Forty-Sixth Beginning: BATMA’GAL

[Another very old one.  I'm successfully getting rid of old, typed files, here.  This is probably from the eighties.  It was meant to be for the child or youth market.  It needs editing badly.]

Karun crouched behind a boulder, hoping many things.  Foremost, she hoped that her knees weren't bleeding.  It was a petty thing to be wasting hope on, under the circumstances, but she hoped it anyway.  She also hoped that the milling goblins at the bottom of the gorge had not seen her.  There was no telling how long her spell of invisibility had been gone.  If it hadn't been for that startled bird . . . Karun shuddered.

Usually she could feel it when a spell expired, but today fatigue and worry had clouded her perceptions.  Her dive behind the boulder had been abrupt.

Karun listened, eyes closed.  There was no change in the noises from the gully’s floor.  Her many hopes clambered in her chest as if the foolish things were trying to get out.  If Benim had been eaten by goblins, then Benim had been eaten by goblins.  No hope could shift that, if it were done.

It was a pity that she couldn't make herself feel bad about the brat’s demise, but she couldn't.  In fact, she found herself regretting that his parents were sitting safely in their manor, instead of sharing a cozy stew pot with their mouthy, misbehaving son.

It would darken soon.  That would let her creep closer without sapping the energy she would need for other spells.  ‘Til then her grey dress and heavy brown cloak would be camouflage.  She hoped.

She also hoped, against all sense and almost against her will, that the boy was alive.  Repulsively mannered or not, he was only five years old and his abduction could be said to be her fault.  His parents, in fact, had said it loudly. 

It had been a relief do declare, when there was finally a short pause, “I will save my accusations for later, when I have returned with my charge.”  It would have been nice if she had been able to stalk from their hearing hall with them sputtering or silent behind her.  But it was a relief to hear their voices fade behind her, at least.

But that had been three days ago.  Goblins rarely kept meat fresh that long.  Odds were that the young blot was bones already.  But if he wasn't, every moment that passed without rescue endangered him.  And if he was going to be rescued then Karun, linguist, scribe, and tutor – “much too young to be called a Sage or paid as one” – would have to do it.  Now.  Curse it.

Karun looked with dismay at the darkening gorge.  Goblins were shuffling out of caves and holes by the dozens.  They were wearing more clothes than usual and had painted their tails with phosphorescent paint in a kaleidoscope of colors.  No.  By the way the colors were grouped, the paint was meant to identify different bands.

Karun all but groaned aloud as she counted the different hues.  There were more than twelve.  There was no way that she could search that many goblin dens with her limited spell casting ability.  She was a Sage, not a Mage.  And a tutor, not a zookeeper!  If I get out of this, I’m Karun the Sage and I’m gone.

If only there were some way to tell which group had the boy.  Karun watched as the groups formed a rough circle in the center of the gorge and began to insult one another.  Though informal at first, there soon came to be a ritualized quality to the proceedings.  With a shock, Karun realized that she was witnessing a batma’gal, a ritualized contest of humiliation recently evolved by the goblins to replace their previously incessant inter-band warfare.  No scholar had ever witnessed one.  All documentation came from traveler’s accounts. Wishing she had her notes book and ink, the young Sage watched and listened closely.

A group would be insulted by the group on its right.  It would react, then reply.  Then it would turn and insult the group on the left.  At the moment, a group dotted with bilious green blobbing glows growled and crouched, insulted by some comment that Karun hadn't caught.  Then they rallied, stomped their feet and replied, in ragged unison: “Batwing-Ears! Batwing-Ears!”

A growl from their target and murmurs from the general crowd indicated a good return.  Then they turned, stomped closer to the group on their left and yelled:  “Flower Eaters!  Flower Eaters!  Eat flowers and smile!”

I shouldn't be watching this.  I should be rescuing Benim.  This is the perfect time to search the dens.  But Karun knew that there would be guards at each entrance.  Her spells would give out before . . .

“We Mirror!  You Glue!  Bounce Off We!  Stick to You!”  The new group’s initial reply made a big stir.  This was apparently more than had been expected from a well-known opponent.  Must be the height of intellectuality for a goblin.  Sounds just like . . . no.  It couldn't be.

The group, the sky blues, turned with smug confidence and let off another volley.  “Snafflewart a Nut!  Has Rubber Butt!  Every time he turn – Goes Putt-Putt!”  A roar of approval echoed down the canyon.  This was obviously unexpectedly fine stuff.

Karun bit her fist to keep from laughing.  Well, dip me in honey and throw me to the anteaters, the kid kept up his nerve.  The spasm passed.  The Sage began to creep down, circling the main event in search of a den with a sky blue daubed guard.

Not a bad show of spirit.  There it is.  One guard and everyone’s mind is on the Great Debate.  Benim, I’ll make you a deal.  You don’t mess up my rescue and I’ll stay and let your parents raise my salary and call me Sage.  We both deserve it.

Forty-Fifth Beginning: A Very Shy Dinosaur

[A picture book that I wrote when my oldest son was three or four.  So maybe 1978?  No, I never drew any pictures for it.]

(The dinosaur in this story is never actually seen, except for the tip of his tail and his eyes peering out from under things.  He is, after all, very shy.)

(I think Mother is also not completely seen.  Maybe just her arms.)

I have a dinosaur.

He lives under my bed.

We play in my room during the day.

And he scares away any bad dreams that try to come at night.

I love my dinosaur.  But I never tell anyone about him . . .

 . . . because he’s shy.

Most of the time having a dinosaur is lots of fun.

But one day . . .

. . . my dinosaur decided to explore my closet.

He was so big that when he turned around he knocked down all of my clothes and bumped my toys off of the shelf and even tipped all of my shoes out of the pockets of the hanging shoe folder.  He made a big mess.

And Mother thought it was me.

But I didn’t tell her about my dinosaur.

Because he’s shy.

Another day my dinosaur decided to explore the kitchen.  He spilled a glass of milk on the counter, ate a dish of pudding that was supposed to be for desert, and got a bag of potato chips down from the top of the refrigerator.

And Mother thought it was me.

But I still didn’t tell her about my dinosaur.

Because he’s shy.

I didn’t tell her about my dinosaur when he knocked down two of her plants . . .

. . . or when he used the sofa cushions to make a fort . . .

. . . or when he snooped through her desk and messed up all her papers.

I almost told her one day.

One day my dinosaur decided to explore the bathroom.  Suddenly he heard someone coming.  He had to find somewhere to hide, fast!

(Dinosaur eyes peering anxiously out from under a huge mound of unrolled toilet paper.)

And Mother thought it was me.

But I didn’t tell her, even then.

Because he’s shy.

I wanted to, though.

By then, I was beginning to think that having a dinosaur live under my bed was nothing but a big pain.

He must have been sorry for getting me into trouble, though, because the next day he got up very early . . .

. . . and went outside . . .

 . . . and picked some flowers . . .

 . . . and left them at Mother’s place at the table.

(A small, grinning boy is being hugged.)

And Mother thought it was me.  

Forty-Forth Beginning: The Halfling and the Cook

(This is an incomplete poem.  It's twenty years old.)

The halfling to the table sat
     Upon a tilting stool
Between the plowman's whining brat
     And a toddler's shining drool.

Companions to the farmhouse came
     A'seeking room and board,
Back from gath'ring wealth and fame,
     Yea, all a drogon's hoard.

The farmer, dour, did swear to feast,
     Without a thought of pay,
Adventurers who'd killed the beast
   And saved the shire this day.

So elf and dwarf and man he brought
     And welcomed to his board
But halflings count, he said, for naught
     And bring war bands no good.

So with the girls, halfling paled
     And with the giggling boys.
While others dined on meat and ale,
     He dined on soup and noise.

While others raised their flagons high
     And cheered the dragon's doom
The halfling heaved a might sigh
     And left the torch-lit room.

He wandered for awhile then took
     A turn toward a smell
That promised that the farmer's cook
     Did cook outside, and well.

And when the summer hearth he found
     He set himself to think
On how the cook might be brought round
     To giving food and drink.

He pondered, plotted, schemed, and planned
     And rubbed his ample belly
While peering into pots of jam
  And bubbling, spicy jelly.

The baking cooled upon a shelf
     Its quantity quite ample.
Enough, he soon convinced himself,
     To spare a little sample.

A loaf of bread, a cup of jam
     Was all the halfling took.
But as he turned, espying ham
He backed into the cook.

The cook, a woman tall and wide,
     With hands upon her waist,
Peered at the small rogue at her side
     While his small heart did race.

"Dear Madam," said the little man
     In his most winning tone.
The cook just turned, reached out her hand,
     And raised a largish stone.

"Dear Cook, your kitchen skills are great,"
      He said, and then repeated.
She plopped the stone beside a crate
     And growled out: "Please be seated."

The halfling sat!  The halfling sat!
     And shivered to his soul.
The cook left, then she hurried back,
     Presenting him a bowl.

"It isn't fair," the cook declared,
     "For Pa to go and do i -
To keep the one mouth from my fare
     That could do justice to it."

The halfling scanned the woman wide
     For any sign of hatr,
And when he found but cookly pride
     He looked toward his plate.

A melon half, as frosty cool
     As any winter breeze,
Was filled with spiced and sweet- creamed fruit,
     Surrounded with cubed cheese.

The halfling smiled and plied his spoon.
     It was his sole employment,
Save moaning like one nearing swoon
     From overmuch enjoyment.

The woman wide turned to her stove
     And settled her to cook more.
The little rogue's eyes filled with love
     As he awaited encore.

Match-sticked potatoes, fried in mounds
     Were salted and then tucked,
With yams and golden carrot rounds,
     Around an oranged duck.

And what a duck!  The halfling's eyes
     Filled up.  He rose to say
That though it over- matched his size,
     He'd vanquish it this day.

The cook enjoyed the praise full fine,
     But then she gave a frown,
And hurried for a jar of wine
     To help him wash it down.

No hero carving beef and pork
     Within the torch-lit room
Was so rewarded with his fork
     For his part in wyrm's doom.

The halfling laid the table bare
     And settled back, replete
From his head's curling, tufted hair
     To that upon his feet.

Though yearning, the cook gave a scowl
     To shield her gentle heart
And asked him with a mighty growl
     If he cared for a tart.

Though loving puns, the halfling, wise,
     Forbore to make the jest
And swore that only folded pies
     Could lay this meal to rest.

Forty-Third Beginning: Because SOMEONE Didn't Remember

Forty-Second Beginning: Because I'm Tired of Hearing the Joke Told in a Fashion That is Wrong.

No, the Engineer does not see the glass as being twice as big as it needs to be.  The Manager might think that way, but the Engineer knows better.

As a for instance, the Brooklyn Bridge has a safety factor of over 3.5.   And that's true even though a subcontractor delivered a load of inferior steel cable, because the engineer had designed it with a safety factor of 6.  

It's why the nuclear plant in Onagawa, Japan, came through the March 2011 earthquake and tsunami with a flooded basement and an efficient shutdown even though it was 68 miles closer to the epicenter.  

Engineers LOVE safety factors. 

Forty-First Beginning (NaNoWriMo 2013) The Buddy System 02

Other folk lived in the woods. Most of those hunted or raised tusked pigs or gathered wood to sell at the inn. The family was one of two who made charcoal, which was lighter than wood and could be sold down the mountain with a hand-drawn cart. Nevvic had once made the mistake of asking if it wouldn't be better to go to the inn and sell the charcoal to a drayer who had emptied his cart there and could use a load for the way back.

Uncle's reaction had been slow, but violent. Nevvic had been cuffed, shoved, and bodily thrown from the house. There had been grunts and loud, strangled noises. Anger and contempt had been plain in the tone of them, but only a few words could be heard picked out clear from among them and not much more could be guessed at. Nevvic concluded, in the end, that Uncle was very distrustful. Or that he was uncomfortable with change. Or that he resented a mere boy, and one beholden to him for food and shelter, daring to question his ways. Or maybe something else. Or all. It had been a painful experience and Nevvic had never risked repeating it.

That event and the reactions of the rest of the family to it had put a stop to Nevvic asking nearly anything. He even stopped asking about his mother and his father . . . and hid name.

Jenko sounded good. He would consider Jenko. He scrambled on toward the inn, keeping on the shadowed side of upthrusts or scraggy bushes when he could.

Nevvic usually kept pretty quiet at the inn. He tended not to ask strangers questions until he'd seen someone else ask and that the stranger didn't mind answering. Even then, Gripper, the innkeeper, usually did most of the talking, balancing his store of news against inquiries as to the guest's purpose on the road and experience in the trip.

Inquiries about the weather and the state of the road were allowed and expected. You wouldn't get a direct answer to a direct question about prices of good that were passing through, but a general question about prices in general would get news about prices being up and down. Questions about the cost of fish or flour or salt would be answered and elaborated on, so long as that wasn't what was in the guests's bales or barrels.

Spreading news of bandits and taxes, traveling bards or wizards seemed to be an obligation. These things didn't have to be asked after. Some would talk spontaneously of fashion or of paladins and their quests or of thievery in other areas. And everyone swapped news of dragons.

Dragons were a bane on the land and every man's hand and eye and rumor was against them. All longed for a world free of them and all knew that world would be a joyous and wonderful thing. Strangers and known merchants would speak of recent predations and would compare the steps that people used to protect themselves against them and to make life with them bearable. Here in the wilds, the inn was as near to a kremlin as the area had. In case of attack, folk would come here, if they could. Gripper would expect them to bring blankets and food if they could, but he'd make room.

Nevvic had always listened raptly to tales of dragons. There was a new goddess in the land who was sending paladins against dragons. She was giving them special magic. there was a rumor that they could give ordinary men the magic to find dragons and to call her in. He wanted to learn more. He was ordinary, if anyone was.

There were no carts in the cutoff near the inn, so there were probably no merchants inside. There would be locals, though, gathering for the morning gossip. And maybe travelers. Nevvic scanned the sky, then risked cutting through open scrub to the inn.

There were horses in the staging area near the entrance of the overhang. Nevviv hurried and found that a group of four travelers were eating their breakfast and dickering with Gripper's son, Tote. Tote left to load the group's packs onto their horses, along with the food and fodder that they had just purchased.

Forty-First Beginning: The Buddy System 01 (a late beginning on NaNoWriMo)

Maybe his name was Jenko. Jenko was a good name. Solid, yet jaunty. Responsible, yet not dour. Nevvic yearned for a bit of not dour. And for a name. Uncle ruled the family and never called him anything but nevvic - nephew. Uncle approved of little, including loose talk and direct questions. Uncle would not approve of his trip to the inn, but he was so unlikely to approve of anything else Nevvic did that there was really no reason to avoid the trip.

The family lived deep in the woods, far from proper roads. Woods or not, the whole area was an odd mix of rounded hills and upthrust rocks, partway up a spine of mountains that reared up sheer cliffs a couple of days' walk further west. Having tall peaks to the west made for cool springs and falls and cold, cold winters.

The mountains sent down rills and streams in a net of wandering meanders. Salmon sometimes ran the streams and sometimes didn't. Dried salmon was a cheap staple that would keep through the winter. Uncle didn't approve of cheap so much as he despised spending any cash or trading anything away. He didn't approve of Nevvic wandering about, checking to see if any of the streams were running salmon, but the latest hive of charcoal had been sealed and was underburning away.

Nevvic's hands weren't particularly needed for marking the next trees to fell and definitely not needed for watching the hive and tamping the cloak of soil that had been heaped over it to smother the flames and cause underburning, an action near to burning, but that left charcoal instead of ash as it finished. The boy had big feet, but was weedy and had no weight to push down with.

Better to keep the task with his own sons. Better that they worked the knowledge and skill of charcoal making in through their hands and feet. Better that they develop the eye, the nose, the feel of wood making itself to charcoal underground. Better that they stay in the dense woods, away from the sight of dragons. Nevvic had been told yo stay under cover since he had come to the household as a toddler. If he didn't make use of what he'd been told, that was his own load.

If Uncle had been the sort to visit the in to lift a mug and trade talk, then it would have been risky to go there, instead of up and down across the hillface. But he wasn't. Nevvic could go to the inn and offer work for trade and if the salmon were flying, someone at the inn would tell of it.

Sometimes Nevvic traded sweeping or scrubbing or fetching water for a cup of soup and a bit of bread. Sometimes he would brush and comb a horse for a traveler, for a copper. Sometimes he would haul bales or barrels of goods into the storeroom, for the innkeeper or for a merchant. That was the hardest work, but the innkeeper would add a cup of ale to the soup and bread. If the merchant was important, or paid well, there might even be butter.

The inn was built of stone. It had started as a slab of upthrust that had split from its brothers and fallen between them. The held it up, making a tall roof on the top side of the slab and a low roof on the broken side, with plenty of overhang. That was a heavy enough hat to keep any dragon out. Over more years than was accurately remembered, the innfolk, and others, had carried stone to be worked into walls under the slab. The walls wandered a bit, having been raised at different time to different purposes.

There was a path near the inn, circling through a line of upthrusts thick enough to give decent cover. Over years it had been widened into a road, one that could span a wagon pulled by a team of horses or oxen. There was just enough traffic to keep the inn in profits. Folk came to live near the inn. Folk who fished the streams or panned it for gold, which was scarce, but which came down in flakes and grains and occasional nuggets from the high cliffs during spring floods. These folk lived in upthrusts not very near to the inn. Crowding the inn would have been endangering it.

Other folk lived in the woods. Most of those hunted or raised tusked pigs or gathered wood to sell at the inn. The family was one of two who made charcoal, which was lighter than wood and could be sold down the mountain with a hand-drawn cart. Nevvic had once made the mistake of asking if it wouldn't be better to go to the inn and sell the charcoal to a drayer who had emptied his cart there