Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Two)

The next day the Market in Morg City was closed and vacated by noon, leaving the vast central area of tables and benches eerily empty. Booths were erected across the four great entryways and registrars took their places next to swing bars, and at the last stroke of the hour, young male Morgs began making their way into the square, some warily, some triumphantly, some merry, some sober. The one thing they all had in common was that besides being clothed in the same simple crude robe of rough material, they carried nothing whatever with them, not the simplest trinket or plainest rag. For the next few months, all they had was to be supplied by the kingdom.

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.