Friday Fiction: Thrand (Part Sixteen)

Kettle slowed down a little. Backaways Street was long and straight, and right in the middle, at the gate in the dump, sat Grelda.

The little Morg slowed down a bit, not out of fear, but more awed at the enormous figure sprawling silently on her makeshift throne. Grelda never opened an eye, claws folded over her belly as it rose and fell rhythmically, but Kettle hadn’t come closer than five paces when she murmured rather distantly, “Greetings, child.”  She shifted a bit, rags rustling. “What brings you to the dump today? Street brats don’t have any garbage … None that they don’t keep themselves, anyway. Come to rummage?”

“No, ma’am.” Kettle reached in and brought out the stowed leftovers, a meat pie and some little pastries. “I’ve had a bit of luck today, and I thought I’d share it with you, if you please.”

The fat Morgess opened an eye at that, which went wide at the sight of the offering. Kettle dusted them off a little and held them out. Grelda murmured in appreciation as she plucked them out of Kettle’s hand; they quickly disappeared into the folds of her own clothes. They were quickly followed by fruit: apples and peaches and a nectarine.  The last seemed to particularly impress the lady.

“Lucky indeed,” she growled. “This grub looks like it comes from the Justice kitchens, if I’m not mistaken.”

‘You’re right, of course, Madra. I just been there. In fact …” Kettle hesitated a moment. “In fact, that’s something I’d like to ask your advice about. “

Grelda chuckled.

“Don’t tell me you’re in trouble with the Courts already, at your age?”

“No, ma’am.” Then Kettle told her the whole story, of Thrand’s rescue and of their meal and of the judge’s surprising offer. Grelda made little impressed murmurs like ‘Mmm, mmh’ and sometimes mild exclamations of surprise. When Kettle was finished with the tale, the little Morg looked at Grelda anxiously.

“Anyway, what I wanted to ask you is, do you think I should do it? It would be a big change. It sounds good, but maybe it’ll be just a big bucket of worms for me.”

 Grelda raised her bushy eyebrows.

“It’s a fine opportunity, not the sort of thing offered to everybody, especially little street brats. Old Judge Thrand must see something in you that makes him think you’re up to it. But really it’s up to you, what you want to do. How do you feel about it? Do you doubt yourself?”

 Kettle hesitated.

“Well, I do want the job, even it’s only for regular meals and a chance to learn more reading. After a year I can always leave, but I’ll always feel like a quitter then, I think.”

The little Morg looked uneasy.

“Also, there something Mr. Thrand doesn’t know about me. Do you think I should tell him about it before I accept the offer?”

Grelda chuckled, her vast bulk quaking with private amusement.

“The High Justice seems to think he’s wise; it might do him a little good to realize he’s not all-wise. Accept the offer by all means, and do as well as you can, little one.”

Kettle’s eyebrows unknotted, muzzle breaking into a toothy grin.

“Thank you, great lady. You set my mind at ease.” The little Morg turned and set off at a great pace, tatters flapping. Grelda watched the retreat with hooded eyes, then reached her claw into the recesses of her clothes. She drew out the nectarine, and examined it carefully before taking a deep sniff. It was not often that such delicacies came her way. Finally she took a bite, chewing with hardly a movement of her muzzle, carefully not letting any juice escape. Grelda closed her eyes and swallowed. For a moment she was still. Then a vast but nearly silent laugh shook her body.