They [Commandant Drim and the Herald] bowed to each other
with a curt nod in passing, and the Herald took his place at the podium again.
“The process is simple,
Cadets. You will nominate two, and only two, of your number. This is to be done
seriously, soberly, and advisedly. No jokes; do not nominate a friend unless
you are quite sure of his abilities. You cannot nominate yourself, no matter
how wonderful you think you are. After the first nomination, half of your
number will join that King. Then another King will be nominated, and the
remainder will join him.”
His muzzle quirked into a
toothy smile.
“This leaves you with a
dilemma, doesn’t it, gentleman? Take the first leader offered you, or hope for
a better to come along? Well, it’s all part of the game. And now …” He reached
under the podium and brought up a sandglass that he held high. “You have ten
minutes to think on it. Then the elections will commence.”
He turned the glass over and
the hubbub began.
Korm stood still a few
moments in a haze of uncertainty, then began to slowly walk through the milling
crowd. He felt he should be doing something but couldn’t even vaguely think
what. There were knots of friends eagerly debating, groups breaking up and re-forming,
and uncertain individuals running like headless chickens between them. Korm
walked through it all like a dream. He had always been a solitary sort of boy
and didn’t think that any of the few Morgs that he knew of his year would make
a good King. He didn’t have any dog in this fight; he could only hope that
somehow with luck he would end up on the winning side.
Having reached this
conclusion, he forced himself to relax. The decision was not in his hands. Korm
held himself aloof from the chaos, standing up straight and looking around with
indifferent, methodical eyes as he passed through his excited peers. It was
what Uncle Akko called the Witness Step, and he adopted it almost without
thinking. It at least had the advantage of looking dignified. He could be a
Witness for History; that appeared an acceptable compromise with fate, for now.
He had wandered close to the
platform when the sands ran out and the bell rang once more at the Herald’s
imperious signal. The crowd huddled close around the stand, shoving and
jostling for a view, crushing Korm even nearer in the press. The young Morg didn’t
mind. In the impersonal movement, he felt more anonymous than ever. He stood,
craning his head at the podium, looking right up the Herald’s nostrils, and
felt almost nauseated with excitement. The mob went quiet, save for the scuffle
of feet and a cough here and there that rang out in the expectant silence.
The Herald raised his staff
in the air. He turned from side to side, eyes raking the throng below him.
“I ask you,” he proclaimed.
“For your first nomination as King.”
There was an absolute hush.
Eyes darted back and forth, and muzzles turned, snuffing the wind, as if they
would smell out a King. A few looked nervously at the ground. The uneasy moment
stretched uncomfortably past an invisible limit, then past another. The Herald
stamped out from behind the podium and irritably stepped to the front of stage.
“I ask you again …,” he
began crossly, but he was suddenly interrupted by a raised voice ringing boldly
out over the crowd.
“I nominate Korm, son of
Tessa, for king!”
There was an immediate
susurration, like wind over a cornfield. The Herald edged forward, eyes
squinting.
“Who speaks?” he challenged.
“I do!” the voice boomed
back. “I, Nast, of the House of Keth!”
Korm’s head swam. He was
surrounded by the murmuring of astonished voices, but he could hardly hear them
through the ringing in his ears. He started blinking rapidly, as if to clear
his vision. What was happening? He looked slowly, reflexively in the direction
of the voice.
There was Nast, standing up
straight, head raised, in a small clearing of young Morgs who had drawn away to
give him space to speak. His face radiated confidence.
“You all saw him pass among
us as we haggled and debated! His certitude, his dignity, his calm! A cool head
amid chaos. It is what a King needs! And if you need any more recommendation
beyond my words …” He looked over the crowd and spotted Korm where he stood
gaping at him with goggling eyes. “Look for yourself. Look at that beard. That
is a beard to be revered!”
A cheer went up. Korm shut
his mouth and gulped. He felt like he wanted to sink into the earth, or better
yet dissolve into air under the force of the applause thundering around him. He
looked incredulously at Nast. The other’s broad face grinned at him jovially
across the crowd and the powerfully built Morg held out a claw as if presenting
a gift.
“Korm, son of Tessa, come
forward onto the stage!” The Herald gestured with his staff to the stairs.
For a moment, Korm was
unable to move his legs, and then he found himself pushed stumbling forward,
carried along by the eager hands pounding his back in congratulation. He
managed to get up the steps on his own, nearly on his hands and knees, then
straightened up and froze as he turned to face the crowd. He could feel the
pressure of so much attention suddenly on him, like a wave trying to knock him
down. Reflexively he stood up straight, to brace against it. That seemed to
impress the other cadets: there was a wave of appreciative shouts and some
clapping. The Herald came over with terse, irritated steps and moved the stiff
Korm a few paces into position on the left.
“Korm, son of Tessa, is
confirmed a King!” he announced. “All who wish to serve under him, will now
come forward to this “side – “he gestured with his staff “- to be counted and
enrolled.”
Notes
This was the story where I
first started developing for the idea of Life Witnesses in the Morg culture. It
is, I suppose, a ‘semi-religious’ if not a priestly function. Here is a section
from my notes on King Korm: “[Uncle Akko] is a Tradition Master, which
is something in the nature of a secular priest, in his person a witness and
representative of the Higher Powers (Morlakor Shyreen, Ortha, and the good
Yorns). A Tradition Master is present at births, weddings, and burials, as well
as called to major business transactions, not unlike a notary public.” The ‘Witness
Step’ is a development from this idea.
I don’t think I particularly
began this tale with this experience in mind (it still rankled after half a
century), but suppose it was pulled in for ‘thickening’ as the story developed:
“When I was in Fourth Grade, I was actually persuaded (despite my shyness) to
run for class president, in a school project to see how elections worked. My
opponent, from a rather rich family, was able to offer everyone who voted for
him a box of jawbreakers. I, of course, was not. I don’t know why they felt the
necessity to offer a bribe; he was already much more popular than I was. When I
inevitably lost, they felt compelled to force me to take a box of candy, I
suppose to assuage their consciences and make me complicit with their schemes.
I did learn a lot about elections.” The name of this classmate, Keith, is
memorialized in the nasty Nast’s family name, the House of Keth. A bit of petty
revenge, I guess, but that’s one of the perks of being a writer and it put some
skin on the tale, at least while I was writing it.
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