(Not) Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 9)

At first Korm’s going was easy. He was most familiar with the entrance, after all, having come often with his uncle, and the grounds here were well kept, the stone path worn but broad. Soon he had to take a turn, however. The further he travelled through the gloom, the more broken and sketchier the trails through the graveyard became, overgrown with the dry and dying grasses of summer. The tombs he passed, initially closer together and almost comforting, as if keeping company, got farther apart and lonelier.

A creeping mist began to rise, and it was curled and beaten by the uneasy wind. It was obvious to Korm that there was more wind high overhead, because the clouds were still racing, covering and revealing the moon haphazardly, bathing the tombs with startling clarity sometimes and then plunging them into shadow at incalculable intervals. The wind hurried him on.

The graveyard was dotted with dark evergreens and the autumnal skeletons of other trees, poplar and sycamore. Their sighing and rustling in the wind did little for Korm’s composure. The stealthy movement of – birds? rats? – he could hear moving through the undergrowth in the quieter moments wasn’t helping either. He knew that’s what they were, knew it was the wind, the trees, the clouds, the moon, but some basic primitive little part in the back of his brain was moaning at him, telling him that that’s not all that it might be. He was, after all, surrounded by the lonely houses of the dead.

He started to walk faster, unconsciously, at first, then faster. Surely, surely he should have reached the wall already. He couldn’t see or hear anything ahead of him that might guide his way, just more endless graveyard. If I just walk straight ahead, Korm thought … or was he going in circles? He’d lost his bearings, and the panicky thought that he might have been led astray began creeping into his head. He was really running now, heedless, dodging trees and tombs as they reeled dimly into his sight and then seemed to flee away as he passed.

His muzzle hung open, tongue lolling as he panted in panic, thoughtlessly whimpering to himself.

“Mog help me … Mog help me …”

Suddenly he tripped and fell headlong to the ground, scattering mist and fallen leaves. At the same moment there was a burst of light and a harsh voice called out gruffly.

“Who goes there?”

Korm looked up from the rank grass where he had fallen, paw raised against the light. He squinted into the brightness. “K … Korm,” he managed to stammer. “I’m Korm.”

The voice chuckled, dropping its challenge at that, and suddenly became more genial, and a little amused.

“Oh ho, so it’s King Korm, is it? And what might you be doing in the Stone Tombs at this time o’ night, eh?”

The light dimmed to a bearable level as Korm sat up slowly, his gradually adjusting eyes peering at a figure holding the light, which he saw was now obviously a lantern being turned down to a more ambient setting. In a moment he could see its bearer more clearly.

It was an elderly Morg, rather ropily muscled. His beard was coal-black except for streaks of white that ran down from the corners of his mouth. His face was wizened with wrinkles, more ancient looking than any Korm had ever seen. Still, the whites of his eyes were clear around the deep black pupils that looked at him in amusement as he scrambled to his feet.  The old Morg had a tall pike in one hand and the lantern in the other, and there was a horn hanging at his side. As he got up, Korm recognized the rather antique armor he was wearing. It was like that worn by the ceremonial guards of the City.

Korm brushed his own plain uniform down, eying him nervously. “Are … are you on Watch here?”

“Aye, I keep an eye on the place.” The old Morg leaned forward. “But you haven’t answered my question, yet. What are YOU doing here? It’s not quite the time o’ day to go visiting Gramma’s bones, now, is it?” he asked, raising grizzled eyebrows.

Korm scrambled to his feet, a little embarrassed at his panic, and slapped the grass from his knees. “I’m on a mission, if you must know.” He straightened his shirt, sniffing. “If you know my name and who I am, you must know that Camp Service is still on maneuvers.”

“Even so, why are you wandering about the Stone Tombs?” the other probed. “What can you possibly want here?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” Korm said, suddenly on his dignity. “There’s no law against it, is there?  What’s your name, anyway?

The watchman chuckled, shaking his helmeted head.

“Oh, no, I’m not having you report me. That would only be trouble, for both of us.”

“Well, then … let’s just leave each other alone, shall we?” Korm pleaded. The presence of another Morg was restoring his balance. “I promise you, I’m not up to any mischief here. You go your way, and I’ll go my way.”

The watchman leaned on his pike and a smile wrinkled his muzzle. “Sounds fine by me, only you’re not going quite right your own way, are you, Master Korm?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you’re headed for that bastard Nast’s camp, you’re a little off course.”

Korm almost frowned, then tried to look unconcerned. “Oh?” He picked up his stick where it had fallen and brushed his shoulders ostentatiously, to buy time. “What makes you think I’m headed that way?”

“Oh, please,” the watchman growled in amusement. “You’re not here to put flowers on Grampa’s grave. And I do hear a fair bit about what’s going on in these parts. You’re a King of the Camp, at least for now, and you’re obviously here on some last desperate mission.” He shouldered his pike. “I have to admit, son, you’ve got some tracha to be out here on your own. Your Uncle Akko is right about you.”

Korm’s surprise was obvious. He was never a good actor. “You know my Uncle Akko?”

“Yes. He talks about you quite a lot when we visit.”

At first Korm was puzzled, then it struck him. “Ah. I suppose as a Witness, he is out here pretty often, isn’t he?”

“Ye-e-es,” The old Morg said vaguely. His eyes searched the darkness around them, but then he focused again on Korm. “Well, come on. I’ll guide you to the part of the wall bordering Nast’s camp.” He gestured into the shadows. “You’ve gone a little too far north.”

“Well, thank you, I guess, but I’m … I’m not really sure I should. I mean, isn’t taking your help kind of cheating? That’s what Nast’s been doing all along, you know,” the younger Morg said bitterly. “I’d rather not start down that path, myself.”

“Naw!” the old watchman scoffed. “‘Tain’t cheating to take some advice, and that’s all I’m giving you. The rest is up to you.” He saw Korm looked at him doubtfully. “You’d have found your way eventually,” he reassured him. “There’s a damn wall around the place for you to follow! We’re just … speeding things up a little.”

Korm wrestled with his conscience a minute. “All right,” he agreed at last. “I suppose that’s reasonable. Lead the way, but … quietly, please. Stealth is the key to the success of this venture!”

“You got it, your highness,” The watchman seemed amused by Korm’s tone of command. He shouldered his pike and raised the lantern, then announced heartily, “Off we go!”

They marched into the darkness, the Watchman leading. Korm marveled at the old Morg’s sense of purposeful direction and his silent sure-footedness. There was not a clank of his armor, a flap of his cloak, or a thud from his boots. They marched a while in this silence, with only the night sounds and Korm’s occasional stumbling for company. After a while, his curiosity got the better of him and Korm broke the quiet.

“So-o-o …” he began. “You know pretty much what’s been happening in the Camps, then.”

The old Morg shrugged.

“I’m always watching. And listening, when people care to talk.”

“So, you know how my year’s been going.”

“I have a passing familiarity with events, yes.” He marched on.

“Since you’re so old …” The watchman stopped abruptly and shot him a sour look. Korm hastily corrected himself.

“Experienced, that is, and so ready to give out advice, what do you think of the way I’ve been handling things?”

The old Morg grunted and walked on. Korm followed quietly. After a judicious moment, the watchman spoke up.

“You’ve done well enough, lad, with honor, if not with much success. That might count more when you stand in the Final Courts than it does here, but for now …” He sighed. “You might just have to grit your teeth and take it.” They walked on a bit in silence, then he chuckled. “I must admit, that was a gutsy move when you chose the pale Morg.”

“Prull has been a good lieutenant!” Korm said defensively, a little angry. “I wouldn’t have done as well as I have without him!” A little fish of doubt floated up in his mind. “But maybe I shouldn’t have put him in such a difficult position. People thinking like they do.” He shook his head. “I wonder if there is something to folks like him being under Karn’s Curse.”

The watchman glared at him.

“Karn wasn’t under any curse; folks are just reading that into the old tales. Go back to the books and look.” His wrinkled face softened. “Sure, a father would have to be unhappy if his son left him; he might even have thought it was treachery at the time to leave with the Nine Hundred with the threat of war looming so near.” He turned away and moved on. “But I think Karn had to go his own way. I think Mog loved him even more than his other sons, maybe because he was different and had such a hard time.”  Korm watched his old back straighten and stiffen as they walked along. “Anyway, I don’t think folks inherit character with the color of their beards,” he said briskly. “I’ve seen plenty brown and black beards walking around that I wouldn’t trust with a basket of rotten apples. Speaking of which …”

He stopped. Korm gave a little gasp of surprise. They had reached the wall.

It was only about four feet tall. On the other side was a screen of dark trees; that was why Korm hadn’t seen any lights up to now. This close, however, he could peer through them and see fires and dark figures passing across the flames and hear the revelry coming muted all the way to the back of the camp.

“I am none too pleased with Master Nast and his folk,” the old Morg said angrily, and a little too loudly for Korm’s comfort. “They haven’t even dug any bogs; they’re all just pissing against my wall!” he barked. “No discipline, and no respect!”

Korm grabbed the watchman’s shoulder, shushing him and pulling him down until they were crouching behind the crumbling stone barrier. They sat there a moment, the watchman’s eyes bright with amusement, until Korm was absolutely sure they hadn’t been seen. Slowly he rose up to peer cautiously into the enemy camp.

“Well, here you are,” the watchman said huskily as he crouched by his side. “This is far as I go. But good luck, lad, with whatever you’re doing. Remember, follow a wall long enough and eventually you’ll find the gate.” Korm felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’m rooting for you, son.”

Korm was hardly paying attention.

“Thanks,” he whispered absently, then hauled himself up onto the stones with both hands and sat straddling there a moment, listening to make sure his movement had not been noted. He glanced back down at the watchman.

The old Morg was not there. He had vanished into the darkness and the curling mists, and there was only a faint rustle of wind in the grass. Korm peered around a moment, marveling at his stealth, then dismissed him from his mind. There was a much bigger problem at hand, that needed all his attention. With as much care as possible, he dropped quietly down to the other side of the wall.

 

Notes

Since Korm invokes his name, this might be a good place to refresh our memory about Mog: "Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’) ... 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." Mog is the Morgish equivalent of Adam, but 'in world' "there is more evidence that Mog Gammoth trod the world in the First Days than that your great-grandfather ever existed", as Belmok tells Korm at one point. And now it comes to me … that while we have plenty of Adams, no other Morg has ever been given the name Mog, or ever will.” 

After his death, Mog held a sort of spiritual position for all Morgs, similar to but different from the Yorns, limited ‘angelic’ powers in the world. He was spiritual, that is, but having the connection of being one’s actual Grampa many times backwards and of understanding what it means to be a flesh-and-blood creature, struggling through life. As such, he is invoked in times of trouble, and though no Morg believes he has infinite power or always answers, his memory or idea can be helpful in times of trouble, as encouragement and ‘company’, if nothing else.

‘Tracha’ is a Morgish word that refers analogically to courage or nerve, but also is more technically referencing part of the male anatomy. I need probably say no more; but it’s ‘beard’, of course.

 

A Friend You Haven't Met: Part Nine

 

“St. Helwig Sunday Massacre,” I mouthed, racking my brains a moment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t quite place the memory …”

“Nobody can,” she snarled. “It happened right at the time of one of those big school shootings. Got lost as a fucking footnote to the main story: oh, yeah, and this happened too.” She spat. “Didn’t quite fit their narrative because a good guy with a gun stopped a bad guy with a gun.” She snorted. “Lot a good it did old Chet; he died of his wounds later. Hero’s reward, I guess.”

“My God, I remember it now.” Timmy gripped my shoulder. His voice was awed and solicitous. “No wonder the name rang a bell. It happened when I was on a parish assignment out-of-state, Bob.” He turned to the girl. “The man was a Satanist, wasn’t he?”

“He was a nut is what he was.” The girl looked at Tim’s robe resentfully. “It didn’t matter if he was a Satanist nut or a Christian nut, those folks are just as dead.”

“It might matter more than you know.” He crossed himself and turned to me. “This is a dark place, Mr. Bellamy. It’s no wonder the beast was drawn …”

“Now, now,” I cautioned. I turned back to the girl. “And just why are you here, little lady?”

“I come here to think,” she said, leaning back on her elbows against the porch rail. “Not that it’s any of your business. Today I got the feeling that something bad was coming my way.” She glared a challenge. “And here you are.”

“Now, honey, you got nothing to worry about us. Here.” I reached nice and slow into my pocket and took out my wallet and flashed my old DEA badge. Just long enough for her to get a look. “We have reason to believe we got us a dangerous fugitive holed up in here. Do you know another way in? We want to check, and if there’s nothing here, we’ll be on our way. We won’t touch anything, I promise.”

“You mean there could be another asshole, hiding in there?” This seemed to really piss her off – sorry for the phrase, but her style was starting to get hold of me. She stood there a moment, irresolute, then made up her mind. “Okay, I’ll get you in, but I’m going with you to make sure. A quick look around and then out.”

She reached into her shirt and pulled out a steel chain necklace. A key dangled at the end. I stared at it.

“How did you get that?” I asked.

“I told you. This place is a shrine, and I’m taking care of it. I’m Kassie May Jet and my mom died here, and I’m not going to have a bunch of murder-whores and crime-tourists crawling around, understand? I don’t go in, myself.”

     “Yes, I think I do understand,” I said quietly. “We will be … respectful.”

“Sure you will. You just back off while I unlock. That goes for your goofy goons as well. What’s their deal? In disguise?”

“Something like that,” I said, glancing at the Morgs, who had been following our dialog quizzically. I think they wondered why I was taking so much guff from a scrawny little kid. I gestured them back. “It’s kind of a cover, you could say. Who’d believe we were serious? Heck, I almost don’t believe it.”

She had been undoing the lock and now threaded the chain from the door handles. It clanked to the floorboards.

“Yeah, I guess not,” she conceded. “But just to show you I’m serious …” She reached into the pocket of her jacket, and then she was holding a pistol in her hand, trained right on me. I had been thinking about the danger inside, but that focused my attention right smartly.

“I’m not walking in there with four strangers without a little insurance.” Her voice was cool.

Tim, however, was not. He raised his trembling hands, half in surrender and half in appeal. But his voice was steady.

“Do you really think, that in light of your experience, you should be carrying that thing around?”

“I think in light of my experience, I’d be a fool not to.” She gestured with the gun barrel. “Specially if there’s a bad dude in there. Now let’s check it out so you can be on your way.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about from us,” I said mildly. “But if what we think’s in there is in there, don’t hesitate to shoot. Be warned.”

“Geez. Let’s just go.” Her voice was tight.

We drew in near the door, and I started pulling it open, straining against creaking hinges. Korm nervously switched on the flashlight, flinching at the sudden brightness, then clumsily tried to focus it in over our heads into the dusky darkness that yawned in the growing gap.

We started to head in, and then Kassie gasped. I heard her voice but didn’t dare turn away from searching the shadow ahead.

“You taking a little girl in there?” she snapped.

“Don’t let looks fool you. I’m a lot older than I seem.” I could hear the concealed glee in Maggie’s voice, to be at the same time fibbing and telling some truth. “Maggie Margaret Malloy, murderous midget agent, at your service.”

That seemed to dumbfound the teen into silence. We crept forward, and amid the creaking and shuffling I heard a sharp, slithering sound. Roth, the big Morg, had drawn his blade.

We found ourselves in a windowless vestibule, with dusty benches, empty hooks on the wall, and a broken coatrack slouching in one corner. Korm anxiously twisted the light dancing all around, and I had to tell him pretty sharply to settle down.

     The double-door entry to the inner room was not secured in any way. I got the holy water bottle ready, its cold metal sweating in my hand. I pushed the right-hand door open, the ancient unused hydraulics protesting every inch of the way, then cautiously stuck my head through and looked around.

The long shadowy room was badly lit with a line of high, narrow, dusty windows that let in a few beams of murky sun, just enough to dazzle the eye and make the remaining patches of darkness even more baffling. But even in that uncertain light, I could recognize the layout of the old church beneath the converted bowling alley.

Down the room, where the pews used to run, were four guttered bowling lanes, no longer smooth but warped from years of neglect. At their end, where the alter would have been in the old days, four dark pits yawned against the far wall. In one of them, still miraculously upright, was a single yellowed bowling pin, like the last carious tooth in a gaping jaw. It was still as death, nothing moving but the dust stirred up by the opening of the door, but there was a curious tension in the air that I had come to recognize over my years in the Bureau. I edged cautiously inside, guardedly aware of the blind darkness on either hand.

“Bring that light forward,” I urged the skinny Morg. “Careful! We need to check our right and left, right here.”

“Right you are, sir,” Korm answered. His voice was muffled behind his mask, but I could hear his teeth chattering, even through the cloth. He came up on one side and Roth on the other, who held his short sword on guard to the left as Korm swung the flashlight the other way.

The dark huddle there resolved itself into a service desk, a pigeonhole with empty slots for bowling shoes behind it, and a door marked “Restroom” to one side. A deep cobwebbed shelf held a few dusty rental balls. A turn of the light the other way showed what must have the bar, completely empty now except for the cracked mirror watching behind the counter.  

“Cover me a minute,” I said, and headed over to the restroom door. I checked all the way behind the counter first; no place for anything to hide. I paused, then shoved the door open abruptly.

Nothing in the tiny room but a sink and a toilet and hardly enough room to stand. There were still a few inches of cloudy water in the toilet – at least I hoped it was water. I hastily withdrew.

“Nothing there,” I announced.

By this time Tim and Maggie and the girl had entered the main hall but were still crouched watchfully around the doors. I crossed over to the bar side to check out any cabinets there and jumped when I heard an unexpected sound. Behind me, Kassie had flicked open her lighter and was using it to light up the seating area.

It was a tumble of loose tables and chairs; the only fixed features were a couple of old scoreboard projectors bolted to the floor. The girl was moving slowly forward, eyes set on the ground, apparently unconscious of anything else around her, and my heart seemed to skip a beat when I realized how vulnerable she looked, gun or no gun.

“Hey, you! Wait a minute!” I bawled, and my voice seemed to shake even more dust from the rafter. I lumbered over, the rest a few steps behind me, and grabbed her by the shoulder. “It’s not safe …” I started, then looked down to see what had fixed her attention.

In front of our feet was an old police outline in cracking tape laid out on the ancient rayon rug. There were still rusty stains etched blotchily in the unnatural fabric. I could see others on the edge of the little circle of light, splayed or curling out of sight on either side, but the girl couldn’t take her eyes off this one. In its center was on old, dried, brown bundle of field flowers.

I started to try to say something but couldn’t. Instead I just paused and then patted her gently on the back. By this time the others had come up behind me and clustered around.

Timmy was the only one who understood, of course. He crossed himself and bowed his head, then looked up angrily.

“Truly, this building is twice-desecrated. It is no wonder the Tekkel chose this dark place of violence to hide. I am so sorry, child.”

“The Tekkel? What kind of a name…?” she started to murmur distractedly, when suddenly Korm yelped behind us, “The Tekkel!”

Even those who couldn’t understand his words could hear his fear and jerked their heads up, looking along his shaking, pointing beam of light. As if in answer to the thrice-summoning of its name, the beast was coming crawling out of one of the pin pits, its spiky, groping legs pouring, spreading out upside down from the hole, squeezing forth like a gigantic cockroach out of a crack you would swear was far too small for its bulk.

Thrand (Part Nine)

Thrand stumped along Circle Street, feeling rather pleased with himself. He was drawing absolutely no attention. His cloak and hood covered most of his body, except for his belly, which surfaced from the black cloth like a whale breaching the sea. Thankfully that was not a positively identifying feature, and in fact as more and more cloaked figures started to throng the cobblestones, he began to feel increasingly anonymous. Soon he relaxed and his mind began to wander to the rhythm of his steps, only interrupted now and then by thoughts about the growing pain in his legs and feet.

There were, of course, two big issues that lay before him, that had to be considered before he even thought about any actual candidates. The first, of course, was fairly simple: a War King or a Peace King? Since the end of the Goldfire War and the reign of Taryn, there had been peace in all Forlan. The decimated Ogre forces had retreated behind the Norkult Mountains and nary a peep had been heard from them since.

A Peace King seemed a foregone conclusion, though there were some with long memories who could not shake the idea of regular incursions from the North. Behind their mountain walls, though no longer motivated by the Black King, the Ogres had perhaps recovered enough strength to try another invasion, if purely by habit. To most this did not seem likely, however. The second issue was a little more vexed.

The big question this time around was, really, Man or Morg? Taryn’s unprecedented election had been an inevitable conclusion after his glorious relief of the city (however aided as it was by distant supernatural means). His was the face on the field, and he was the one who had reaped the gratitude of the people. But that was years ago. Among many of the Morgs there had been a growing feeling that when the moment came it would be time to revert back to the old traditions.  Well, the moment had come.

On the other hand, Taryn had proved that a Man king could be a quite capable ruler. The presence of humans had grown in both the White City and the country round so that they had become a more significant faction. Their fertility had taken off, and they were reproducing at an unprecedented rate since relieved of the oppression of the North. The Morgs were still plodding along at the same stolid pace, secure in their lengthy lifespans. The monarchy was not subject to a vote by the population, but Men were becoming a sizeable power block, and a force that needed to be reckoned with.

On the other hand, who was worthy enough among them to be awarded the Crownhelm? Taryn had been an exception, true, but it had always appeared to Thrand that most humans seemed to twitter and hop around like a flock of birds, running to and fro, picking up strange ideas, then dropping them like rejected twigs. It might be true – it was now legally established, in fact – that one could become king, but were there actually any of them qualified for the job at the moment? He supposed only time would tell.

There was an ambiguous trait about them that Thrand couldn’t tell was a good thing or a bad thing. At least they wouldn’t, from a Morgish point of view, stay very long in the office, should they gain it again. A Morg king could last nearly two centuries. This contributed to continuity and long-term policies but could degenerate into a certain stodginess and intransigence as a reign rolled on. Humans were more adaptable to the times. They didn’t live long enough not to be.

Although the Chief Justice knew of no Man who was qualified for the job, there were a handful or so of Morgs that had come to his attention, who satisfied all the old conditions for the job. Members of the Noble Houses, given to public works, familiar with the laws and statutes and procedures of the White Tower. Perhaps not very brilliant, but well-suited to the bureaucratic side of administration. Not at all lordly or heroic, which seemed to be what humans expected in a king, but strong and hardworking.

Thrand was just beginning to go over the list of these Morgs in his mind, half-distracted by his aching feet, when suddenly he was startled out of his meditations by a huge horse-apple that came whizzing through the air and hit him plop on the chest, right in the center of his new cloak.

“Hey, fat-arse!” A voice rang out, shrill and mocking.

 

Eye of Darkness (Part Nine)

 

Hundreds of miles away, on the top of a bare tor, an ancient weathered trilith of stone raised itself against the fading sunlight, standing like a doorway to nowhere. There was a sudden flashing sheen between the uprights and the lintel stone, and three figures stepped out of the empty space behind it, one sure-footed old man and two bewildered Morgs.

“Now, that,” said Dunwolf in satisfaction, “Is what I call a shortcut.”

“What the hell was that?” roared Thron, grabbing his sword and pulling it out with a hiss. He looked around in angry confusion. “Where were we? Where are we?”

“That, my good fellow, was the Domain of Doors. Let’s see your common street conjurer pull that one off. And there,” he said, pointing to a grim black wave rising sullenly in the north. “There are the Norkult Mountains. Right now, we’re some two hundred and fifty miles from that little sheep-cote outside Tronduhon.” He smiled smugly. “Convinced yet, lieutenant?”

“The Domain of Doors,” Belmok said quietly, stepping back to examine the trilith of stones they had come through. He stuck his hand back through the doorway, but nothing happened. He just felt the chill wind pouring off the mountains and saw their lurking gloom. “So the tales are true.”

“Not so convinced that you might not yet be an agent of Thoravil,” Thron said, sword still at the ready. “Luring us out here for Mog knows what nor why…”

“Hush!” Belmok snapped imperiously. “What’s that?”

The other two stopped and listened. There was a faint chiming on the wind, gathering and growing louder. Tiny, shining glints started twinkling and dancing in the air around them, swirling inward to a point on top of a flat boulder near the trio.

“Ah,” said Dunwolf, stepping forward towards the rock, eyes glowing in the dimly concentrating luminescence. He turned back to them. “Gentlemen, our host; the Ivra Wellolellenlerenwol. And waiting for us, just where we planned.”

Elf and Bear: The Conclusion of Chapter One

The bear hunkered down on all fours and the elf climbed on his back, clinging on top and holding onto the great beast’s fur.  Bear squatted even lower, and then with a leap he cleared the creek wall and lumbered off, crashing into the night.  Soon they had left the last dying flickers of the goblin’s fire far, far behind them.

Bear trotted along at a great pace through the frosty woods, while overhead the stars glittered like ice through the ragged clouds.  At last, when he judged that they had gone a safe distance, he paused to rest under a large fir tree.  The elf slid down from his back.

“Blast,” said Thornbriar.  “I’ve forgotten the key for these chains.”

“Let me see, said Bear.  The elf hobbled over and the bear leaned close to examine the lock.  Then, extending one long claw, he inserted it into the keyhole.  A few clinks and clanks and the manacles sprang open with a snap.  Thornbriar picked up the chain and threw it off into the bushes.

“Bear,” he said, turning to his friend.  “How in the world did you find me?  I thought I’d got myself lost good and proper.  In fact, I thought for a while that I’d never see home again.”

“Well, my nose still works,” said Bear shyly.  “I got worried when you didn’t get back for supper, so I went to look for you…and, well…to apologize.  I tracked you to Dr. Gilpin’s house, and then into the woods.  About ten yards away from that ravine I sniffed and said to myself ‘Goblins!’  And when I poked my nose down to check it out, there you were.”

“And just in time, too,” said Thornbriar.  “You saved me from a life of ignominious servitude, old fellow.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have been in that mess if it weren’t for me,” said the bear unhappily.  “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my friend,” said Thornbriar warmly.  “Let’s get back home.”

The two started through the woods.  Overhead, the last few tatters of clouds were gone, and the stars shone bright and clear.  All around was silence, except for the slight crunch of leaves under their feet.  A faint light began outlining the trunks of the bare oak trees, and by the time they left the woods the morning sun was brilliant red over the far mountains.

As they drew near their home, the bear turned toward the elf and said, “You must be tired and starving.  When we get home you rest, and I’ll make you a big breakfast, of anything you want.  How does that sound?”

“Truly excellent,” said Thornbriar.  “I would like about a dozen eggs, and toast, and tea!  And you know what would be especially nice?  A couple of thick slices of that ham hanging in the larder.”

Bear stopped in his tracks and hung his head.  “Oh,” he said.

“Why, Bear, what’s the matter?”

“Thornbriar, I ate the ham while I was waiting for you to get home yesterday! Oh dear, oh dear, I am sorry!”

“Bear!” yelled Thornbriar.

But he was laughing.