Birthday Bounty 2023: Into the Archives

 

Yesterday as part of the ongoing celebration of my 60^th birthday (on the day itself Susan and Andy took me to the Chinese Buffet with Kameron and Kelsey and Ryan, and afterwards there was cake and company and a card with a present), my brother John treated me with a voyage to Kerrville (over 100 miles away) to visit a wondrous store called EntertainMart (as well as other discount stores, and a meal). I later found out that this is a franchise that has at least 11 stores here in Texas, most in the northern part of the state; the one in Kerrville seems to be the closest to us. I don’t know if this their standard operating procedure, but this one seems to have come to inhabit the building of a defunct Hastings, like a hermit crab taking over an empty seashell.

It was a beautiful, almost nostalgic experience, as it featured (both new and used) books, movies, action figures, and video games. I came away with fun memories with family and the following swag my brother bought for me.

These figures of Pete and Chip and Dale as they appear in the Kingdom Hearts games was almost the first thing I saw but the last thing I put on my ‘pile’. This was because I had assumed that such a big figure would easily be in the $30 range; but looking at it again before we left, I was happily shocked to find it was discounted to a mere $7! Having it at home and unwrapping it, I was once more reminded of the worst aspect of toy ‘collecting’ (if my random heaps could be called such a formal term as a ‘collection’), which is taking things out of their packaging without harming the toy. As action figures became more and more slanted towards ‘collectibles’ the containers have grown all the more secure. Once opened, I was particularly pleased that the smaller one-piece figures of Chip and Dale (dressed in their little engineer aprons) were actually so well made that they could actually stand on their own feet, which doesn’t always happen with figures like this.

Almost the first thing on my pile was this figure of Sauron from BST AXN (which I can only surmise means “Best Action”). I already have a Gandalf in this line, it is LOTR, so this was a no-brainer. It was $12.99. They had an Aragorn and a Legolas as well, but I felt no compunction for them; I already have so many variations of those characters in the Toy Biz line. Oddly enough, as I snatched it up and carried it around for an hour or so, I thought it was the Witch King because I was so busy with the wonder and variety of the store.

On the book front, I picked up these older versions of Tolkien books when John pointed out how inexpensive they were: The Tolkien Reader ($1.99), The Two Towers (99 cents) and The Return of the King ($1.49). At these prices I couldn’t afford not to get them!  I had other opportunities to get this run multiple times but avoided it for various reasons: I never liked the cover art, it seemed an unnecessary expense for buying what is the essentially the same thing I already owned, never found them so many of them altogether, and so on. But they were the first authorized paperback printing in the US (after a pirated edition), issued in the Sixties and early Seventies, and so relics of the First Wave Fandom. My editions were the ones with covers by Tolkien himself, and I had the run by Darrell K. Sweet, which came out after The Silmarillion (I gave the Trilogy to Kenny when he left for Florida).   I wonder how many more years must pass before I try to collect other editions, including the 50^th Anniversary run that produced this abomination:

There at EntertainMart they also had super-duper new hardback editions of The Silmarillion and the 1-volume LOTR, in the $130+ range. Ultra desirable, but quite impossible at the moment. In the meantime, I think I will simply order a nice cheap copy of The Fellowship of the Ring to complete this series. If this goshfurshlugginer month will ever end.

Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Seven)

 

“Well, well, well. I come here expecting to find a couple of renegade Ogres trying to sneak a secret snack, and instead I discover two of Mog’s brats in the nursery! This is a surprise.”

Belmok had half-expected to see the gangrel creature had risen from its tomb-like bed, but instead a completely different figure had appeared from out of nowhere, and was sitting perched on the closed platform, examining them with malicious interest.

It was human-looking, most like a tall, thin man sporting straight blonde hair, but with a few peculiarities. He was clad to his knees in a spotless scarlet tunic, belted at the waist; his crossed legs showed off swinging, toeless feet. His ears were curled close to his head and leaf-shaped, set higher on his head than any man’s. But the most disconcerting details were the eyes. The pupils were ivory-colored, only slightly darker than the whites themselves, and in the center the dark pits of the iris were slotted like a cat’s. In his angry, amused, glare, Belmok suddenly felt like a mouse.

“My, my,” he said, jumping down and pacing over to where the Morgs lay prostrate. Belmok struggled to rise but was immediately stilled by a downward gesture from the smooth, nail-less hand.

“No, you just rest there.” He walked over, studying the Morgs curiously. He bent down and stared into Belmok’s face, interested, it seemed, in his ocular. “Now, how did you two get in here with faces like that?” He looked up toward the door. “Oh. Aha. You had some help, eh, waiting outside there? Well, let’s invite him on in!”

He made a beckoning gesture with his right hand, palm up, there was a screech as of outraged metal, and without the door ever opening Leren was suddenly inside the chamber, glowing red-hot, and shaking in shock, his head quivering in alarm, but obviously unable to otherwise move as he stared blankly at their captor.

“Dear me, that must have been quite painful,” the being cooed in mock sympathy. “Sorry to sieve you through the Protection like that, but I was most anxious to meet you before you decided to leave. Well now, since we all seem to be here, I suppose introductions are in order.” He turned to the Morgs. “Please, get up.”

Belmok found he could move again, and he helped Thron get unsteadily to his feet. Thron tried to reach shakily for his fallen sword.

“None of that.”

The soldier frowned at the sudden short tone, but withdrew his hand, eyes burning sullenly. The strange being relaxed into a smile.

“Now then,” he said, advancing on the big Morg, looking him keenly in the face. “Let me see, your name is … Belmok. Oh, High Master Belmok! That must be very impressive among your fellow apes.” He turned. “And this feisty fellow is Lieutenant Thron. Such violent thoughts in your, well, I guess it must be called a mind, I suppose. One hardly needs any insight to read them.” He dismissed them from his attention, and approached the Ivra with relish, who hung almost motionless in mid-air.

“And here is the real surprise,” he said happily, like a collector gloating over a rare find. “They have been calling you … Leren? Ah, such a short name must be a real humiliation for a proud Ivra like yourself. But then, I suppose any of your people who would break the Covenant must be a little degraded. I think I’ll call you Leren too, just so we’ll all be cozy.”

He stepped back to include the Morgs in a sweeping gesture of welcome.

“And I, my new friends? I am Raksil. Behold me while you may, for you have never seen my like before! Although admittedly this body is just an appearance for the sake of you animals. I am what you would call a Yorn, of the Yeroni, and I walked the world in the beginning of things!”

“Never heard of you,” grated Thron through bleeding teeth. “What kind of flunky were you?”

Raksil raised a warning finger, and the soldier doubled over, muzzle squawking out blood, as if he had been punched in the gut.

“A little more respect, talking dust. I worked with Kelsitor in those days. I know you know that name: Master of Wisdom, Ambassador to the Morgs from the Lord of Light. I had a little disagreement with Kelsitor about the limits of the pursuit of knowledge. He said we must only study the ways of Ortha; I wanted to see to what extent things could be … developed, shall we say. When Malik offered me better opportunities … well, I just had to take it.”

He looked at Belmok.

“This one understands. I can see that he’ll do almost anything for knowledge. Even now his ears are growing longer just to hear whatever I’m saying.”

Belmok nodded, as if in acceptance of the assessment.

“Almost anything,” he admitted grimly. “But not quite, Lord Raksil. I would not side with Belg, I hope.”

“Oh, little Morg, there are rewards and temptations available to me beyond your puny dreams of knowledge. More than History, and the petty deeds of your ancestors. More than Natural Philosophy, and how the secrets of creation work. There is more than what was, and what is.” He walked back to the sarcophagus and patted it lovingly. “There is also what can be, like my dear little child Ferrik here.”

“What is this … this creature?” asked Belmok.

“Oh, ask your cloudy friend,” the Yorn smirked. “He’s been trying to analyze it with his special powers since I dragged him in here. I can sense his feeble probes.”

“It is an abomination,” said Leren, cold loathing in his voice. He twisted his head futilely, hair floating and writhing around his head. “It is a thing that should not be.”

“Don’t be cruel to my Ferrik now,” Raksil looked at them and tutted. “It’s a good thing he’s in suspension, or you might hurt the poor boy’s feelings. As it is, he hears nothing. And the little lad is just a work in progress. When he reaches his full growth, I think you’ll find my masterpiece a match even for an Ivra’s powers.”

“But what is he?” Belmok asked again. He readjusted his ocular, leaning on his staff weakly with one hand. “Is it some new kind of Ogre?”

Raksil smiled.

“You know, I don’t mind telling you, since none of you are ever going to leave here alive? When I try to brag to fellow Yorn of my grade they don’t really care. Jealous, I guess. And when I talk to my great masters, they just take the credit to themselves because I’m working for them. And I certainly can’t tell the Ogres, even though they’re dumb as dirt, and you’ll see why.”

He hopped lithely back and sat on the glassy coffin, motioning them in with his hands.

“Gather round, children, and I’ll tell you the tale. Now, there is an old Ogre legend, a prophecy, if you will, that one day, when a Great Ogre female – they are very rare, but they happen – would bear an egg from a Great Ogre male, there would be born a grand leader, a mighty champion, a King who would lead the Ogres to world domination and slay all their enemies.”

“And this is that leader?” asked Belmok incredulously, pointing.

“Oh, dear me no, that’s all chirk, as the Ogres would say. I should know; I made it up myself a thousand years or so ago. The sad truth is all female Great Ogres are sterile. An imbalance in their – well, an element in their blood, I suppose you would say. But a useful tale.”

“Must be an amusing pastime, telling bedtime stories to a bunch of muttonheads like Ogres,” Thron growled. “What a genius.”

“I’ll let that pass for the moment, Lieutenant,” Raksil said airily. “Because it was genius. It stirred them up to produce more troops for Barek’s army. It drove them to extreme actions and sacrifices in the name of this future King. It gave the poor things hope and a sense of destiny.” He stroked the casket below him. “And it perfectly positioned a place for my dear little project here, when he comes to full growth.”

Belmok wrinkled his brow.

“Well, if this … Ferrick of yours isn’t the promised offspring, what is he?”

“It is an abomination,” Leren repeated coldly. “An abomination to Orathil.”

“That’s one point of view,” the Yorn answered smoothly. “And it certainly seems to be Orathil’s. I tried many configurations for this experiment that just wouldn’t work. It appears the dear old Mother doesn’t like any meddling with her children, even such children as the Ogres. Finally, I devised this handy little room. Quite a few of Her laws are suspended in here, and I could proceed without interference. Kept many prying eyes away, too. Including a few of my rivals, let me tell you, who wouldn’t be sad to see me fail.”

“This cannot succeed,” said Leren. “It cannot exist in the world that is.”

“You know, that worried me at first? When I had Ferrik carried, newly-hatched, beyond the door there, I was afraid he might just bubble away or catch fire or something. But all the elements seemed to have harmonized – or if not harmonized, then reached a mutually sustainable antagonism. Ortha appeared to have accepted my little bastard stepchild, once he was born!”

“Elements? What elements do you mean, Lord Raksil?” Belmok’s tone was deferential, his head bowed meekly. Thron shot him a disgusted sideways look.

“Oh, it had to be mainly Ogre, you know, at least the face and the size, otherwise they wouldn’t accept him,” the Yorn went on merrily, yellow eyes crinkling. “But I mixed in plenty of Morg! There are always a few, skulking around in the shadows of the mountains. I needed that for muscles and bone structure, that upright posture. Wasn’t sure it would take, with the height, but a blend of ropy Ogre tendon gave it strength.”

“Fascinating,” the scholar said. He moved slowly, almost reverentially to the sarcophagus to peer in. “Most ingenious.” The Yorn looked pleased.

“That … that thing’s half Morg?” barked Thron angrily. “That’s sickening!”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit,” Raksil scoffed. “Spawn of Belg, Children of Aman – you’re all half-brothers of dirt through Orathil. And there’s plenty more in the mix: the keen physical senses of the Ghamen. Groka Greybeard – you’ve heard of him? – gave a donation that shared the Human potential to use magic. Just imagine it, an Ogre wizard! Why, even the Ivra had a part in my Ferrik here.” He turned smugly to the frozen Leren.

“Do you remember one called – well, the long name was in part Quellentelliqtairentair? Ah, I see that you do. Some while back that one came sniffing around Norda, just like you, and provided Ferrik with some special Ivran senses, beyond the physical ones, before passing away.” He smiled. “That part took quite a bit of experimenting, I’m afraid.”

“I surmised this ‘eye of darkness’ may have had something to do with that disappearance,” said Leren quietly. There was a slight tremor in the toneless voice and his light burned low and blue. “Monster, that was my friend.”

“Such a pity; quite a talented creature.” The Yorn leaned forward. “A shame it didn’t survive the process. But that fate doesn’t have to be yours, my friend. These Morgs,’ he gestured at them. “They’re worthless, maybe a little meal for Ferrik when he gets up, to get him used to the taste. But an Ivra, that could be a real asset in the coming war. Even a single one. What do you say? I’ve been looking for an assistant; the rewards would be great. Your life, for one. Power, for another.”

“I thank you for your kind offer,” Leren said icily. “But your power does not … smell right to me.”

“Ah, get off your high horse.” Raksil hopped down and advanced on the trapped Ivra. “You’re not so different, any of you flesh-bags, even the dainty Ivra. There is potential in all thinking creatures, even the Yorn when we are in this world, to choose our way. I know what you think, all of you: that you’re the ‘good’ ones. Well let me tell you, it’s no done deal, and you’re not more virtuous than anybody, no, not even the Ogres!” He was pacing angrily now. “There have been plenty of wrathful Morgs, and lazy Men, and violent Ghamen who’ve served Norda just as well. And Ogres? You all hate Ogres. Well let me tell you something.”

Raksil stopped, an accusing finger raised.

“There is in all of us, every descendant of Morlakor Shyreen from the beginning, a will, a tiny secret will. In you – physical things,” he said, spitting out the word – “Damn I hate having to take physical form in this world, it’s so limiting! But in you physical things the will has a special place to stand. Even an Ogre has this. Even an Ogre could - if he chose – be as good as you.”

“Bullshit,” Thron spat. “They’re brutes, through and through.”

“Oh, they have no natural bent for it and everything is done to discourage it, what is allowed in their culture, what is encouraged for their world view, but it still remains, by some infinitesimal chance, possible that an Ogre could choose to be just as good as any of you. We can’t breed it out, but we can squash it down. Just as I’ve done in dear Ferrik there.” He smiled. “He is the ultimate reconciliation of the races. Good? Evil? They are both fine choices, but only one will win. I’m offering you a chance to be on the winning side, my dear Leren.”

“No,” said the Ivra, simply, sternly.

Raksil sighed and raised his hands, shrugging. He smiled sadly.

“Well, I tried.”

Without a pause pale green snakes of fire came shooting from his hands, striking Leren and eating into his body. The Ivra shrieked, a terrible sound, the only mortal sound Thron had ever heard it make. The soldier lunged for his sword, but the movement snagged the gleeful Yorn’s eye and it moved one of its hands to send a bolt that sent the Morg head over heels to slam into the wall.

There was a sudden wailing bellow that surprised Morg, Ivra, and Yorn alike and made them look around in shock. While they had been fighting, Belmok had quietly opened the tomblike bed, drawn Thron’s knife, and driven it halfway into the dormant monstrosity’s head that now sat up shrieking in mindless pain.

Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Six)

As their eyes adjusted to the new illumination, their vision cleared and the light settled into a bleak, grey, even glow. It was cast by five softly shining crystal orbs, four sitting on plinths in the corners of the room, the fifth attached to the roof like a miniature moon. They revealed a starkly furnished room, perhaps fifty feet square, planed and smoothed with more precision than anything Ogre-made had ever been.

Belmok stepped cautiously inside, Thron at his heels with drawn sword, and both turned their heads slowly left and right, looking for any clues to the room’s purpose. There was little to see.

In the middle of the room there appeared to be a platform, rectangular in form, ten feet long and five wide. Its top reflected the light like a sheet of ice. All along the walls ran a raised ledge, like a shelf or a bench, about three feet deep. There was nothing on the shelf, or the center platform. The Morgs could see that from where they stood just inside the doorway. They started a little when the door swung quietly shut behind them, heavily pivoting on its weighted hinges, and closed with tiniest of sounds.

They paused, holding their breath, waiting to see if anything would happen. After a minute of nothing, Thron looked at Belmok. He reached back and pushed tentatively on the door. It opened easily, then swung back again with the same sigh and quiet thump. Thron shrugged. It was obviously not a trap.

Belmok sighed in relief. He gestured them forward.

“Let’s take a closer look,” he whispered hoarsely. “There may be some detail that will give us a clue about this place. Look for marks or carvings. Remember, touch nothing.”

“Don’t look like there’s anything to touch,” Thron muttered.

They began by examining at the shelf, starting at the right and moving to the left. There was little on the surface of the ledge except some round stains, as if bowls or beakers had been carelessly placed on it and never cleaned, and burns here and there like fire or acid. But Belmok’s keen eyes noticed something on the wall behind the shelf.

Every now and then there appeared on the wall faint scratchings, as if someone had written on it with a piece of chalk, and then erased it. There were single words, and sometimes clusters. They were in letters totally unfamiliar to his scholarly eye.

He pointed them out to Thron, who squinted at them and frowned. “Not like Ogre-scratch,” he said. “Not at all.”

Belmok took out a bit of parchment and a pencil. “Perhaps Leren will know,” he said quietly, and began sketching them down as they went along, the soldier watching impatiently as they paused at each new faded palimpsest.

“Will you hurry up? I want to get out of this room, this city, and this whole damn mountain!”

“I did not travel all this way not to be thorough,” said Belmok testily, making precise marks on the parchment. They had almost finished a circle around the room. “Besides, I am almost done. There is something, something important about this place, and we shall find it.” He made a copy of the last letters with a flourish. “Now, let’s look at that platform. There might be some clue there as well.”

As they approached it, the reflected light on the shiny surface seemed to move with them, and as they drew near, darkened with their reflection. They bowed in for a nearer look, then exhaled in shock at what they saw.

“Well, I’d say that’s an important clue,” said Thron, when he got his breath back.

The object in the center of the room was not a table. It was not a dais. It was a sarcophagus, covered with a sheet of material like glass, and underneath, taking up a little over half the length of the hollow within, revealed now in the shadow of their bending heads, was a body.

At first glance it looked like only another Ogre, and maybe just a thrall at that, except for its swollen head, which declared it to be growing to Great Ogre size. There was something about its body and limbs that was disconcerting as it lay still, its trunk swathed in coverlets of what looked like fine linen, totally unlike the dark rough iron-silk of all the other Ogres they had seen.

“What is it?” murmured Thron, in angry puzzlement. “What is this … thing? Is it a tomb? A shrine? Why would the Ogres honor this ugly little goblin, of all things? And in such secrecy, too!”

“I don’t know,” breathed Belmok, eyes transfixed. He studied the body carefully. “But look! Look at its arms, its legs.” He pointed slowly with one black nail, carefully not touching the glass. “They’re not spindly or crooked like an ordinary Ogre. The muscles are not long or ropy. When this creature stood, it stood like a Morg or a Man.”

Thron leaned in closer, eyes squinting.

“Mog’s beard!” he said in wonder. “Aye! And look. Its neck! Its shoulders! It has shoulders! This … this ain’t no Ogre I ever seen. This is some kind of misborn freak!”

“But it’s an Ogre, all right,” Belmok said. “That’s fairly obvious from the head.” He seemed distracted then, peering closely at the face, studying it. He frowned. “Although even that seems different somehow …”

“Ah, shit!” said Thron, drawing away in sudden disgust. “Ah, Belg’s pugging bunghole! It’s got eyelids on those buggy eyes! No Ogre’s got eyelids. What is this monstrosity? Shit!”

“So it does.” Belmok looked at it curiously, as he remembered that the usual Ogre had only a transparent membrane to moisten its bulging purple eyes. “Is this some sort of mutation?” he wondered. “What do they want with it? Why … Oh, ah!”

The big Morg pulled away. He glanced at Thron, and then around the room as if not knowing where to look. He put the staff stiffly into the crook of his arm, pulled out his ocular from the tunic under his armor, and began polishing it vigorously if absently on his sleeve, as if he hardly knew what he was doing.

“What? What is it?” Thron asked.

“It’s breathing,” said Belmok shortly, putting the glass in his eye. “It’s alive.”

For a few seconds Thron was taking aback, but then he narrowed his eyes and gripped his sword tighter.

“Well, we can soon fix that,” he barked in disgust, and before the big Morg could reach out or protest the soldier had raised his blade and put one black clawed hand on the glass to pry it open.

Belmok saw two things happen very quickly. The creature’s eyelids flew open, mindlessly, reflexively, and stared upward with blank purple glowing eyes. At the same instant Thron was knocked backward as if by an explosion and went sprawling across the floor to hit the opposite wall with a crash of battered flesh and clashing armor. The scholar looked transfixed in horror as the baleful bulbous eyes started slowly closing, and then as if released from that startling, transfixing gaze, rushed over to kneel down and examine his companion.

Belmok first made sure Thron had no broken bones and then helped him sit up. Thron was shaking his head to clear it, and Belmok was looking into his eyes to see if they were fixed, when both started with dread at a voice that suddenly sneered behind them.

Notes

The picture of 'Ferrus' began life as an effort to re-imagine Ogres into something not quite so spindly and mushroom-like, but when I came to write this story decades later, I incorporated the differences into the tale. More shall be explained in the next section.

 

Elder Toy, Ancient Joys

I only recently found this larger picture of the Baloo 'Jiggler' that I received when I was very young (the line was issued in 1966, so I would have been 3 or 4). I remember I got it in my Christmas stocking. When wound up, the metal mechanics inside made it wobble and vibrate. If you look closely in the second picture, at the bottom of the figure, you can see the round plastic plug from which those metal innards inevitably spilled. Had the shell for a toy or puppet for a little while before it fell victim to one of the parental cleaning purges that happened from time to time before we got old enough to object.

Fiddling Like Sixty

 

In a day or so I will turn 60 (if I make it). I seem to recall reading somewhere that when a man turns sixty, it’s time for him to get serious. I know that age is just a number (in my case an ominously increasing number), but sixty does seem a significant milestone. Maybe it’s all down to having ten fingers, but counting life in decades feels natural.

I have three jokes I inevitably think of on my birthday. Sometimes I even attempt to tell them. The first is a bit from an old episode of The Jeffersons, which goes something like this: “One day a poor pregnant slave woman struggled into a cornfield and came out again carrying a baby (me) in her arms …” Another is of course the old wheeze I picked up from The 637 Best Things Anybody Ever Said: “If I knew I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.” The third is from Ripping Yarns: “It’s … It's worse than that, nephew. Today … is my birthday. A day I’ve dreaded for years!” Humor, they say, is apotropaic, that is, designed to ward off evil.

For me, an inevitable result of an approaching birthday is a number of minor injuries. I don’t know if I just grow careless, distracted by impending anxieties, or if my brain hates me and arranges little accidents so I don’t feel too uppity. Anyway, I have my seasonal scratches and bumps (besides my major, long-lasting health problems) to remind me I am mortal. I’ve also been fed a string of dreams figuring dead people, cemeteries, long dark tunnels, and shoelessness, none of which I’ve thought about in my waking mind.

My birthday comes at the end of a long string of birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries in July, so I always feel that when we get to me everybody is kind of celebrated out, and since it’s the end of the month, running low on finances. I know I am. I am always given good birthdays with a special meal and a cake, cards and presents, but everyone is exhausted and low-key with the summer heat. Then again, I am a rather stuffy old codger that no-one associates jollity with; I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a raucous party.

Two past memorable birthdays come to mind. The first because it was so forgettable and forgotten. We were still Jehovah’s Witnesses at the time, so birthdays weren’t really celebrated, but they could at least be acknowledged as a change in age. I had gone the whole day without even thinking about it when in the middle of a late afternoon game of volleyball I suddenly blurted out in a blaze of recognition, “Hey, it’s my birthday!” Had the date passed my parents by as well, or were they hoping I wouldn’t notice? Neither alternative is very cheerful. The other birthday was a few years ago when I gave a ‘hobbit’s birthday party’ for my family. That means I gave them presents and bought the cake and the meal. I found it pleasant enough, but the experiment was never repeated.

There isn’t a single baby picture of me in the family album to illustrate my birth. Well, those were tough times. I’ve thought of writing a short story of a gathering of myself at 5, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60 for a life review, but honestly I’m too tired, and not sure I could get my mind in the right space.

The day before my birthday, I never exert myself unnecessarily. I keep out of the heat, don’t go to town, don’t take on any grueling tasks (like rearranging my furniture, which perversely exercises a strange fascination at this time). I’m always careful to say “If I’m lucky” or “God willing” about any future event, especially the birthday.  I’ve always felt the strange sting of “…and he was only a few days (or hours) away from his birthday!” Let me turn 60 and then crumble into dust!

And now I won’t feel like I have to make any of these jokes, observations, grumbles, or wistful statements on the day itself. Thank God!

Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Five)

 

When they left that level at last, they went down a long sloping shaft. When it bottomed out, the Morgs found themselves in complete darkness, standing in front of a doorway that, to their probing hands, felt far too small and narrow for any Great Ogre to enter. Belmok knew that even he would have to stoop.

Leren unexpectedly released the cloak, and the Morgs suddenly could hear their hearts again. There was the tiniest glimmer, and the Ivra was faintly outlined before their eyes.

“Ogres rarely ever come so deep,” it announced. “It is forbidden. The cloak is unnecessary for now. We may rest here before you proceed. It is well. Such suppression is … tiring.”

“Aren’t you going any further with us?” asked Belmok.

“Further guidance is not necessary,” Leren whispered. “The path ahead is straight, there are no turnings. There is a door at the end. It is bound with … you would call them spells, to prevent such as I or the Dunwolf too near. But Ogre thralls do pass in now and then with no ill-effect. Do not take it ill, but in this way the Morgs and Ogres are alike: you have no trestalvess … no magic.

“Enter the door,” Leren said, both light and voice fading. “You have your lamps and tinder. Do not use them until inside. Touch nothing but note all that you see. I shall await here, and then we may leave this place.”

Before the last flicker of the Ivra’s light died away, Thron, who seemed to have recovered his composure, looked up ironically into Belmok’s face, and held out an inviting claw.

“After you, High Master.”

The big Morg scowled, thrusting his underlip out, squared his shoulders, gripped his staff, stooped, and stepped with determination into the lowering black tunnel ahead.

“Quite right,” he said stiffly.

They made their way through the darkness before them, the tapping of Belmok’s staff as he probed the path ahead and the shuffling of their booted feet sounding unnaturally loud, no matter how softly they tried to make them fall. After they had walked for an unguessable distance for what seemed an incalculable time, Thron spoke up.

“Whatever we find in there,” he grated, “It had better be worth it.”

They walked on a while.

“It must be something important,” Belmok answered at last. “It would not be hidden so completely if it weren’t.”

“Aye, important,” said Thron quickly. “But important to who? Important how? To the Morgish Kingdom? To this Ivra … academic? If we go in and we find the Ogre King’s private claw-trimmers, I’m going to be very, very annoyed.”

They walked a few paces on in the darkness.

“I know,” said Belmok quietly, understanding in his voice. “I’m as anxious as you are about what we’ll face at the end of this tunnel myself, Lieutenant. But having come so far, I feel I must open that door and find out, even if I were going to die the next instant.” He paused.

“I suppose,” he concluded wryly, “You could call it the academic in me.” He walked on.

“No, I’d call it the damn fool in you …” Thron began, when suddenly he was drawn up short. Belmok had stopped.

“We are here,” he said simply.

In the darkness the scholar could hear the metallic slither of Thron drawing his sword.

“Best let me go first,” the soldier hissed. “When it comes to Ogres, important means dangerous.”

“Now, now,” said Belmok, and from his tone he might have been lecturing a dull class back in school. “I am quite ready for surprises. And besides, I am the leader of this expedition, I believe.”

“Of all the …” Thron spluttered, but the big Morg had already pushed the door open. There was a burst of light from inside, dazzling after the pitch-black of their final passage.

Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Four)

     The passageways on this level were twisted, with many crossroads, and they more and more had to heed Leren’s silent instructions. There were no more torches, but watery stone basins filled with the glowing fungus stood at every confluence, some brighter, some dimmer. Before they left this area, they passed one of the spider pits.

     It was not much different from the hatcheries in construction, and at first that’s what they thought it was, except that the floor seemed to be a gray, smooth, rolling surface. The Morgs could hear the cheeping of bats overhead. Perhaps their unseen presence disturbed the creatures; perhaps there was some quarrel over mates or food, but the sound briefly intensified until two bats came tumbling from the roof to land flapping to the gray floor of the pit below.

A tide of spiders came bursting out of every corner from under the undulating surface, which springing under their heavy bodies was revealed to be a layer of webbing stretched from wall to wall. Their legs made a quick, dry, rustling scuttle that filled the room as they converged on the fallen animals, there was a squeak cut short, and then the great spiders began slowly creeping back to their holes. Their bleached hairy bulks looked like severed hands crawling away in search of a grave.

Through this Thron stood frozen. Out of the many things he had seen since they entered the caves, this one seemed to have paralyzed his will, reached down into his core beyond even his anger into dread horror. Ogres he could fight, even against hopeless numbers, but this was a fear he was not quite prepared for, that had reached beyond his imagination. Belmok’s pinching grip pulled him in vain, and it was only the approach of an Ogre thrall that broke Thron’s paralysis and allowed him to hurry out the other way. 

Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Three)

In the murky hallways, the Morgs, even with their people’s excellent dark-sight, would still have been almost invisible to each other even without the Ivran cloak. But it was unnerving to be missing even the little sounds and hints that let one know one was not alone in the crushing darkness. The only lights were flickering torches placed at long intervals when another tunnel crossed theirs. These were tended by a squat lesser Ogre, armed with a pike, at each intersection, and they passed these with extra care. Sometimes, on this level, they passed other open doors.

     Belmok saw vast eating halls, refectories full of steam and quarreling and noisy gorging, and kitchens full of squealing beasts and iron implements little different from torture chambers. They went by places piled with weapons, armories of black and battered arms hoarded in ominous piles and racks, ready for use. Thron studied them with a calculating eye, as they moved by. Every now and then the Morgs would have to press themselves against the wall as some thrall went hurrying past on some inscrutable errand. Each time Belmok held his breath with the thought that any chance contact might lead to their discovery.

     The shafts had been hewn to Great Ogre dimensions, which gave the Morgs at least an illusion of freedom to move in. This contracted a little when they descended to the next level below. There were fewer chambers along the tunnels there, many of them shut by iron doors, their uses unguessable to the curious Belmok. He had to bite his tongue and focus his mind on their mission, to keep from distracting Leren with questions. There did not seem to be much traffic through this level, and torches were few and far between.

     This changed when they again went farther down. When they entered this level Belmok almost lost hold of Thron in surprise.

     The gate they had passed through had opened into an enormous cavern, the road they were on into an elevated path raised at least forty feet from the cave floor, without rail or curb. The entire chamber was dimly lit by dirty greenish phosphorescent moss growing along the walls and roof. Below them, segregated into separate craters by low stone walls, were the Ogre hatching pits.

     Belmok watched in fascination as they walked along, not least because each stone nest was tended by a female Ogre, the first such he had ever seen. They were exactly as the Ivra had described, if slightly better dressed than Belmok had expected, with crude jewelry hanging from their tattered crests and jangling bracelets on their withered arms. There were clutches of eggs like melons huddled together in piles, warty and rough. There were pits of newly hatched Ogres, naked and mewling angrily. Off by themselves, isolated by a particularly high wall, were young Ogres of various heights, all walking, gabbling, in a jangling mass. Every pit was watched over by an Ogress who surveyed her wards with an indifferent eye.

     As they were leaving the room, the big Morg’s attention was drawn to some squealing from a pit where a new batch of younglings were just hatching. He looked down and was in time to see one Ogre-spawn tucking hungrily down into the flesh of its weaker sibling. Though Leren had told them of such things, he paused in horror, tugging Thron to a stop as well. The nurse came scrambling out of a corner, squawking, responding to the disturbance with flailing limbs.

     She separated the two with some difficulty, but not before the bigger had devoured most of an arm and a leg and dug into the other’s bowels. The Ogress held the dying thing in her arms almost tenderly, watching its final throes with unblinking, wrinkled eyes. Then she bared her fangs, bent down, and began feeding hungrily herself.

     Belmok hurried them out of the chamber, and Thron was not slow to follow.

    Notes:

    After years of not thinking about female Ogres I suddenly found myself face to face with the question. My earliest conception, drawn about the same as we began writing Goldfire, definitely had more mammalian features:

To make the Ogres more distinctive and remote from the aesthetics of the other races of Ortha, they became more cold-blooded in nature, including their reptilian crests.

The hatching pits were, in retrospect, no doubt influenced by the Alien movies and the 1972 TV movie Gargoyles. By I tried to make the Ogre life-cycle as distinctively horrible and as ecologically plausible as possible. It was just a coincidence that I found a picture from Disney's Gargoyles of a 'rookery' that looked pretty damn close to my conception.