Korm said farewell to Uncle
Akko in the street outside, gave his name, address, and parentage at the
turnstile, then was handed, much to his consternation, a stick.
“What do I do with this?” he
asked, puzzled.
“Keep it and take care of
it,” the harried registrar said, head bowed over his parchment. “During your
training, that stick will be your sword, your spear, your shield, and your, ah,
well, your stick.”
“A sword?” Korm asked
incredulously, looking at the well-worn length of wood.
“You didn’t think we’d give
you gorbs a sharp piece of metal right away, did you?” the other said
acidly. “Next!”
He had barely stumbled
blinking into the sun of the market when he was suddenly accosted by a hearty,
roaring voice on his left.
“By Mog’s starry crown!” it
boomed. “That’s the most magnificent beard I’ve ever laid eyes on. Surely
here’s a fellow destined for greatness!”
Korm turned instinctively to
his left at the sound, cringing warily. There, already seated on a table and
surrounded by a host of followers was a big barrel-chested Morg with a broad
black beard. Although clothed no differently than anyone else, there was an air
of habitual command and casual strength about him. He held his stick
effortlessly in the crook of his arm, like a scepter.
Korm bobbed his head, only
wanting to slink by, but to his dismay the other jumped down from his perch,
landing gracefully on his feet and approaching in one confident movement, arm
extended. He pinioned Korm’s shoulder with one strong claw, and the skinny
young Morg found himself shaking hands before he knew quite what was going on.
“Glad to meet you, fellow Cadet.
And what’s your name, friend?”
“Korm, son of Tessa,” he
managed to squeeze out breathlessly. The other’s grip tightened.
“Good, good. By the gods,
what a beard! Korm,” he repeated with satisfaction, as if to fix it in his
head. “Well, sir, I am Nast, of the House of Keth.”
“The House of Keth!” Korm
squeaked. He looked at the other in awe. “I’ve heard of the House of Keth!”
There was general laughter
from the big Morg’s companions.
“You’d have to be a blind
mole-rat not to have heard of the House of Keth!” one barked.
“One of the richest, the
oldest, the most famous …,” one started listing.
“Oh, but we’re all the same
here at Camp!” Nast bellowed jovially. He shook out the sleeves of his tabard,
then held one open with his claw. “You don’t see any jewels tucked up here, do
you? What we gain here, we get by merit!”
“I guess that’s true,” Korm started,
then squawked when Nast pounded him on the back.
“Of course it’s true! And
I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot more about you, Mr. Korm.”
He gave a cheerful parting
handshake and a grin and finally let Korm go. The skinny Morg hurried away from
the babble of hearty voices as Nast rejoined his group. Although he had been
pleasant enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nast was somehow mocking
him.
Whatever the case, the
encounter had been too overwhelming for Korm. He skulked away, head down, to
the perimeters of the Market where pillars from the surrounding buildings held
up shadowy eaves. He started to duck behind one of the pillars when he was
startled to hear a voice pipe up.
“Sorry. Already taken.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,”
Korm began, trying to duck away hurriedly, but one furtive glance at the
speaker stopped him cold. His muzzle dropped open. “Oh, my,” he said softly.
“Don’t worry,” the other
said, voice full of rue. “It’s not catching.”
Before him, sitting almost
defiantly straight on the bench next to the nearly hidden table, was the palest
Morg Korm had ever seen. The stranger’s skin was a mottled pink, like boiled
ham, and his light buttermilk eyes looked back at Korm unflinchingly, as if
daring him to come up with a comment that he had never heard before. But the
most unusual thing that struck Korm dumb was his beard.
It was long and thin. It was
wispy, the hairs almost silken fine, threads rising like restless spiderweb in
the nearly non-existent wind. It was everything a beard shouldn’t be,
according to Morg lore. And it was yellow as butter, yellow as straw, yellow as
false and fleeting gold in the old songs. Korm stood petrified with curiosity.
The other let him look his
fill for a full beat, then looked away casually.
“It’s not catching, but if
you stand there like that much longer, you might catch a fly or two in your
mouth.”
Korm unfroze.
“Oh, I am sorry. Please
forgive me.” To the other’s vast surprise, Korm approached him, hand out in
greeting. “Korm, son of Tessa.”
The other shook hands, eyes
wide in wonder.
“Prull, son of Prinn,” he
said. He looked Korm over appraisingly, as if searching for signs of duplicity.
“You really don’t mind … talking to me? Even shaking my hand?”
“No. Why shouldn’t I? You’re
the first fellow I’ve ever seen of your … ah … type. I hope you’ll pardon my
curiosity. It’s just the way I am.”
“Hurr,” the other laughed
bitterly. “Folks do like gawking at a freak.”
“Not at all,” Korm said. “A
rarity, perhaps. An anomaly. And it is the anomalies in the world that can
teach us most about the truth.” He gestured. “May I sit down?”
“Not afraid of a bit of bad
luck then, are you?” Prull asked, his tone challenging.
“Oh, I’ve had some training
with my uncle as a Witness,” Korm said. “They have to go everywhere, to see
without judging. There’s no good luck or bad luck, I think. There’s just the
world and what people make of it.” He sat down.
“Well, that certainly
doesn’t jibe with the Lore I’ve heard,” said Prull, smoothing his beard
under his claws. Even his nails were nearly transparent. “And believe you me,
I’ve heard everything bad there is to hear about a yellow beard. If you think
differently, I suppose that makes you a bit of an anomaly yourself, Master
Korm.”
“I suppose so.” Korm grinned
in happy surprise. He looked around the square. More and more young Morgs were
flowing in, finding their friends, making groups, and sitting down. The noise
level was starting to rise. “I wonder if we should try to mingle more with the
others.”
“You might,” the
other growled. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my old dad. ‘All your
brothers went,’ says he. ‘You’re not going to flout the traditions; that’s the
last thing you need. The most they can do is send you home.’ It was all right
for my brothers. None of them were … like this.”
“But maybe if more people
got to know you … got used to seeing you … “
“You think that will do any
good, when even my own family … Let’s put it this way, any bit of mulishness on
my part when a boy was put down to the beard. Any bit of bad fortune that came
the family’s way? My curse. It’s made me toe the line more than most even try.
But if my own madra can’t hardly stand my presence …” Prull gestured at the
growing throng. “What makes you think they will?”
“Well, what makes you think
they won’t?” Korm countered. He loved to debate. “You can’t really be sure what
people will do, until they actually do it, can you? Even if most have rejected
you, even if most will reject you, you could make a friend or two. And
for those who don’t – forget them. Don’t make their job easier by doing it for
them beforehand.”
Prull snorted.
“You really think I could
make a friend here?”
Korm leaned back in his
chair with a little smile.
“Well, you and I seem to be
getting along pretty well, don’t we?”
That seemed to stump the
other for a minute, then he grinned back at Korm.
“You’ll excuse me saying so,
Mr. Korm, but you don’t exactly strike me as having the biggest store of common
sense in the world, at that.”
“Well, Mr. Prull, that’s
another opinion we have in common, then.”
They both laughed at that, a
laugh that was suddenly interrupted by the distant solitary stroke of the bell
in the White Tower, announcing the first hour after noon. It was immediately
followed by clanging bells from the market gates.
“Five minutes!” a voice
bawled. “Five minutes before we commence! Five minutes and the gates are
closed! Draw near the podium. Five minutes, and we commence!”
Korm jumped to his feet,
like a trained dog. He started forward, then looked back questioningly at
Prull.
“You go on ahead if you
want,” Prull said, settling back. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
Korm held back for a few
seconds, then looked helplessly at the blonde Morg.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I have this compulsion about being late. But I’m sure we’ll see each other
again. We’re stuck together at Camp anyway, right?”
“I understand,” Prull said.
“Go, go. I’ll be somewhere here at the back, but I’ll be here.” He shrugged. “I
have to be.”
“Thanks,” Korm said. He
turned reluctantly and began to make his way to the milling crowd that was
crowding around the raised platform at the south end of the square.
Notes
This little bit gave rise to
the Morgish tradition of ‘gorb’ and ‘gorbos’. As The Morgish Lexicon
states:
Feckless Gorb
While most scholars agree
that Gorb (or Feckless Gorb, as he is popularly known) was a real historical
figure, living sometime in the uneventful years between the Settling and Barek
and the Ogre Invasion, though it is sometimes jestingly asserted that it must
have been his grandfather who kept the pilot logs during the Migration [in
which the location of the Morgish Homeland was lost].
He is hard to pin down to a
definite date, though, because Gorb has become a byword for a clumsy or
thoughtless person. While some of the anecdotes connected to him are possibly
actual incidents in his life, it would be hard to say which, as many tales and
jokes became attached to him over time.
As a character, Gorb is
never described as feeble-minded or crazy, but thoughtless, careless, or
foolish in the extreme. He could be wise if he was paying attention or applying
himself, but he never does. A gorb is inexperienced or unskilled; the term is
applied to beginners or novices.
Gorb also gave rise to at
least two popular sayings. One goes “Well, Gorb’s madra loved him.” The story
goes that he was accidentally responsible for his mother’s death, and that with
her last words she forgave him. The colloquial meaning implies that one may be
enamored with one’s foolish actions, but they could lead to disaster. The other
says that “Gorb is the only one remembered from his time,” meaning both that
fame is not necessarily good, but also that it is anyway a form of immortality.
There is also a light form
of comic poetry, called ‘gorbos’. The verses are short, seldom more than four
lines long, with a loose but definite form. They purport to recount Gorb’s
amusing adventures. The following is a typical example:
“Feckless Gorb milked a
billy,
Put the squeezings in his
tea.
Took a sip, frowned, and
grumbled,
“This tastes rather odd to
me!”
It also reveals a rather odd
prejudice or superstition among the Morgs, the same sort of unfortunate beliefs
that have followed albinism through the ages, or the left-handed, or the
red-headed in our world. I deepened the lore by attaching it to Karn, the
contrarian son of Mog Gammoth, who had existed in some form since the early
1980’s. And thus the groove wears deeper. I knew Korm had to have some other ‘outcast’
or marginalized friends at camp, to oppose the socially entrenched privilege of
Nast and his party. A ‘Nerds vs. the Snobs’ situation, as it were. I didn’t
quite realize how Eighties a trope that I was using until recently.
The rather loose oath 'By the gods!' used by Nast basically means 'by all the supernatural powers', and would include Morlakor Shyreen (the Supreme Being), Orathil (a Mother Nature type), their Manichaen offspring Aman and Belg (Good vs. Evil), and the Yorn (Angels, both helpful and wicked). That Nast would lump them so carelessly together in a casual oath shows he has no real belief in any of them. If he has any 'religion', it's faith in the superiority of his family. As Uncle Akko might say, this does not augur well for him.
