"Kren" Part 19: Forgetteries

“Look,” Kren began, starting to stand up, but a wave of dizziness suddenly took his head, and he dropped back heavily into his chair. He blinked. The room seemed to him to be expanding, or that he himself was growing smaller. The surroundings blurred and oozed, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the reeling discoordination. He clutched his head.

“What did you do! What’s going on?” he barked, and out of the darkness beyond his pressed eyelids he heard an utterly unfamiliar voice.

“She’s dying.”

His eyes flew open.

Kren was no longer surrounded by the low darkened walls of the familiar workshop, but instead looked on a lofty, wooden chamber. It was brilliantly lit on all sides by several lamps, familiar in design but unusually large. But what really astounded him were the other Morgs.

Kren had always imagined that any Morg would look like more or less like himself except perhaps for his discoloring stain. Nothing could be more different than the pair that loomed before him now. One was old, thin as a fencepost, with a mahogany face that looked like a mask set in the wilderness of his white hair and beard. The other was muscular but fat, but the bags of skin hanging from his arms argued that he had once been fatter still. His beard was a foxy red that almost blended away into the scarlet stain that was already blooming on his face.

But the most shocking thing was that they looked to be about eight feet tall.

“We’re all dying,” rumbled the fat one. “Some just faster than the others. The townsmen are already digging a hole for Rist and Trell.”

“Avert!” The old one sketched a hasty sign in the air. “You never know the Will of Morlakar! Don’t go buying trouble, Ferrit.”

“And yet you say that she’s dying,” the other pointed out.

“The last signs are on her.” The old Morg stroked his white beard sorrowfully. “It takes no prophet to judge her future. Come. We must do what is necessary.” He turned and crooked a finger. “You. Child. Come with me! You shall bear Witness.”

Without any remembrance of rising, Kren found himself on his feet and stumbling wide-eyed and mute towards the towering pair. He felt as if he had no choice.

“Do you really think he’s old enough, Pon?” the red one asked.

The old Morg shrugged.

“What choice is there?” There was watery pity in his eyes. “Besides, it may be his last chance …” He didn’t finish the thought, but instead took Kren’s shoulder with a firm hand and began guiding him to the door that suddenly loomed behind them.

“Come, child, we must see your mother.”