Morgs have a complex relationship with
their beards. The males calculate their lives’ seven stages by the changes in
the growth, and over the ages certain beliefs had sprung up and grown
entrenched about what your beard meant about you. Korm had never really given
these beliefs much credence, perhaps in part because his sparse early growths
had not augured particularly well. And then, almost overnight, this.
Boys
who had ignored his puny frame before were suddenly in the mood for a fight,
challenging him like young goats ready to butt heads. Girls who had never
spared him a second glance now slowed as they passed him by, gazing long and
speculatively. Korm flinched under all this attention; he simply didn’t know
how to handle the change. Especially because, underneath it all, he knew he was
exactly the same Morg that he was before. And it was all going to get worse, he
knew, because with the Third Beard came the King’s Camp Service.
Morgs
are the farmers of war; they consider, say, an infestation of Ogres as much a
nuisance as a plague of locusts, and with as much stolid straightforward facing
the problem and weary shouldering of the burden. They have little romance of
war but admire a good warrior as they would admire someone who handles the farm
well, with care and sacrifice. To this end there is the King’s Camp.
Once
the Third Beard was upon you, no matter what pathway of life you chose, there
was a year when you left your family, your town, and even all personal
possessions behind you and reported to Camp. There were drills, weapons
classes, and (the only thing that even vaguely appealed to the scholarly Korm)
the history of great wars. The rest of it all sounded as deadly dull as
possible to the young Morg, and he tugged his beard in frustration at the
thought.
“Now,
now, boy, that won’t make it grow any longer, you know. And don’t you think
it’s already long enough?”
Korm
whirled around at the creaking, unexpected voice, his claws hastily dropping to
his side.
“Uncle
Akko!” he yelped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
The
elderly Morg waved a fragile, weightless paw dismissively and came tapping all
the way into the room, leaning on his curling black cane. His twisted right leg
dragged the floor behind him. Technically, Akko was Korm’s grandmother’s
cousin; but as their closest living relative he had taken the boy and his
mother Tessa under his wing. And now he had even outlived poor Tessa, dead for
five years in the last outbreak of Barek’s Breath. Well, perhaps it was the
Will of Shyreen. At least, that’s what Akko tried to tell himself during the
dark watches of the night.
“I
understand, I understand,” he wheezed, moving over and sitting with a sigh on
the rumpled bed. “Believe it or not, even an old Witness with a bad leg had his
moments of vanity in his youth.”
“It’s
not vanity,” Korm began. “Far from it. I just wish everyone would stop looking
at me, and … and smirking …” He threw up his hands helplessly.
Akko
wagged a crooked forefinger.
“But
you can’t tell me that somewhere deep inside there isn’t a part that’s not
secretly pretty pleased with yourself, eh?” He laughed at Korm’s dumbfounded
look. “Camp will knock some sense into you, though.”
Korm
groaned inside.
“And
then you can settle down to learning the Way of the Witness in earnest,” the
old Morg said, pride in his voice. He rubbed his bad knee mechanically. “I may
not have much, but that is one legacy I can hand on to you.”
Korm
nearly groaned out loud at that. Being a Life Witness, though a vocation
perfectly suited to Akko, did not appeal to the young Morg. He had grown up
observing his uncle performing his duties, and while the old fellow derived
great emotional satisfaction from the Rituals, Korm felt that there must be
more to learn about the world than was contained in the Book of Signs.
Every
Morg knew that there were great powers that overlooked their lives. There was
the shadowy, all-powerful Morlakar Shyreen, creator and judge. There was Mother
Ortha, whose most immediate manifestation was the world itself. There were the
Yorn, potent spirits of craft and callings, that aided you in your pathway of
life. And there was Mog Gammoth, Father and First of All Morgs, who surely
watched over his children.
Every
Morg believed this for a certainty. But as these powers were seldom if ever
seen, they had Life Witnesses.
Life
Witnesses put some skin on their beliefs. A Witness stood in place of any or
all these Powers, and in their person presided over the important events of a
Morg’s life. A birth, a marriage, a business contract, an oath, even a death
was not considered properly accomplished if a Witness didn’t attest to it; if
the deed were not appropriately Seen. There were a few Witnesses who through
their style and presence had grown rich and patronized in the upper echelons of
society. Others were like Uncle Akko.
Everyone,
from the King on the White Throne to the beggar in the street, needed a Witness
at some time or another. When summoned, a Witness was expected to go, no matter
what he was doing. As a boy Korm had accompanied his uncle more than a few
times in the dead of night to the home of some wretchedly poor family to greet
a squalling red newborn or close someone’s eyes for the last time, and come
home with no more than a bag of beans or even (on more than one occasion) a
pretty or unusual stone. A Witness had to go, but a Witness had to be paid
something, no matter how worthless.
Korm
didn’t mind that. The attention and the dignity which Akko gave to each case
added a certain nobility to his uncle in his eyes, as if in those moments the
old Morg were going beyond himself to serve. If it were allowed, Korm was
fairly sure his uncle would do the job for nothing. No, it was something else.
Korm
had read the Book of Signs back and forth before he was out of his First Beard.
He was precocious that way, and he remembered everything he read. He had found
several passages that made no sense to him, and several things that seemed flat
out contradictory to his straightforward mind. When he asked his uncle for
clarification, Akko had counseled faith and patience, but had no answers. That
led Korm to more reading beyond the battered old volume of ritual, and that set
the boy on a whole-hearted quest through History.
Korm
looked around their shabby apartment. It was far too small now that he had the
world in his head. But the schools that taught the knowledge he sought, while
quite reasonable, were still far beyond their means. If he could reach a
certain level, there were scholarships that could carry him on. But could he
even ask his uncle if he might try to pursue it, and break the old Morg’s
heart? It was such an easy, easy trade-off: his dreams and the rest of his life
for a simple but assured trudge along a steady groove until you laid down in
your grave.
There
was one good thing about Camp, Korm thought gloomily. It was a nine-month chunk
of time that stood between him and a final decision. He groaned now despite
himself, quietly.
Uncle
Akko reached out a comforting claw and patted the young Morg’s back.
“Don’t
worry,” he said. “It will all be over soon.”
Notes
I
loved writing Tales of the Morgs, mostly because I felt I knew Korm and
Roth, who starred in most of them, and that I knew the character of the Morgish
race instinctively, although I had to write the stories to exactly find out a
lot of the details of their lives. I had always had an idea about the cultural significance a Morg's beard had to him, but the idea of Life Witnesses, a semi-religious office, first entered the mythos here.
Korm
started out, 45 years or so ago, as basically Cornelius from The Planet of
the Apes, scholarly, kind-hearted, and a little timid. He, and his history,
have developed since then. Here, in King Korm, we have the earliest look
at him as a young Morg trying to figure out his destiny. Next would be Korm’s
Master, in which you might say he starts college. In Korm and the Lost
Library he goes on an adventure and comes of age. There is a glimpse of
him in Thron as one of the old king’s court, and of course he is one of
the ‘fellowship’ in the unfinished epic Goldfire. He visits our own
world in A Friend You Haven’t Met. As a very old Morg he helps untangle
the threads in the The Peculiar Wooing of General Roth. And in Aftermath,
he has … moved on.
Which
doesn’t mean he won’t appear in any more stories. If I can think of another
good one where he fits.
