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. 

Eye of Darkness (Part Fifteen)

 

For a few days after that, Thron spoke very little. He would absent himself when it became plain that the Ivra was going to produce more game, then return with the makings for the fire. Belmok became quite proficient with dressing game and hiding what could not be consumed, in case any scouting parties should pass their trail. After a meal, Thron would withdraw again, and Belmok would be alone with Leren for a while. It was during this time that the big Morg worked with Leren on his language before laying down for the night. It was almost two weeks before Thron would come and sit listening to these sessions of an evening.

The fire, which would be shielded behind stones or stands of trees and kept from smoking as much as possible, was doused as soon as the cooking was finished. But they drew around the heat of the ashes while it lasted, and talked in the dim glow that Leren still shed, whether it would or no, whenever it gathered itself into visibility. Thron noticed that the Ivra was talking more fluently in Morgish with every session it held with Belmok.

Thron never said very much, but he listened intently. The soldier couldn’t make out a lot about the abstract discussions on history and the elements of language. For one thing, Leren seemed to have little concept of what aspect of a subject the scholar would be asking about, and Belmok had to question it like a lawyer, sometimes for hours, before he could narrow the discourse down to the answer he was looking for. Several questions, though, had started growing in Thron’s mind over time.

In the mornings, after a cold, hasty meal, they would break camp, the Ivra appearing briefly for a small consultation and perhaps a course correction, and then they would be off. The stark mountains drew slowly nearer, and the land more tumbled and overgrown, patchworked by cold streams running from the heights. The Morgs seldom spoke to each other, except about practical matters, small warnings or observations about their trail. Time and shared concerns seemed to weave a fragile truce between the two, a cessation of hostilities during a common struggle. One day, before they entered the shattered foothills of the dark range, Thron broke that calm and asked a question.

“Do you think he’s listening to us?”

Belmok was so surprised he almost tripped mid-stride, but the next moment caught his balance and went along smoothly.

“I see no reason ‘he’ should be; I understand it would be rather difficult in his spread-out state. His attention is cast ahead and about us, scouting. But if you wish to call him …”

“No, no, that’s all right,” Thron said hastily. They walked along, but now the silence between them was full of unspoken curiosity. Eventually he spoke again.

“He’s talking pretty well now, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Belmok almost smiled. “I think Master Silva would be most disappointed with his conversation these days.”

“He don’t hum so much, does he? Don’t have to look so much for his words.”

“I’ll tell you something, Lieutenant,” Belmok said. He pushed a stand of waving weeds aside. “That humming? That is Leren speaking very quickly … actually speaking … a long string of words, until he finds the one he finds most correct. He is slowing himself down for our comprehension, much as you or I would simplify and slow our speech for a three-year-old. Or a new recruit.”

Thron could hear the grin in his voice. He quickened his pace until he was walking side by side with the big Morg.

“Very nice. Very nice,” he growled. “Well, now that he’s talking stupid enough for me, I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“Nothing’s ever stood in your way, Lieutenant,” said Belmok. “I suppose now would be the time. I’m sure we’ll have to be pretty quiet soon,” he pointed ahead to the line of peaks. “When we get up yonder.”

“Aye,” said Thron. “I’d like to put a question to you too, Master Belmok, to consider a while with your powerful mind, before I talk to Mister Leren.”

“And? What may that be?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, while you been criss-crossing our guide with your questions about now and then, here and there, or not. But I’ve been listening to him, trying to read him, which Mog knows is hard enough with his flat ways. You’ve been happy enough with what he has told you. But I could swear, and it’s nothing I can lay my thumb on, that there is something about this journey that he is definitely not telling you, and in fact avoiding when you get too close to the subject.”

They strode on in silence.

“Do you really think so?” said Belmok quietly.

“I’d bet my hide on it.”

They walked on.

“I may speak to Leren about that,” said Belmok at last.

Thron dropped back behind. Belmok went on without any expression, but his mind was racing away, reviewing the past nights and pondering many half-formed questions that started to peep out at him from shadowy corners in his brain.

"Kren" Part Fifteen: News From the Past

 

Kren hesitated a moment, then sat down on the creaking chair opposite the man. He put his paws on his knees, bowed his head, and took a deep breath. He looked up again, hairy brows furrowed.

“First of all, tell me about Bharek and how he was defeated; about how the Black King who had reigned a thousand years and his Ogre Horde were finally overcome, when all the best efforts of the combined Races had failed before.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I imagine it must be quite a tale.”

Koppa smiled, but Kren noticed a hint of pain lurking in the corners of the young man’s eyes.

“It is indeed quite a tale, and if I were to tell you all about it, we would be here until morning and still not be done with the telling. And then, of course, I’d have to leave Far Reach and you’d never hear the end of it. It’s been made into a saga, though. Perhaps some day you’ll hear it in full.”

Koppa shifted in his chair.

“However, I can tell you the short version. About six years ago – it was in the Fall, just as it is today – when Bharek’s armies came marching out of the North again, after staying mostly penned up behind the Norkult Mountains for two hundred years. There had been raids and incursions, of course, and the waves of Bharek’s Breath every now and again, but this time it seemed the Horde was intent on our final destruction and came in hosts innumerable, so that Morg City itself was finally besieged. King Thron was old and the realm ill-prepared and it seemed certain that the South would at last be overwhelmed.”

Koppa paused, clearing his throat.

“You know, I think I will take that water, please.”  

Kren snorted incredulously, taken aback.

“Oh, no, Mr. Herald!” He wagged his head sharply. “You’ve started your tale, now you have to finish it! Then you’ll get your water!” He sat back glowering. “With things looking so bad, how was the Dark Lord defeated?”