Rumbles in Tumbledown
~ An Ambrose short story, part of The Watchman series ~
The Guild is watching. The Boundary is fraying.
In the rolling green expanse known as Tumbledown Shire—where the wind carried the scent of freshly baked bread and wildflowers in equal measure—life ambled along at an unhurried pace. It was a land steeped in unremarkable comforts, its folk more absorbed in the quality of their next meal than in any grand scheme of magic or cosmic upheaval. A pinch of the uncanny still hovered about the place, of course: the local blacksmith’s forge sometimes burnt with a curious blue flame, and Old Maud the milkmaid had an unsettling knack for predicting the weather down to the exact minute of rainfall. But these oddities were simply woven into the everyday life, as much a part of Tumbledown as the bleating sheep or the crooked stone fences.
For most residents, the minor mysteries of life were nothing to fret over. Better to focus on the harvest, the next village festival, or which neighbour might be pilfering the best apples from the orchard after sundown. But there existed, on the edges of this agreeable little domain, those who paid attention to the deeper undercurrents. Individuals who observed the world with a particular vigilance, forever watchful for the slightest ripple in the otherwise placid pond of existence. These figures were few in number and scarcely acknowledged by the common folk—except, perhaps, in hushed rumours or the occasional parental threat. If a child refused to heed bedtime, an exasperated mother might whisper, “Behave, or the watchers will come for you!” Never mind that no one could quite say who these watchers were, nor why they would want to snatch unruly children. Yet the tales persisted, passed along in knowing winks and tavern gossip. A person might spot a cloaked stranger at dawn, or find faint footprints by moonlight that vanished without a trace. In truth, these watchers seldom explained themselves and rarely made the effort to be understood, leaving their small legends to grow unchecked. In that sense, they were almost as mysterious as the secrets they guarded.
One such figure dwelled at the far outskirts of Tumbledown Shire, in a cottage so lopsided it appeared perpetually on the brink of collapse. The villagers seldom spoke his name, more out of disregard than malice: Tobias Finch. Older records, penned by trembling hands, supplied him with a moniker: The Weaver of Echoes. He had an air of quiet eccentricity—always hunched over ancient scrolls, pockets bulging with ink-stained scraps of parchment, lost in conversations with voices that no one else seemed to hear. Some said he could manipulate gossamer-like threads no thicker than a moonbeam, weaving illusions that lingered at the edge of one’s vision. Others insisted he was harmless enough—simply too preoccupied with esoteric fascinations to worry about day-to-day trivialities like local gossip or who might owe whom a favour.
On a particular morning drenched in fog, Tumbledown Shire looked like a half-finished painting, its colours muted by a pewter sky. Tobias stood in the middle of a narrow lane, the hem of his cloak damp from stray puddles, posture stiff as though bracing for some unseen gust. He sensed it before he saw it: a subtle quiver in the air, as if the world itself had drawn a sharp breath.
“A tear?” he murmured under his breath, frowning. Rifts were rare—accidents in the natural order of things. Most inhabitants of Tumbledown wouldn’t recognise one if it glowed pink and started yodelling, but Tobias was no ordinary inhabitant. He set down a scroll he’d been perusing (something about an obscure centuries-old wormwood ale recipe) and pressed his palm to the damp cobblestone. A faint whisper of energy played across his fingertips until a wild bee, thoroughly unimpressed by the intrusion, buzzed angrily and sent him jerking his hand away. He winced, muttering a half-hearted apology to the agitated insect, before placing his hand on the cobblestone again—this time more carefully. Now, yes, that hum in the air felt more like what he’d first suspected. He exhaled slowly, torn between apprehension and a strange flicker of excitement. Rumours of a rogue artisan had reached him in hushed tones—someone dabbling in intangible bargains, weaving regrets and memories like a tapestry waiting to unravel. Could this fledgling rift be tied to that meddling? Tobias hoped it was mere coincidence. Yet hope had never been one of his strengths.
With a look of wary resolve, he rummaged in his cloak and retrieved a single strand of glimmering thread. The line shimmered like a captive rainbow as he coaxed it into the shape of a delicate dragonfly. It beat its wings with a soft hum. “Find Miles Fletcher,” Tobias whispered to the tiny construct. Miles—known by some as the Warden—was the man tasked with sealing breaches in what scholars called the Boundary, though most folks would have balked at the very notion of such a thing existing.
The dragonfly fluttered into the swirling fog, vanishing into the haze. Tobias stood there a moment longer, brow furrowed in thought. Then, tucking the scroll under his arm, he hurried back towards his crooked cottage. The sight of a rift—no matter how small—stirred equal parts dread and scholarly intrigue in him. If it was genuine, he would find clues in his archives. If not… well, he’d rather confirm a false alarm than leave the Boundary compromised.
Inside his musty study, Tobias brushed aside dusty tomes and half-finished notes, lighting a lantern against the gloom. The air smelt of old parchment, faint traces of incense, and the lingering flatulence of Cecil, his ageing bulldog. He’d tried—in vain—to teach the old hound a measure of discretion, but at Cecil’s venerable age, it seemed a hopeless endeavour. He ran a hand across the spines of carefully labelled scrolls—treatises on intangible realms, records of past anomalies—searching for anything that might hint at rifts triggered by memory-trading. Now and then he paused, brow creasing in concentration, as though listening for another tremor in the fabric of reality.
Meanwhile, across Tumbledown, the morning hustle centred on the local bakery—a squat, cheery building with a perpetually steaming chimney. Amid the bustle of customers craving fresh pastries stood Miles Fletcher. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a perpetual furrow between his brows, he didn’t exactly fit the image of a carefree villager. Yet here he was, engaged in what could only be described as a heated debate with Mrs Thistlewood, a formidable customer who insisted the croissants were half the size they used to be.
“I assure you, madam,” Miles said, trying to maintain a polite tone, “they’re precisely the same size as last week, and the week before that.”
Mrs Thistlewood huffed, brandishing a croissant like a weapon. “Nonsense! Look at this wretched thing—it’s practically bite-sized!”
Miles resisted the urge to roll his eyes, reminding himself he was supposed to be blending in, not causing a scene. “Perhaps you’re just extra hungry today.”
Mrs Thistlewood squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not even the owner, Fletcher. Since when do you speak for the bakery?”
Before Miles could answer—and perhaps slip up by revealing that he was only there to keep an otherworldly ‘ambassador’ from devouring the entire pastry stock—a soft buzzing caught his ear. He glanced sideways and nearly groaned. Hovering by his shoulder was a tiny construct shaped like a dragonfly, its wings shimmering as though spun from stardust. The little creature darted around his head in an urgent dance, seemingly intent on making itself impossible to ignore. A few of the bakery’s customers noticed, murmuring in surprise or delight. Mrs Thistlewood’s eyes widened.
“That’s no normal insect,” she whispered, her indignation briefly forgotten. “What in the name of sweet butter—”
Miles held up a hand to forestall further questions. The dragonfly was Tobias’s doing; it had to be. “That old bastard”, he sighed, feeling the weight of his real duties settle over him. “Pardon me,” he said brusquely, turning away from Mrs Thistlewood’s outraged spluttering. “I’m afraid I have pressing business to attend to.” Without waiting for a reply, Miles ducked out of the bakery. Once outside, he extended a finger, allowing the dragonfly to perch upon it. He recognised the faint shimmer of Tobias’s handiwork, and the urgency in its fluttering wings told him all he needed to know.
“All right, all right,” he muttered to the construct. “I’m on my way.”
Within minutes, Miles Fletcher was striding through the fog-bound lanes towards Tobias Finch’s ramshackle cottage. The pastry disputes of Tumbledown would have to wait—something far more significant demanded his attention.
Back in his study, Tobias turned at the sound of footsteps on the rickety porch. Dust motes swirled in the lantern light as he closed yet another scroll, frown deepening. He wasn’t entirely certain of what he was looking for—only that he’d never encountered a rift first-hand, and the possibility both thrilled and alarmed him.
The door creaked open, revealing Miles, who stepped inside with a swirl of chilly fog. “Well,” the Warden said, squaring his shoulders, “seems you’ve found something I can’t very well ignore.” Tobias nodded, gesturing towards the cluttered desk. “I’m not positive yet. It’s either a genuine tear in the Boundary,” he paused, lips quirking in a wry half-smile, “or I’ve finally lost all sense and started feeling tremors that aren’t there.”
Miles’s expression was grim. “Let’s hope it’s the latter. But I’m guessing we won’t be that lucky.” He folded his arms, trying to mask the flicker of unease behind his stern demeanour. “So tell me precisely what you felt, then. An intangible quake? A memory gone adrift?”
The old man hesitated, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “It was… subtle, at first. Like a distant bell ringing at the back of my mind. But then—just for a moment—I sensed something pulling at the edges of reality, as though a thread had come loose in a carpet.” He motioned vaguely in the air. “I know it sounds mad, but if you’d felt it yourself, you’d understand.”
“And you’re certain it wasn’t just a trick of the fog?” Miles pressed, though there was a note of genuine curiosity laced with concern. “Some stray enchantment… or more of Cecil’s questionable emissions?”
“Ha.” Tobias managed a tight smile. “Believe me, this was different. It had that… weight to it, as if something or someone was deliberately testing the boundary’s seams. Not just an accidental blip.”
Miles let out a low grunt. “Brilliant. Because that’s exactly what we need—someone toying with forces beyond their understanding...”
They shared a look—two watchers of the unseen, aware that whatever lay beyond the veil of ordinary life in Tumbledown was stirring once again. And if a true rift had opened, there was no telling what might slip through—or who might be responsible for prying it open in the first place.
Miles cleared his throat, glancing pointedly at the scattered scrolls. “You realise I’m not exactly thrilled that it was you who felt the tremor first, Finch. I’m supposed to be the one keeping watch for cracks in the Boundary.” Tobias offered a thin smile. “Well, I’d apologise if I planned on making a habit of it, but I assure you, I’d prefer not to sense a rift at all.” He tapped a finger against the nearest parchment, brow furrowed. “Still, I’d like to be certain we’re not chasing shadows before we report this to the Council.”
“Agreed,” Miles said, exhaling a breath that seemed to carry more weight than the morning fog. “The last thing we need is a false alarm. But if it’s real…” He paused, letting the implication speak for itself.
“If it’s real, it’s serious,” Tobias finished. “We’ll need every resource we can muster.”
An unmistakable rumble emerged from beneath the desk, followed by a pungent wave that made Miles wrinkle his nose in distaste. “For the love of all that’s holy—can we crack a window open in here?”
Tobias stifled a chuckle and moved to lift the warped window latch and allow a cool breeze to filter into the study, mingling with the lantern glow.
“All right, so we keep this quiet for now,” Miles said, stepping closer to peer at the scattered scrolls. “Look for more clues, confirm it’s a genuine rift, and then we bring it to the council.” Tobias nodded. “Exactly. I’d rather have answers than guesses—especially given how peculiar this situation already seems.”
They shared a final, resolute look. Outside, a low wind rattled the eaves of the crooked cottage. Something unseen had stirred in Tumbledown, and whether or not the folk realised it, life in the shire was no longer quite so ordinary.
Further east, beyond rolling hills and meandering streams, lay a modest settlement known as Latchmoor. It wasn’t nearly as placid as Tumbledown—its streets were narrower, its laughter louder, and its architecture questionable at best. At the very end of a winding lane stood a curious little shop, its windows brimming with peculiar objects and dusty bottles with faded labels. A tall, bespectacled shopkeeper ambled about inside, rearranging his wares with a practised eye. He was known to procure items one couldn’t readily find elsewhere: intangible trinkets, whispered secrets, even the odd regret or two, if rumours were to be believed.
On this particular afternoon, he was tending to his inventory of half-forgotten curiosities, blissfully unaware that across the countryside, a pair of watchful eyes was already zeroing in on him. He polished a cracked crystal vial, pausing to admire the dancing reflections before setting it aside. Outside, a clatter of horses’ hooves and the bustle of townsfolk reminded him of the everyday world. Inside, however, a hint of something altogether stranger seemed to hum in the stillness. Had he known of Tumbledown Shire’s unfolding predicament—of rifts and wardens and hush-hush investigations—he might have taken his current peace far less for granted. But for now, he hummed a tuneless melody, quite content to mind his own peculiar business. Little did he suspect that, soon enough, even a quaint corner of Latchmoor would not be beyond the Guild’s vigilant reach.