Mora Madra, Mama Mia!

MORA MADRA

The very old pages of ‘Ortha Lore’ mention the Fathers and Mothers of the Races. Mog Gammoth’s spouse is called Mora, and there is little more mentioned about her. I now feel I can say some more about Mora.

The odd fact is that, in Ortha, there are few written legends about her, not because of her insignificance, but because of her importance, and her living closeness in Morg lives. While Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’), Mora’s full name and title is Mora Madra (which is closer in meaning to ‘mommy’ than the simply biological term ‘mother’).

Morgish reverence for Mora is an open secret, but seldom discussed. While kings (elected executives) among Morgs and the humbler office of witnesses are obvious stand-ins for Mog himself, they are mere underlings or substitutes and liable to criticism. Any and every Morgess who conceives shares directly in the ‘office’ and aura of Mora and has the title ‘Madra’. Mog Gammoth is seen as somewhat remote, if all-seeing; Mora is there, in some sense, in every mother.

This has led to a code or tradition among the Madra, more strictly enforced than any written law. It is only really understood by them. It concerns not only a kind of ‘pecking order’ and its rules, but also a balance between personal ambition for your family and the good of the realm. Whoever is the public face of the family, the Madra is the true head. In effect, the Madras of all the families are an unofficial but most effective Senate. Each Madra, of course, values her own family most highly, and will try to apply the rules to them as favorably as possible.

Among male Morgs, their ignorance of the precise parameters of this code has led to an excess of caution and counter-reaction. If worried that what they are doing might offend the Madras, they will stop, think, and proceed very cautiously before doing so, or try to lie about or hide such actions entirely. No Morg will insult another’s Madra, partially because that is to insult Mora and all Madras, even his own, and partially because it is a deadly insult that requires blood. No one will judge another who is following the dictates of his Madra.

Mora Madra herself shares somewhat in the nature of Orathil (Mother Ortha/Earth), but specifically and much more personally for the Morgish race. Orathil is the strict balance of nature, ‘red in tooth and claw’, mother of Ogres as well as Morgs, of storms and harvest. Mora is Mommy, standing between you and a rather stern grandmother, occasionally sneaking you a secret cookie. May she bless us all.

Aftermath: One of the Tales of the Morgs

AFTERMATH

 

     It was a late – a very late – autumn day.  The great chamber at the heart of the New Royal School lay closed and stuffy; no-one had been in or out for two weeks. The only moving things there had been the climbing and declining rays of sunlight across the walls and the shuffle of spiders now and then in the high corners of the room.

An abrupt clanking of the doorhandle broke the silence, setting echoes that seemed to startle and stir the innumerable shelves of books and papers and set them rustling with the inrush of air as the door creaked open. A Morgish muzzle poked cautiously into the room, followed by a black beard bristling nervously beneath. There was a loud, inhaling sniff.

     “H … Hello?” A voice quavered hesitantly into the echoing chamber.

It was followed the next instant by a squawk as its gangly owner was pushed stumbling into the room. Almost immediately behind him came a stern, matronly Morgess, her plain shift the mellow yellow color of the staff proctors. She crossed her arms impatiently as the Morg caught his balance, then adjusted his green tunic, brow wrinkling.

“Was that absolutely necessary, Ena?” he grumbled.

“What, you were waiting for an answer, Master Grax?” she said flatly. “We’ve got too much work to do clearing this place out without wasting time.”

“Well, you never know,” the Morg said vaguely. He cut his cut his eyes around the room. “After all, history is full of stories … lingering presences, you know … it doesn’t hurt to be respectful ...”

He shivered.

“Don’t you feel something?”

The stolid Morgess shrugged.

“He wasn’t the head of my department. Just the Grand Master of the School.”

Grax’s jaw flopped open.

“But he was Korm!” he protested. “The greatest scholar of his generation, if not in all the history of Forlan! Student of Belmok! He discovered the treasure of the Lost City of the Moon! Almost the last of the Goldfire Questers!”

Ena shrugged again and raised an eyebrow.

“As I recall, he had them looking in the wrong place to begin with, which almost led to their deaths,” she said, her voice dry.

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Grax looked around and tangled his claws through his stringy beard. “Honestly, though, can’t you feel something … personal in the air?”

“Of course,” Ena said briskly. She stepped over to the grand desk that was the centerpiece of the office. Grax followed in her wake. “My old Madra explained it to me before I even became a proctor and started the job. My uncle had passed away and I thought his room was haunted. She told me it was like this.”

She pulled out the chair and sat down by the desk and began examining the objects that cluttered the top, straightening papers and books.

“The most essential part of a person is the spirit or mind, and very close to it is the body, which picks up and discards material as it goes along.”

“Well, that seems pretty obvious.”

“Right. If we didn’t have bodies, there’s no way we’d know anybody else has a mind. When the spirit that gave the body form is gone, the body collapses into mere material … but that material is how we knew the spirit was there.”

Grax snorted. “What does that have to do with … well, hauntings?”

“There’s a third circle of existence that most people don’t think about, and that’s the influence a person had on things while they were alive.”

Ena finished straightening the desktop and stood up, eying the room critically as she moved toward the bed.

“You mean like their legacy, their influence on history?” Grax moved over and sat down himself. Now that Ena had broken the ice, as it were, he found himself filled with awe to be sitting at the great Morg’s desk. He ran a reverent claw slowly along the edge.

“It’s even more personal than that.” The old Morgess went over to the bulky wardrobe next to the bed, swung open the door, and looked over the contents. Her nose wrinkled at the stale smell.

“The things a person collects … the things that only he uses … they’re like the armor a twister slug leaves behind when it changes. The bug is gone elsewhere, but there’s a hollow shell where he used to be, in the shape of what he was.” She shut the wardrobe. “Eventually it collapses or something else takes up residence.”

Grax’s eyes widened.

“I don’t think it’s quite respectful to speak of Master Korm as a slug. He was a great person.” His claws were wandering over the desk drawers with an eagerness of their own, feeling the knobs in anticipation. “Who knows what great legacy he’s left behind for other scholars to find? Who knows …?”

Almost unconsciously he pulled a drawer open. Surprised at his action, he looked down, stopping in mid-sentence. He went still.

After a moment he cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose,” he asked shakily. “That anyone would save a drawerful of nail-clippings?”

“What?” Ena barked, hastening to his side. She stared down into the drawer.

“Ugh. Well, that’s going into the fire, for starters.”  

Grax shook his head.

“That’s just … odd.”

“Well, they do say it never pays to look too deeply into the great ones’ lives. You’ll find they all raise their flap to poo.”

“I suppose so.” He wrinkled his muzzle. “I suppose we’d better buckle down to work. The next High Master will be wanting to move in soon.”

“That’s so.” Ena looked around with an assessing eye. “Looks like more work for you than me. How many boxes do you think you’ll need?”

The other Morg around helplessly at the shelves bulging with books and papers.

“About twenty?” he ventured.

“Let’s make it thirty. It’s always better to have too many than not enough.” She walked over to the bed – a rather simple and narrow piece of furniture, Grax thought, for the legendary hero – and began stripping the bedclothes, folding them neatly at the foot. “By the way, any idea who the new High Master will be?”

“I only know it won’t be me.” He sighed. “There are a few candidates of course, but none stand out. How can you replace someone like Korm?”

“And yet he will be. No-one’s irreplaceable. Like my madra said when the old King died, you can stick your hand in a bucket of water and take it out again, and the hole that’s left is equal to the absence in society what’s felt when even a great one passes.”

“That seems rather cynical,” the other sniffed. He pulled a scroll out of his pocket and began perusing the list written there.

“But practical. Life, as they say, goes on.” She turned from her work. “What’s that, then?”

“A list of bequests and whatnot,” Grax said distractedly, eyes running over the scroll. “Some special gifts of books to various persons and places.”

His lips moved mumbling quietly, then he looked up in dismay at the overcrowded shelves around them.

“How the hell am I supposed to pick them out here? It’s like looking for particular stalks in a field of wheat!”

“Oh, be quiet!” Ena flipped the last folds of the sheets and turned her attention to the wardrobe. “Big as the chore is, bit by bit it gets done, don’t it? That’s what we say downstairs.” She opened the door. “Huh. Not a lot of clothes for a Master. And pretty shabby, too.”

“Vanity was not one of his weaknesses.” Grax sniffed. “Not like some Masters I know.” He walked over to a nearby shelf, turned a corner to the back, and began scanning the books there.

Ena grinned.

“I bet I could name a few you’re thinking of.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think these can all go on the scrap pile. They buried him in his best, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course,” Grax said absently, as his eyes flickered over the titles. He muttered, reading them to himself as he bent close to see. Suddenly he stopped and gasped in astonishment. “What the --,” he began slowly, brow furrowed, anger in his voice.

“What? What?” The old Morgess came hurrying over gleefully to join him. She thought she heard scandal in his voice and was eager for a little spice on this dull job.

She turned the corner and found Grax leafing through a volume, an appalled expression on his muzzle.

“What is it?” she asked excitedly. “Our revered Grand Master been secretly reading some fiery romances?”

“No, look at this! Just look!” He pointed one shaking claw at a blue seal on the book’s spine. “This is from the Great Library! No-one is supposed to remove this! No-one!”

Ena shrugged.

“Surely the Grand Master could …”

“No-one!”

Ena shrugged again.

“Well, one book …”

“No, look!” Grax waved his arms angrily. “Look! Shelves upon shelves of them. There must be almost two hundred books here!”

Ena whistled long and low out of the sides of her muzzle, eyes wide.

“Oh, he has been a naughty boy!” she chortled. “Well, all sins must out, they say.”

Grax covered his eyes and rocked his head, moaning softly, before straightening up and tugging his beard in sudden resolution.

“Well, this one mustn’t. It would be bad for morale, and even worse for discipline. Just think what would happen if it got around that Korm … Korm, of all people, was a … a … a book thief!” He spat the words out. “Next thing you know our shelves would be bare, with the students using his example as an excuse.” He wrinkled his brow. “But how to get them back in the library without anyone knowing?”

“Simple enough,” Ena said breezily. “I’ll just bring an empty cleaning cart over tonight, load them up with some rags on top, and wheel it over to the archives. Sprinkle ‘em around on the tables here and there and let the librarians sort ‘em out. Believe me, nobody notices cleaners going around.”

“You’d do that for me?” The other Morg relaxed visibly. “That would be very helpful.”

“Never you mind.” The old lady patted him on the shoulder. “My job here is pretty light. Never knowed a Master of any grade to be so monk-like in his living. His personables are hardly worth giving to the School’s thrift store. But all this …” She indicated the stuffed shelves around them. “I don’t envy you and your assistants going through all this.”

Grax barked shortly.

“Oh, it’s like sorting out a dragon’s hoard for us. A pleasant task, once the guardian’s out of the way.”

Ena looked dubious.

“Well, if you say so.” She looked around. “Well, I guess the first once-over’s done. I’ll go get some carts for the lugging and by tomorrow ‘twill all be clear for you scholar-squirrels to gather your nuts. Best meet me back here in an hour so you can direct me about them books.”

“Yes, yes, I have a few things to attend to right quick, then I’ll be back.” They moved to the door, where Grax paused and looked around with a little shiver. “I don’t think I’d fancy waiting here all alone until then.”

“Don’t let it bother you none,” Ena grinned. “In my experience, dead folks is the least dangerous kind.”

The door shut firmly, and the key clicked in the lock. The echoing footsteps died away and all was silent for a while. After a while, a voice for those who could hear spoke up apologetically.

“Oh, dear. I really did mean to return those books … sometime, you know. There just never seemed to be a good time.”

“In the last one hundred years, you mean?” The other voice was gruff, but noncommittal.

“Well …”

The other voice changed its tone.

“Have you seen enough? Are you ready to go now?”

“I was just wondering how …”

“No, it is enough.” The other voice was firm but sounded a little exasperated. “It’s always the same with you scholar types, curious about what happens next. Well, what happens next is there’s work to be done elsewhere.”

The first voice began to fade away, interest in its tone.

“I thought it was going to be some kind of rest …”

The second voice sounded amused as it too faded.

“Where we’re going, work and rest don’t have separate meanings. Perhaps the closest word here in this world is play.”

“Well, that does sound interesting …”

And then they were gone, and there was only silence in the hollow dusty chamber.

 

Finished First Draft 9:49 PM

7/10/2021

I might have published this here before, but I couldn't find it in a cursory search. Anyway, it certainly didn't have an AI-generated illustration with it. So that's new, at least.

Drawn From Life: Part II

"My dad grew up in the country, and when I was a kid he was always trying to get us out there, on drives, on fishing trips. When a friend of a friend told him that old Mr. Auburn's fields were free for camping by invitation, he had our gear picked out and our cots loaded in his head before he'd even stopped talking." He paused.

     "You know, it's funny, but I've never even seen Mr. Auburn. Neither has dad, and when I asked him to ask his friend about him, he hadn't either. I could probably pass him in the grocery store and not even know it. I wonder if he knows how many people have been on his land. Or if he'll ever guess how much grief his generosity has caused me. Heck, maybe he's not even alive anymore, and the place belongs to somebody else.

     "I was a happy kid, you know? Life was all cartoons and playing and cereal. Sure, there was school, but with a little effort that could be ignored, and there were friends and recess and lunch to get you through. My dad was a hero, my mom a refuge, my little brother and sister my troops. Even church was a sort of solemn fun. Then we went on the camping trip."

     He pointed to the live oak, towering over the grove.

     "We set up under that tree there. Dad had come up a day or two earlier and mowed under it. The whole family arrived at noon, all our gear bundled up in our old tank of a car. We set up our cots and Dad dug a fire pit. Mom put up a card table for us to eat at, and then, in the evening, play cards on. Dad hung a Coleman lamp from one of the big tree limbs to light the whole camp.

     "That first day was great. After we set up, we went to the creek over there -- you can't see it from here, it's down under the bluff, where the land falls away -- and fished and swam until the sun began to set and lightning bugs started flashing. We went back up to camp and roasted weenies and listened to the transistor radio and played games until us kids finally ran down with exhaustion. Mom told us a story and the little kids fell asleep and she went to bed. I pretended to sleep, but was still too happy to settle. I lay still, thinking about the day and the days to come, listening to the sigh of the Coleman lamp as it ran down through the night. It was like company, you know? I think that's the last time I remember being truly happy."

     He stopped. Beth had heard the growing yearning loss in his voice. Now it seemed choked off. She reached into her case, took out a can of paint thinner, and set it with a clank on the easel. She didn't open it, but the action seemed to have distracted the boy from the emotion of his re-lived memories. She switched to another brush.

     "And then?" she asked quietly.

     "I woke up early the next day, earlier than anybody. It was May Day, like it is today, and a Sunday. Mom had wanted to wait until after church to come, but it was my dad's vacation, and he didn't want to waste a day of it. I decided ... I decided to walk over into the trees there, and pick her a bouquet of flowers, to kind of make up for it, and do some exploring. It looked just like it does now, green and quiet and, I don't know, secret, though you can see right through it. It kind of calls to you, doesn't it?" he said bitterly.

     Beth looked at the grove and thought of her own strange attraction that morning. She said nothing, but nodded, and slowly added some golden highlights to the oak in her painting.

     "So I got out of bed real quiet, slipped my tennis shoes on, and walked over through the weeds to the trees. The grass is pretty tall, you can see, but under the trees,  the flowers are even taller. I was nine, and they were over my head, like a wall in front of me. I hesitated for just a minute before I went in, wondering if I should wait for somebody to go with me. Then I thought, what could happen? Camp's right over there, it's a clump of trees, it's an adventure. The wind came and shook the flowers, and I smelled a sweet morning smell that filled the air, and I plunged inside.

     "I say inside, and I mean inside. Once under the eaves of the trees it was like being inside a castle, or a church. The wind seemed to break around it, and under the branches it was still. When I looked out beyond the thicket, it was looking out a window. I began to make my way in, trying to find the center.

     "How far can you go in the woods? Halfway, then you're headed out. It was easy; the land there dips down to the middle. It's all in a dell, though that's not immediately obvious. My steps followed the incline down thoughtlessly, instinctively, drawn along by gravity. I looked at the flowers along the way, thinking about the bouquet for my mother.

     "They all looked fine in a group or from a distance, but when I started to inspect them, they were all blotchy or bug-eaten or wrapped in spiderwebs. I passed up bloom after bloom as I walked along. The one I tried to pick as an experiment was so tough and fibrous in the stalk that all the petals fell off before it would even break, and I left it there.

     "I still don't know what kind of flowers they are. They're blue, and they're bell-shaped, so I just call them bluebells. I never think to ask anyone who might really know. Though I know they're way too tall for what people call bluebells. I always think of that place as the Bluebell Dell."

     "From the way you describe them, they sound like some kind of foxglove," she said. "But go on."

     "I was still looking for flowers when I reached the center. It took me unawares. I came into a little clearing, and in the clearing was a stump, about three feet tall, and on the stump was a black bird. It turned and looked at me, and I stood froze in its beady black eyes.

     "Some people scoff when I tell them I was afraid. Afraid of a bird! But it wasn't afraid at all. And it was huge, with a heavy beak and sharp claws that gripped the stump with strength you could hear tearing at the bark. It roused its wings slowly, and they must have spread at least four feet wide. On its perch, it looked like a black crucifix against the green wood.

     "I tried to edge slowly around the clearing to get to the other side, and it just turned following me. I was feeling spooked. It seemed personal. Then it opened its beak and started making a mad, hoarse rattling hiss in its throat, and bent its head and spread its wings even wider.

     "That broke me, and I cringed down in sudden panic. I remember stirring up the grass under me, crackling with old leaves and fallen sticks. That was like a signal, and it swooped down at me.

     "I dropped to the ground, hands over my head, and for a second I saw, like, every detail of the forest floor clear as a bell. It was made of a thousand different bits of pulverized decay: leaves, twigs, snail shells, insect wings, even tiny bones. I saw half of a shattered mouse skull. Then I saw the shadow of black wings over me and the beating of wings was around my ears and I scuttled blindly to my feet and ran out of the woods, arms still trying to protect my defenseless head.

     "I broke out of the other side of the trees -- this side, in fact -- and ran for a few yards before I realized I wasn't being chased. I stopped, out of breath, and turned around, slowly putting my arms down, looking back. The trees seemed as peaceful as they ever had before, if anything duller in the growing light. No murderous black shadow followed me or flitted under the shade. No harsh hunting calls echoed in the morning air. On the other side I could see a flame leap up, where my dad was awake and building the morning fire.

     "I took the long way around back to camp. I certainly didn't want to see that bird again. But I never did, and nobody else did either, though everybody was pointing out every hawk or songbird or buzzard they saw on the trip. I never went through the trees, and somehow nobody else did either. I kept dreading that someone would suggest we go exploring, but there was always something else to do, and I wasn't about to bring it up. We left that year without me ever setting foot in that place again. But the damage was done."

     He rubbed his throat.

     "Say, do you have anything to drink?"

     "Oh, yes!" She set her pallet down, reached into the case, and brought out a can of soda, still a little dewy from the hotel mini fridge. "Hope you don't mind diet," she said, passing it him. He accepted it gratefully, popped the top, and drew down a huge gulp that emptied half the can.

     "Sorry about rambling on," he said. "But I've gone over the details time and time again, with Dr. Chaney and in my own head, trying to understand, to figure what went wrong, what might have triggered something." His eyes looked bruised in the growing light. "He thinks the bird could be a cover memory for something too bad to think about, like maybe I saw a corpse or was assaulted or something. I been hypnotized and regressed a dozen times, and nothing happens; I don't remember anything but the flowers, and the bird, and running through the trees."

     "I see," Beth said. She pulled out another can of soda, crossed her ankles, and lowered herself to the grass, sitting to one side of him. "That does sound like a frightening experience. I know I'd be scared. But you were talking about damage? What had happened to you?"

     He frowned.

     "Nothing physical, really, though I was covered in red bites that Mom said was chiggers from the long grass and running around without a booster spray of Off! in the morning. For a while I just carried on, like a cartoon character running till he realizes he's out of cliff. I was shook, I knew, but I expected I'd get over it, but the feeling never went away.

     "I call it a feeling, but it's more the lack of a feeling. It was like I was walking around with a pane of glass between me and the world, between me and my family. It started that day. I could only taste the burn on each hotdog, just feel the slime of each fish I caught, only worry about the unseen depths when I went swimming. Anything good about all the things I had enjoyed just the day before seemed short-circuited before it could reach me. It's still like that. When my grampa had a stroke, years later, he said the thing that bothered him most was the loss of taste, except for the strongest and foulest things. I knew what he meant. Except it's not simply taste, it's everything.

     "Since that morning -- since those woods -- ," he pointed accusingly with his can, "My dad has looked to me like a rube and a bully, my mother a religious worrywart, my siblings a couple of deadweights. Church was a farce that I stopped attending as soon as I could, school an agony of wasted time that I gladly fled, only to be bored when I got home. I lost what friends I had. When it came time to date, I let myself drift into a few attempts, hoping for some change, but dropped it afterwards as pointless. Expectations pushed me into college, and after a few useless semesters I was pushed out again. I have a dull job that keeps me afloat.

     "The worst part of it is ..." He shifted on his hunkers and faced Beth earnestly. "The worst part of it is, that I remember how it used to be, and I want it back. That's why I was crying, because you reminded me ... the smell of a firework, the color of a paint ... They used to mean something to me, and I want that back."

     "What does your doctor say? Is that why you're here?"

     He laughed mirthlessly.

     "Old Doc Chaney is agin' it. I've come out here by myself more times than I can count, and always on the first of May. He says it's become an unhealthy compulsion. He says it's simply unhappiness with growing up, and I should just accept it and move on. But I don't think I trust his diagnoses anymore. For a while, when it was popular, he was suggesting I was abducted by aliens."

     "Interesting theory." Beth smiled. "But I don't think so."

     "Neither do I." He leaned in and looked serious. "But something strange is going on. I've never seen another black bird again, no matter what season I come. You know, I haven't been able to find the stump, either? Not even a spot where it might have been grubbed up. That's where I was headed, to go search one more time, when I came across you. I wanted to head in, but I didn't want to cross your line of sight."

     "Well, it's not like taking a photo, you know," she reassured him. "I wasn't going to accidentally paint you in."

     The thought made him shrink back. He looked stricken.

     "Maybe you might as well," he said quietly. "In some ways, I don't think I've ever left the woods."

     He finished his soda and got to his feet, brushing his pants off as he stood. Beth set her soda can down in the grass and held out a hand. He took it and pulled her up, her paint-splattered robe flapping with the movement.

     "Well, that's my story," he concluded ruefully. "What have you got to say, with your strange talents and hidden knowledge?"

[End Part II. Part III and conclusion to Follow] 

Friday Fiction: Drawn From Life (aka Taken From Life; aka Through a Bluebell Dell)

 

(Note: They say,of short stories as well as paintings, that they are never really finished so much as abandoned. That may be the reason I did not - so far as I can discover - publish this Tale of the Bureau of Shadows here on NOT: vaguely discontented with the outcome, though pleased with individual details. Anyway, here is the first part of it. Perhaps it is the multiplicity of titles that makes it hard to pin down; perhaps the Folk are playing tricks with it.)

Every year Beth Castlemaine took two weeks in the spring to get away from the stress of her job. This year she had packed her painting gear and was wandering through the back roads of the Southwest, setting up wherever a vista or arrangement caught her eye. When she found something, she might check into a local motel and spend two or three days trying to get a likeness. If she couldn't, she snapped a Polaroid and put the bungle in her trunk to examine later. If she was satisfied that she had at least made a beginning, she would pack up and move on.

     On the first day of May she had started a half-hour before dawn, driving out from the town she had stayed in for the night and turning down a lonely country road. As the first rays of the morning sun rose, she was arrested by a passing landscape revealed in its sudden glory.

     A stand of straight slim trees rose like an invading army, creeping into the new-mown fields all around it. In its shade, crowding thickly, the stalks of some tall blue flower nodded in the uneasy wind. Behind it all, off-center, the gigantic top of an ancient live oak tree reared its head, newly filled out with spring green, gilded with the early light. It seemed to call to her.

     Beth stopped when she found a gate and pulled the car over, crunching slowly through the gravel. She took her easel and case out of the trunk, draping the flowery old housecoat she used as a smock over one elbow. She paused at the sign on the five-railed galvanized metal: No Trespassing. She looked at the tempting copse of trees. A ray breaking out from a passing cloud for a few seconds made it gleam all the brighter.

     "Oh, well," she murmured. "Always easier to get forgiveness than permission." She put her hand on the latch, went in, and carefully clicked it back in place behind her.

     It was quite a hike back to the trees, first down the stony ruts of a truck trail, and then through a couple of recently mowed fields. But she was wearing her comfortable old walking boots and felt the eagerness of the morning air. If anything she was invigorated as she drew near the shadowy woods, blood pumping in her veins and the cool wind in her hair.

     She slowed down as she came closer. The shade under the trees was enticing and secretive, almost like a closed room, though she could see open air and sunlight on the other side. For a moment she considered running into the shadows, but here, she knew, was the right distance for her picture, and felt there was no time to waste. The morning was passing, and the enchantment could break at any time. "Promises to keep," she said out loud, almost defiantly. She stopped, and set up her easel.

     She penciled in a rough outline to guide her, then slipped into the smock to mix her paints. She laid in the background color and brushed on the broad details of grass and leaves. She was concentrating on dabbing in the light trunks of the trees with a palette knife when a voice said behind her, "That's pretty good."

     To her credit, she didn't jump or startle. Her training let her know that appearing vulnerable often led to an attack. At forty-two, she realized that she was no longer the most provoking of targets, but she also knew that simply being female was sometimes the only necessity, and not even always that. She turned nonchalantly, the sharp palette knife held firmly in her hand. It would do until and unless she could get to the something stronger stashed in the bottom of her case.

     He seemed to be in his early twenties, if she was any judge of horseflesh, and in her estimation looked sadder than anybody ought to be at that age. His brown plastic leather jacket, bell-bottoms, and soft shoes declared him to be no farm-boy.  Slightly long black hair feathered over his collar and ears, and looking at it made her itch to trim it. He flinched under her direct gaze, and her heart unbent a little in motherly response. She glanced aside at the fledgling composition.

     "It's just a daub, really," she said, unable to keep the hint of pride out of her voice. "With a little luck I might be able to work it up into something worth looking at." She examined his expression a little closer. "I'm sorry," she said. "Am I on your land? I can always move on."

     "No, no; it belongs to a friend of the family, I guess: old Mr. Auburn. Don't worry." He gestured off into the distance past the trees, beyond the point of sight. "He lives on the other side of the creek over there and doesn't get around much anymore, I heard. He won't mind if you're out here with me." The boy came no closer, but stared at the canvas. He seemed reluctant to disturb her.

     "Well, thank you," Beth said. "That's very kind." His shy deference reassured her. She edged in a few more trees between canopy and floor, then scraped the knife clean and picked up a delicate brush. She stirred the blue paint she had mixed to keep it fresh, and with the lightest and tiniest of touches began to tip and waver in the suggestion of blue flowers.

     "So what brings you here so early in the morning," she asked, attention on the brush strokes, "alone and palely loitering? Bringing in the May?"

     "The what?"

     "Never mind. An old custom." She finished the flowers and stepped back to judge the effect. The boy leaned in squinting but stood rooted where he stood, as if wary of invading her personal space. Beth stepped aside and nodded her head, inviting him closer. "Go on," she said. "Get a good look. Give me your opinion. It helps to have another pair of eyes."

     He took two stiff steps forward and tilted his head in, peering closely. She saw his expression clearly. It was sick, helpless fascination.

     "Yes," he said weakly. "That's how it looks. You're a good painter." He stood back, his focus never moving, but split now on the picture and its original beyond.

     "That's sweet of you to say, but I can see all the flaws in it already," Beth said. She picked up the fan brush, loaded it with bright green, and started whisking in the live oak's spread. "Still, I go on." As she built up the ancient tree like a tumbling cloud, she started to declaim.

       "'There was a time when you and I were all very close to God, so that even now the color of a pebble or a paint, the smell of flower or firework, comes to our hearts with a kind of authority and certainty; as if they were fragments of a muddled message, or features of a forgotten face. To pour that fiery simplicity upon the whole of life is the only real aim of education. It is the towering levity, the uproarious amateurishness of the universe, such as we felt when we were little, and would as soon sing as garden, or as soon paint as run. To smatter in the tongues of men and angels, to dabble in the dreadful sciences, to juggle with pillars, and pyramids, and toss up the planets like balls, this is that inner audacity and indifference which the human soul, like a conjurer catching oranges, must keep up forever. I here maintain the prime truth of woman, the universal mother: that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.'"

     She stood back to gauge the results on the canvas critically.

     "Sorry to quote at you," she said absently. "My old mentor made me memorize quite a lot. It seemed like torture at the time, but now I find it an unfailing resource." She turned cheerfully, and was shocked to see the young man was crying, tears runneling down his face, wan and glinting in the morning light.

     "I'm sorry," he said, glancing at her, voice thick. "It's just that I remembered ... I've been coming out here most every spring since I was nine ... when our family went camping ... that's how it used to be ... and since ... " His face squeezed shut, his pallid cheeks reddened.

     "Here." Beth pulled a handkerchief out of her back pocket and handed it to him. It was a big, blue-squared, no-nonsense cloth, not a frilly scented show. He accepted it, looking ashamed, wiped his face, and blew his nose. He stood, eyes cleared, scrunching the handkerchief in one hand, glaring at the picture.

     "Yes, it really looks like the woods," he said. "Like the woods." He looked up at the clump of trees, the tall flowers dancing on the breeze, the shaded copse pierced here and there with slanting rays. He frowned. His voice hardened, trembling. "How I hate them!"

     She raised an eyebrow. She took her brush and started casually dabbling some highlights onto the tree-trunks. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she asked, "Did something bad happen there?" She seemed absorbed in the effects of her strokes.

     "I wish I knew. Something happened. I wish to God I knew what it was."

     "Do you want to tell me about it?"

     He laughed, a short, bitter snort.

     "You sound like my shrink," he said. "You a psychologist or something?"

     She smiled to herself, and continued working.

     "Something like that," she admitted wryly, cleaning the fan brush, then touching it to the white. "Though I'm no doctor. More like a counselor. I've had a few classes, for my job." She began patting in some clouds to frame and echo the live oak.

     "So," she said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

     He tossed his head. "I been going to Dr. Chaney for two years, and it hasn't done me any good so far."

     "Ah, but as you can see, I have strange talents and hidden knowledge," she said, eyes twinkling. Then she was serious, sympathetic. "There's probably nothing I can do about it, but you might feel better after you've told me. 'This poor frame of thine is wrenched with a woeful agony; now begin to tell thy tale, that it may leave thee free.' Sorry. Another quote, if slightly adapted."

     "Strange knowledge," he sniffed, He wiped his nose again. He looked uncertainly from her to the woods then back. He made up his mind.

     "Yeah, sure, why not?" he said, drawing in a juddering breath. "You're just a nice crazy lady I met in a field, who I'll probably never see again. What do I care if I seem just as crazy to you?" He looked around, then let himself down to sit in the dewy grass, plastic coat creaking. "Where do you want me to start?"

     "Begin at the beginning," Beth said. "Go on till you come to the end. Then stop.” She settled herself back to her work, giving him space to unfold, but enough attention to feel he wasn't speaking into a vacuum.

     "I wish it had an end and that it would just stop," he muttered in despair. He put his head in his hands, but looked up, eyes fixed on the grove and beyond. "But it did have a beginning,like I said, when I was nine years old, and we went camping."

[End Part I]

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 13 and Conclusion)

The observers turned to Korm’s army, who were still crowding around him and his lieutenants, shaking their hands and pounding them on the back - even Prull, whose coloring in the general celebration seemed to be forgotten. But the crowd went quiet as the officials approached, drawing away from Korm, Prull, and Berb to give them room. Berb was the last to catch on, waving the flags joyfully until he noticed the older Morgs staring at him. He stopped and stepped back bashfully.

Thron approached, gazing at Korm but talking to Drim.

“Now then, Commandant, I believe that before this exercise Mister Nast had thirty-five points and Mister Korm had fifteen?”

“Yes, sir.”  Drim said.  His answer was prompt, but he seemed to be recalling some lost paradise.

“Well, Mister Korm, with the fifty points of this drill you now have SIXTY-FIVE points, and that, my boy, leaves you the winner, the last King standing, the victor of this year’s Camp Service.” He clapped a heavy claw onto the skinny Morg’s shoulder. Korm winced a bit at the grip. “Congratulations!” The crowd behind them cheered. Thron turned to Drim, who was stewing stiffly by his side.

“And congratulations to you, Colonel! You’re obviously better at polishing turds than you think. If someone trained under your command can come back from so far behind, I predict a long and fruitful career for you as Commandant here in Camp Service.” He looked back at Korm.

“King Korm. You showed both extraordinary bravery and thinking outside the box.”

“Thank you, sir,” Korm answered, head bowing under the compliment.

“Don’t thank me!” Thron snapped brusquely, frowning. “Extraordinary bravery and thinking outside the box will get you and your troops killed nine times out of ten in the real world. I’m just grateful that there’s no way you will ever be my King. And I’m glad Mog Gammoth wasn’t here to see this little sideshow.”

 He grinned, then took a pouch from his belt and handed it to Korm.

“Here’s your prize, boy. One hundred marks. Use it well, King Korm.” At his signal, an aide brought up his horse. Thron jumped up onto it and wheeled around. “Pack it up and move it out!” he commanded. “We head back to the City in half an hour!”

He turned his mount and rode off back towards the observation point, harness jingling. The rest of the committee hastened to follow. Korm turned to Prull and Berb, shaking the leather pouch a little in wonder, feeling its weight.

“I … I understand it’s traditional to spend this in feasting your kingdom,” he said.

“Forget that!”  Prull said gleefully. “The lads have already snuck up and informed me that for sparing them the shame of having to crawl home in defeat, they’re pooling their money and they will be treating you!”

“I’f pledged a whole filver fixpenfe myfelf!” Berb cried happily.

Prull looked cheerfully annoyed.

“Berb, I know for a fact that you don’t have two copper kretts to rub together!”

“Well, no.” Berb was ashamed, then stubbornly loyal. “But I would if I could!”

Korm reached up to pat him on the back.

“I know you would.” He drew a deep breath and straightened up, clutching his stick firmly. “Well, come on. Let’s break camp and get ready to move.” He was happy to be leaving, but a little wistful at the thought. “It’s the last time we’ll be doing that, anyway.”

Prull put his hand on the other side of Berb’s back.

“Next stop, Morg City and the Happy Horse Inn! I’m buyin’ the first keg of ale!”

They marched off together, a spring in their step, Berb proudly holding their flag high.

 

It was three days later. After the return to Morg City, there had been the celebration, the Harvest Festival, and the parting of friends. Korm was sitting in the old apartment again with Uncle Akko. Korm, after spending months out under the sky surrounded by hundreds of others, was finding the familiar apartment cozy, but even smaller than he remembered it.

There had been little time for them to be with each other – the old Morg being busy with the Autumn Blessings – but now they had spent the afternoon together, with Korm retelling his experiences at camp. He hadn’t told Akko all the details about how he managed to capture the flag, as he’s not sure how the old Morg would take the news of the not completely reverent passage through the graveyard. Akko merely knew that he snuck into camp and made the exchange, and with instinctive discretion and a feeling of proud wonder, wasn’t asking for any specifics. 

“And the next morning, believe it or not,” Korm concluded, “Prull went in and signed up into the regular army. And they took him!”

“No! He wasn’t still drunk, was he?” Akko grinned.

“Sober as a judge, I swear. Said he had to make some kind of living, and now that he had some experience, he’d give the soldier’s life a shot.”

“Well, was the recruiting officer drunk, then? These Autumn Festivals …”

“No!” Korm laughed.

“But a yellow beard … army folk are not the most broadminded …” The old Morg looked dubious.

“Well, they all knew about our unexpected triumph, you see, and were most impressed. And as one of my lieutenants …” Korm shrugged happily. “They were willing to give him a chance. It probably didn’t hurt that Berb signed up with him. Berb thinks Prull is his lucky charm now.” He smiled. “I imagine Berb’s fist will be making sure Prull gets the respect he deserves.”

Uncle Akko cackled.

“Good for him. There’s nothing in the Law, really, against his kind; that’s all in the Lore, which is a slippery fish, at best, and gets in people’s heads more than it should. You’ll find out, when you’re a Witness, that you’ll be having to compromise quite a bit, not with the Law, but with folks’ expectations.”

Korm hesitated.

“Yes. About that … I still have those hundred marks …”

“And very useful those will be to you, too. We should stash them away in the Reserves …”

“No. Uncle Akko, I was thinking …” Korm tried to pick his words carefully, gently. “I never had a chance before. Things have always been so tight. But I always wanted …” He paused, then just brought it out. “I want to go to the New Royal School!”

Akko looked puzzled.

“But you don’t need to go to school to be a Witness …” he began reasonably. Korm stopped him, taking one of his old claws in both hands.

“You don’t understand. Oh … it’s a fine life, uncle, a noble life, and it’s best for you, but I’ve always wanted to be … well, a scholar.”

Akko’s face fell.

“A scholar.” He sat back. “That means you’ll be leaving.”

“It’s only the other side of the City,” Korm urged. “I could visit you every day!”

Akko smiled sadly.

“Now that would be pretty selfish of me, wouldn’t it, to ask that of you? It’s rather an engrossing life, so I’ve heard, if you take it seriously, and I know you’d take it seriously.” He looked wistful, remembering. “You’ve always been that way, since you were little … scholarly … you have a talent in that direction. But I’m rambling, aren’t I?” He straightened up, clearing his throat.

“You know what? In my prayers I’ve always asked Mog to look over you and help you find your way in life. And since He has made this possible for you …” He looked up at Korm decisively. “This must be the way you are destined to go.”

“Oh, Uncle Akko!” Korm stood up and hugged the old Morg’s frail figure. “Thank you. Thank you for understanding.” He wiped a tear away and sniffed. “Well! I’d best get busy then. The new semester starts in a couple of weeks, and I’ve got to get over there and register.”

“You run along now, and get it sorted,” the old man said kindly. “I’ll see you at supper; we have fish tonight!” Korm rushed happily out of the room, after a final hug. Akko sat for a moment, then quietly shook his head and stood up on tottering feet. He walked into his bedroom, which was only a curtained-off alcove. There on a little shelf over his simple bed was a closed private shrine. He unhooked the doors and opened them slowly.

Inside was an ancient icon depicting Mog Gammoth. If Korm had still been there he might have recognized a figure that looked like an uncanny idealized portrait of the Watchman from the Hill of Silence. Akko raised his hands, palms up, eyes looking heavenward – or at least at the ceiling. He sighed dubiously.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. He looked down again and closed the shrine.

 

--Rewrite finished 12:40 PM, 10/14/2020.

Notes

And the Autumn Festival seems to have once more wormed its way into another tale of Ortha. Funny how that seems to have a way of happening. Consistent world-building or a paucity of imagination? The truth is, I just like it; it's an in-world version of Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year, crammed into one. I forget who it was (James P. Blaylock?) that held that all fantasy tales should end with Christmas, with celebration and reward and hope.