woman with biceps the size of house bricks and hips the width of an oxcart, who loved her husband very much and her children even more, so no one was holding their breath. Least of all Colm.

Except when they made him. Hold his breath, that is. The sisters, that is… pinning him down near the meadows outside the Candorly farm and thrusting handfuls of pollen-packed posies into his face until he turned red and blew snot all over himself. It was their idea of torture.

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