Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part Fifteen)

 

Kettle swallowed a huge mouthful and took a long speculative sip of ale.

“That’s a lot to swallow at once, boss. Can I have a little time to think about it? Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but I have somebody I’d like to confer with before I make any big decisions.”

Thrand was a little taken aback. What could the boy be thinking about that would be a drawback to the situation? Why wouldn’t he jump at a chance to leave the streets? He’d turned down plenty of eager youngsters who had applied for a page job, from good families, too, and with ambitions.

“How long would you need?” he asked cautiously. “I was rather hoping to get things done and started with.”

“Oh, not too long. Suppertime at the latest. I feel I’d probably like the job, but I know a really wise lady I think I got to talk to first before I leap into the lake, as it were.” Kettle looked up at Thrand anxiously. “You understand, don’t you? It’s a pretty big change in life. All I’ve known so far is the street life. It stinks, but there’s a certain freedom there.”

The old Morg shrugged.

“I’ve never considered that aspect of it before. I can see how you might hesitate a bit before binding yourself to these musty old halls, even for only a year; to be at someone’s beck and call at every hour of the day. Well, I can’t really grudge you a few hours of reflection, but I do hope you will ultimately accept my offer. I’m already feeling the urge to indulge myself after these short commons, and I really need a personal watchdog, you know.”

Kettle smiled.

“Don’t worry, boss. I’ll be back in time to take you out on your evening walk and get you some bread and water. But right now, I got to polish off this meal.”

 

It didn’t take Kettle long to finish, and that was partly because bits and pieces of food from the plate kept disappearing into the folds and pouches of the little Morg’s tattered clothes. By the time they had walked to the back gate again and prepared to say farewell, Kettle was an oddly bulging little figure. They shook hands, and then the young Morg melted away into the passing foot traffic. Thrand arranged with the guards at the gate to let the child back in, no matter what time the return, and then headed back to his chambers. It was time for him to check in on the Crownhelm at last, he thought.

 

Morg City, or Mog-Tel-Syr as it was now more formally known (though most still rather lazily called it Morg City), has five rubbish dumps. The largest lies to the south, halfway between the Palace and the city wall; the lesser four are offset between the compass points. Kettle took the most direct streets to the smelly, smoking tip where it lay contained within sooty, red-brick walls. There, at the entrance, presided Grelda the Great.

She was a Morgess, immensely fat, but fast on her feet, almost acrobatic, with an enormous bush of curly hair, whether black or brown it was hard to tell. She dressed in bewildering layers of tattered dresses and shawls and big black boots. She carried a black stick, not as a cane, but as a rod of authority.

She seemed to have a perpetual snarl and a squint, but these were no true indicators of her mood. These same features could be puzzled, judging, or compassionate. One could only know when she was truly angry because her eyes went red. She was rather ugly by Morg standards of feminine beauty, but this fact did not seem to faze her.  Though enormously female physically (her big warty breasts like melons), she was peculiarly sexless, or at least people tended to shy away from thinking of her in a sexual manner.

Legend has it that when she was very young (too young, in fact) she lost a baby (to an unnamed boyfriend) and was ever after unable to conceive. That still qualifies her as a Madra, or mother, however, and that affected her rather unusual position in the City.

She governed there at the Central Dump, perched near the wide ungated entrance on a mound that may have a chair under it somewhere beneath the piled rags and dirty flat cushions. She will stop patrons as they enter and check their burdens, often removing items that seem to be of special interest to her. No one passes by this inspection, although there is room on either side. Each load costs a penny; nothing is accepted after sundown; those who particularly divide their garbage neatly as to what they think she might like are sometimes passed without payment. But this job is only the tip of her mysterious position.

Sometimes after they have thrown their load, a lady (or, as it might be, two or three ladies) will stop to talk and pass the time of day with her. They show her enormous respect, not how you would imagine anyone would treat an old dump woman. After they have thoroughly unburdened themselves, and Grelda has conversed with them mostly in grunts and short sentences, the lady morgs will bow in deference and leave quietly. Respect for her has spread to the menfolk, and no street urchin dare disturb or torment her, and few of them will go to speak to her.

The humans of Morg City wonder if she might be some kind of witch, and approach her with caution. But the truth about her and the power she wields is greater and stranger than they can imagine. For she is the Great Madra of the City.

No one has ever conferred the title on her nor would she ever claim it for herself. No one can say when it became manifest. She carries her authority without pride or pomp. It is an unseen haze, Kettle thought, approaching with slowing footsteps, a kind of mist surrounding her. Was it because of her suffering? Her unattachment to family or caste? Males and business companies may go to the courts or the king for justice, but madras go to Grelda to know what she says, and what she says is accepted as unappealable. Kings are chosen and rule from on high; the Great Madra can only be known and acknowledged but never spoken of, and when they know her, they know her without words or ceremonies.

The fires of the Central Dump burn all evening. What Grelda does after she puts them out, nobody knows. And no-one dares call her ‘the Great’ to her face. This is where Kettle was headed for advice.

Notes

The whole part about Grelda and the dump was largely written as a sketch as soon as I foresaw her part in the story; as such, the voice and tense in which it is written might be a little confused. I have tried to rewrite it a bit, but not as extensively as I think it will need to be eventually. It's full of a lot of 'telling' and needs more 'showing.' But frankly, right now I'm just too tired. Next part I should be going back to the active voice with the new writing.