Alium, page 14
“Well, let’s not be hasty,” said Ogwold, laughing nervously. “One day I’ll go. You’re right, I should listen to her.” His hand rested near the pipe of norm. “But for now… I feel like I’ve never embraced our kind. I want to love Epherem as a Nogofod, not a Flosleao.”
Ogdof gave his son a stare cryptic as any, nearly closing his slabby eyelids, bearded eyebrows like a furry awning shadowing all meaning. “There is not much to it, son.” Then his face softened, and there was a twinkle in the dark like the first star of the night. “But do as you will. Be careful of that grass now. It is good therapy in doses, yet in large quantities over time it drains a mind. For an old ogre like me with nothing left to seek, it is ever a great source of calm, but for a young man like you, Ogwold,” Ogdof clapped his great mitt down on his son’s hand, pinning it to the table before it could reach the pipe. “Perhaps there is such a thing as being too calm.”
*
Ogdof soon finished his breakfast and went to fetch water from the purifier. His son sat unmoving in the musiclessness of the ocean. Like a circular, self-affirming truth repeated on the surf as in his mind was the surety that he could stop smoking whenever he wanted. For the time being, he thought, it was quite sensible to plug up his ears until, perhaps in a week or two, the song of the ocean and the threat of the desert became more bearable. While the norm had earlier quieted her song, only a truly prodigious amount of smoke would really take his mind off his mother. That was what he needed though, a full disconnect. Nodding as if communicating this to the empty room, he took an enormous, almost desperate pull from the pipe, coughing as burdened by lungfuls of sand for several minutes.
Thick layers of heavy heat packed against his streaming eyes, and his breathing grew awfully shallow; but when the intense weight settled he slumped back under a leaden blanket of total contentment, forgetting all his ails. So powerful now was the trance of norm that his mother’s song and notions of an adventurous young Ogdof faded into meaningless, lovely colours and incoherent sounds, unable to mark his consciousness. Chewing a tutum skin with a beautifully empty mind, he watched daybreak slowly gather far over the simple, elegant waves beyond the window.
As if it were determined to reawaken the deeper meaning of those waters, his left hand wandered to the whorl of vegetation where his right shoulder should have been. Not particularly reminded of the plant’s source, Ogwold did, however, notice something very strange. He could feel the callused palm of his left hand where it rested on the solid bandage. Though it was a dull feeling, as through the buzzing roil of a bloodless extremity, there it was, skin against skin. He reached all along, following the thick roots to the places where they sank beneath his hide, under the ribs, around the shoulder blades. Everywhere was that same intimate and uncanny sensation felt. Everywhere too did he sense that the bandage had slightly grown.
Suddenly he saw in the reflection of the glossy material the angry, spittle-flecked face of Wog, and all sense of wonder left him. Rude and oppressive as he was, that ogre was at least a friend of his father’s. Far worse reactions would follow him in Epherem should his greener shoulder be even partly glimpsed by a stranger. Fear and worry now intensified as pleasure and satisfaction had moments before. Rummaging through the clothes at the foot of his sleeping mat, Ogwold tore away from his oldest tunic a long scrap of cloth, and quickly wrapped the wound, obscuring its alien colour and texture. Looking at the snug stump, he remembered too clearly that he was now simply a burden on Ogdof. He would never be able to lift the traders’ chests. Absolutely inundated in norm as he was, still some begrudging, forcibly sunken self forced him to recall the bestower of the bandage and her command.
Perhaps he really should leave Epherem. With this thought a pulse of clarity quickened his blood, and his heart seemed to beat as before danger. He sat envisioning now in vivid detail his second vision of Autlos-lo, looking so much like Caelare riding her chariot of cloud, scanning the world, waiting at the top of the Peakless Place for her son to answer fate. But he must be absolutely certain, said a creeping paranoia in his buzzing breast. He noticed the smoke drifting through the room, how it swirled all around as if to comfort him in a sunny blanket, and the pungent, baking smell calmed him slightly. If this quest was so important, he thought, another vision would surely come. One more vision; just one more, a third and final sign from beyond—so seemed threeness to him mystical. If he saw his mother again in the face of the mountain, he would leave Epherem at once!
Plowing through the dew-soaked door he turned and shielded his glassy eyes against the white glare of distant Zenidow. With grey-red stare he sifted the echelons of its dense crown, hunting every shadow in the billowing fog for the suggestion of some figure, the blazing hair unmistakable in his memory, the graceful recline, the searching, radiant eyes, the velvety dark wings. But there was no sign of her. Not one swirling cloud bore any form but that, a nebulous fluff, such that he began to tell himself the striking vision from the night before was only dream. Yet, what was a dream so powerful that even norm could not hold it back?
Ogdof came stomping up from town with a full skin of water. “What a radiant sight is Zenidow at sunrise!” he declared sonorously, following his son’s gaze. “Folk are wrong to say such a place is evil. Wog would probably tell me now that the most damned things show themselves as angels of light.” He handed the wasterskin to Ogwold, who drank deeply, dousing the smoky cotton in his throat. “Well! Unless you’re off to see it for yourself,” said Ogdof from the shadowed caverns of his brow, “Caelare summons our labour. Come! There is far less shame in the one-armed Nogofod who works than in the one-armed Nogofod who hides in his father’s house!”
*
With day pouring over the desert and rushing up along the feet of the mountains, a drowsy caravan crested the arid hills bubbling in rocky humps down to the sea. Rickety covered wagons wobbled and rattled over the rough, winding path, drawn by stout, horned cornibets, who huffed and drove their wide hooves into the shifting ground. Reins loose in their raw hands, somnolent tradesmen swayed and bobbed, dreaming of the treasures betrayed at chance wobbles twinkling in the dusty deeps of their shaded storage.
Nogofod of all hulking shapes, bent and stately, lurked about the docks, awaiting hire. Rugog and Dur—two ash-skinned ogres around Ogwold’s age—pushed to the front of the group, shaggy arms proudly crossed, cleft chins bare of scruff and bulbous heads closely shaven. Swarthy Wodfud, largest and strongest in Epherem, arrived latest but more noisily than any, clapping her huge hands down upon wincing brutish shoulders dwarfed as she stomped by. Youngest of the group and lightest in countenance was Ogrud the orphan, a frail pole somewhere in the midst of Nogofod like big rocks tumbled together. Wise Gurgof the village healer stood off to the side watching the bright orb of Caelare’s Palace rise fully above the sea, his heavy braids pulled back and bound with Lucetalian twine. It was he, Ogdof’s only other friend, who would agree soon to the conspiracy of having bandaged Ogwold’s arm.
The first wagon to reach the broad, flat stretch of rocky land before the docks ground on its slow wooden wheels to a snorting halt. Its largest cornibet shook from haunch to great head grumbling while the others of the team stirred the gravel and panted loudly. Already the next cart was settling in, the horned beasts being calmed, presented shallow bowls of water; beside it another arrived. “Ten brutes!” the first driver shouted, sliding down from his seat, sending up a plume of rock dust, through which he stepped, hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his fine coat. “We’re putting it all on the Celeritas!” He nodded towards the smallest of the three great galleons from Lucetal, already anchored.
There was no contest for the job. Ten giant figures lumbered forward. They reached their grey, rock-muscled arms into the dark tent of his cart, and one after another drew away with immense black chests, quaking from the weight. With slow, thunderous footfalls, shattering the thinnish plates of rock that scattered the beach, they made for the docks. If one guessed that the slumped posture of these trollish creatures indicated lethargy, the inexorable labour which followed would silence them. The Nogofod are powerful and endlessly durable creatures, their strength marvellous. So long as the load fits between their massive arms, even the smallest hoists three hundred pounds smoothly as they harvest the norm or pick tutum. Yet more impressive than strength or stamina is their unflinching integrity. Questions were not asked. Orders were received with dignity. Great respect was given to the Novare and their prized possessions. Even wrathful Wog passing by with a high, bound stack of jewelled caskets looked as though he carried the most precious and venerable objects in all the world.
Despite the honour and reliability of the Nogofod race, the traders were greatly covetous of their goods, and there were always some ogres, shunned for whatever reason—the light in their eye, the way of their stride, the stink of their sweat—who went often without coin. So it was that even those such Nogofod received tasks and payment before one-armed Ogwold, who found himself quite alone, seated on a wide, sun-baked boulder, looking up into the mountains, his back to the sea.
“Ogwold! Ogwold!” It was broad-shouldered Fodfof, daughter of Fodwush and Gorfof.
Ogwold stood slowly up laughing. “Fodfof! Where are your friends?” He wobbled slightly, dizzy from the heat of the sun.
“I should ask the same of your right arm!” She skidded in a cloud of sand and gravel, rooted bulky arms to her hips.
He looked down at her, though just barely, for she stood nearly the size of an adult Novare. Fodfof had long black hair like all Nogofod, yet in place of the common dull grey her eyes were a rare, rich silver. Like all female ogres she had a low, tough chin, large ears, and a stately nose. As with all children, Ogwold was perhaps too honest with her. “I tried to leave Epherem,” he said. “It was severed as punishment.”
“Leave? But why?” She squinted up into Ogwold’s norm-fogged eyes. “You look… different, Ogwold.”
“I’m not sure. It just came over me.”
Fodfof folded down the corners of her wide mouth. “You’ve been swimming, haven’t you? Mokod saw you go into the water yesterday after the traders went.”
Ogwold sighed. If it was difficult to sneak away from the villagers, it was impossible to be free of Fodfof and her friends. Partly it was his own fault, for he spent much of his time telling them stories, pointing out the Nogofod constellations, teaching them to track the ripest tutum in the grove or plant its seeds where they could best tap the groundwater. They had known for almost one year that he went into the ocean, but they kept his secret, for they loved him. He was unlike the other adult Nogofod, and had no issue talking about magic or things at all, really, that mightn’t exist.
“Well you can tell Mokod that I’m never going to swim ever again.” Ogwold placed his hand over his heart. “I’ve promised that to myself.”
“Really?” Fodfof smirked, disbelieving. “We’ll see about that.”
Ogwold smiled and went to cross his other arm over the first, but there was of course no limb to accomplish that impulse. A shadow passed over his face.
“So you leave the ocean, and then you leave me! What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not going anywhere. It was a silly idea.”
She grinned, showing a mouthful of dun, flat teeth. “Good! I don’t think Mokod could go on without your stories.”
“Oh, Mokod speaks much better than I. Even the Novare are entertained by him.” Ogwold began to smile, thinking of the little myth-maker, but already the expression wilted. “I enjoy it here with you all… But now I’m without hire. No one will entrust their treasure to a one-armed fool.” He slumped back onto the wide rock, chin in his palm. His long black hair shaded his face in windy locks and spilled twisting round the cloth-wrapped stump at his right shoulder.
Fodfof frowned and watched him sulk. All at once she said, “I’ll find you a job, Ogwold!” When he looked up he saw only a cloud of rock dust that was the exhaust of her departure.
The norm was still heavy on him and it was easy to sit there drinking the heat, melting into the rock, becoming like a morose wax statue. He felt even that he was in the perfect state for a fine dream, right in the liminal space between waking and sleeping, but there was only red darkness behind his eyes. Eventually he took to listening then, to the sounds of the Nogofod tramping through the sand, the meaningless majesty of the sea ever crashing and booming, the shouts of traders and grumbling of cornibets. He felt supremely left out. The sun passed its apex in the sky, and headed slowly over the Mardes, paring away the shadows in their eaves, so that the furthest, snowy peaks lit up brilliant and blinding white as always-radiant Zenidow.
From the folding rows of the endlessly arriving caravan by the docks, one dishevelled vehicle turned and rolled Ogwold’s way. At the reins of but one weary, gaunt cornibet was no trader, but a true delver in ragged clothes, covered in dirt, captaining his own haul. Alongside his eminently collapsing cart stampeded a crowd of young Nogofod, Fodfof at the lead. With her was Mokod, Yongog, Shug, Gorfol, Oduk, and Wugor, all charging powerfully forward, rock and dust flying up from their great naked heels, calling his name. Ogwold stood and smiled as the children swarmed. Struck as by many careening boulders, he let himself fall backward into the gravel—though he needn’t help them much—and they piled all over him laughing and tumbling. “Ogwold, are you really never going to swim again?” Mokod sat painfully on his chest, cross legged.
“Yes,” Ogwold managed. “Now get off of me, ogres!” He rose with sudden strength and shook them overboard. Roaring he chased Mokod down to the beach, but he stopped even as he began, looking out to the ocean which had been at his back all morning. As before it was simply a vast purple turbulence of water, seething and flowing one wave against the other. Coming back to the other children, who had gathered around the arriving wagon, he addressed the delver warmly, promising that he could still help even with only one arm.
“He’s got a strong constitution, this one,” barked Gorfol, and she punched Ogwold hard in the ribs. The blow sounded like a boulder dropped onto wet sand. “He could outwork any Nogofod!” The other children laughed and snorted as Ogwold doubled over comically and wheezed with only partly dramatized pain.
The delver smiled and chuckled like he had seen such a display many times before. Unaccustomed, however, to riding, he clambered awkwardly down from his mount, leapt tentatively into the gravel, and nearly fell flat on his face. He had on black leather boots, a disgusting, patchwork cloak, and a tattered, dusty cap wreathed with frayed tawny hair full of sweat and dirt. Smiling brown eyes peered out from the mass of hair over teeth that were stained nearly the same hue as his nut-brown skin. “I’m sure he can help,” he said warmly.
“Thank you, sir,” Ogwold said, carefully sitting cross-legged on the ground so that he was eye level with the delver. “I haven’t found work all day.”
“So I heard.” The delver watched Fodfof and her friends already charging off. Even among the hardy Nogofod, children are not fond of work, and so they went to play elsewhere. He turned back to Ogwold. “I’m leaving the mountains for good,” he said proudly, stroking the bony back of his exhausted cornibet. “I’ve enough rare ores here to settle down in Lucetal.” The beast looked at him anxiously, as if pleading that their journey be over.
“I will be most cautious with their transport,” Ogwold recited dutifully.
The delver laughed. “Of course. There are six crates in the back. At your own pace, friend.”
Rising and lumbering round to the side of the wagon, pulling up the canvas, Ogwold found in the stuffy shade a filthy pack, a dirt clodded pickaxe, several battered oil lanterns, and two rugged metal helmets. Beside the miner’s tools were several wooden chests dully latched. If they had been aligned or stacked in rows before, the jostling journey had knocked them all over. He wrapped his long arm around the closest, righting it, sliding it nearer. The splintery sides dug into his ribs where he tucked it firmly, and chafed his skin, but his left arm was strong and held it fairly tight. It seemed he would at least be able to help with loads of this size, but this was not much of a test; whatever ores this delver had found, they were uncommonly light. “To the Celeritas, please,” said the delver peeking round the side of the wagon; he smiled so wide his eyes were drawn shut.
*
Ogwold found the norm in his work. Peace, solidity, safety, all those encouraging effects which like blades of grass themselves had wilted since his last smoke, now quickened, curled, stiffened hearty and green as though the weight of each package under his arm were a beam of sunlight or a drop of crystal water. Back was the heaviness and understanding of the morning; back was that chugging inertia to amplify all feelings. Simply and clearly as came the empowerment of his tasks, going wagon to deck, wagon to deck, one package following another, that Ogwold became enraptured with belonging. Indeed, the shapes of Nogofod trudging alongside seemed to share with him an unspoken burden, this timeless privilege of humble service. The weight not only of chests but of this secret honour too settled into his being like the natural, vital tug of flesh upon bone. Even as he placed one package aboard the Celeritas he craved the next; yet those moments were so outside of time, so touched with meaning that he would stand senses alive and relish the heat and sweat and weight of his labour as it caught up to him. It was truly as immersive a practice as Wog had so reverently described the night before.
So the day passed, and the next, and another. For weeks, months, one season, Ogwold dismissed all that ailed him. Each morning, when the alarum of the sea broke his slumber, he dissolved the song of his mother in norm. For many days after breakfast he stood weighted beside the cabin scanning the highest reaches of distant Zenidow, as if Autlos-lo might yet send a new vision. But always the sterile mountain was desolate. As dreamless nights and visionless mornings gave way one to the other, he eventually stopped looking for her, and the mountains became like a backdrop, a non-place, unattainable as the sky itself. Now he was a true Nogofod man, whose eyes never strayed from his work, whose blood rushed for the transfer of precious things too weighty for Novare. At last he embraced the ways of his father’s people, and placed his faith in custom.
