They went from the jeweler to the Fleece weaver’s cart, and there were even more people here.
Beautiful sashes and scarves of linen hung low. Those were for the affordable crowd, practical pieces that helped families survive another winter without being reminded of the season’s true name.
The fleece cart also sold cloaks, and these were expensive, but only because they were so finely made. They hung before the most expensive pieces the fleece weaver sold— three huge tapestries, depicting a triptych of myths.
The triptych portrayed three sides of the goddess Ugru, at three different ages.
The first of her domains was the Moon. It was her symbol, and her sanctum. At the top of the tapestry, the moon was full, and framed the goddess like a halo. This was her first form, her youngest… And the weaver had made the goddess an Orc in this piece.
In fact, this version of Ugru looked a lot like Nala, if Nala had her eyes closed.
Ugru’s second domain was the Shadow. In many myths, she merged with creatures, items, and even the elements themselves by becoming that thing’s shadow. The tapestry’s midground was peopled with legends that Nala knew well, where Ugru rode the shadow of warriors, and tigers, and ships, and a swarm of bats.
Finally, at the very bottom, the tapestry depicted the goddess in her old age, holding a crescent knife. For just as she could merge, so could this goddess sever.
She could sever the soul from its body,
Sever the mage from their magic,
Sever a word from its meaning.
Her eyes were wide open,
And frighteningly clear.
Just seeing it made Nala’s spine shudder.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“Mmm,” Gran agreed. “Resplendent.”
“Huh?” grunted Nala.
“It means I really like it,” Gran said.
Nala nodded, a grin widening over her face as she studied the tapestry.
Ugru was Nala’s favorite. All the weirdest, wildest stories were about Ugru, and her adventures both in the physical realm… and beyond.
“Evening, Akha,” said the weaver. She was sweating, either from the sheer amount of bodies in the shop, or just being so busy.
“Evening!” Gran replied.
“I hear you’re doing the Telling tonight!” said the weaver. Nala tried to remember her name, but couldn’t.
Gran laughed, and itched the nape of her neck, where the grey hairs were greyest.
“I am!” Gran said.
“Afraid I won’t be able to uh… to make it tonight.”
“That’s alright,” Gran said, though she was clearly crestfallen. “You’re busy.”
The weaver nodded, eyes wide, and looked around. “Too busy!” she said, then she laughed.
“Oh don’t say that.”
“No, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, but… Anyway, can I help you with anything?”
“Oh,” Gran said. She made a face and shook her head. “No, uh… I don’t suppose the… What’s the price on this?”
The weaver was hesitant to say. She studied the tapestry as if she was appraising it, but even Nala could tell she was trying to figure out how to politely say, “You can’t afford it.”
“Well,” she said. “It’s… This is perhaps the third or… No, maybe the fourth? Most expensive piece here?”
“Ah,” said Gran, nodding.
There was no world in which she would actually get something from the fleece cart.
“And how much is that?” said Gran.
The weaver looked over her shoulder, then said hushed. “That piece… is seven hundred bones.”
Nala felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She’d never heard of anything being that expensive, not ever.
But Gran smiled. “You disappoint me!”
The weaver smirked. “Oh?”
“If you’re gonna go that steep,” chided Gran, “you better make it nines.”
“Ah,” the weaver said, nodding.
“Nine-nine-nine is what it should be worth.”
The weaver shook her head. “You know, for a moment there… I thought you were actually going to buy it.”
Then they both had a laugh, and waved goodbye, and Gran led Nala on.
* * * * / * * * *
Their last sight on the way to the Yeller’s District was the Mageriders.
They sat as proud as mounts, chins raised, tusks jutting like spikes out from their sneering lips. It seemed the whole family had inherited the same sour expression.
There were two horse ranches in Orcshire, and both families wore hatred like a crest, but only one of those families ever came to Market Town.
The crowd was dense around the riders. Their horses pawed at the dirt. Fathers and mothers and husbands and sisters crowded around them, hustling tickets to the strangers.
“Three races!” shouted one of the younger ones. He went about, waving his tickets (little strips of stained linen) in the air. “Three races tomorrow! Tickets? Anyone want tickets? Thirty bones!”
Nala winced at the price. “30 bones?” she said.
“I know,” Gran Akha said, nodding. “Expensive, huh?”
“Three races! Three races, tomorrow night! Three races come dusk, come and get them! Thirty bones!”
“Why isn’t anyone buying?” one of them said.
“Look at them!” said one of the proudest of the riders. She yelled, so that everyone could hear her, all through the crowd. “Damn refugees! Leeches, all of them!”
They were actually very few refugees in this part of town, and yet…
“Look at them!”
“I am!”
“Of course they don’t have any money!”
“Thirty bones, come on! Three races for just thirty bones! Three races, come and—”
But the rider kept railing. “Wasting my time!”
“We are not wasting our time! No one is going to be there tomorrow unless we d—”
“Bah!” grunted the woman.
The horse felt her anger, and kicked its feet in the air. As it whinnied, the crowd parted, fearful not to get trampled.
The angry rider yipped and struggled to get through the crowd.
“Out of my way! Out, I said, move! Move!”
Nala watched the rider go, pressing through the crush of bodies, awkwardly at first until the crowd finally parted.
In the restless chaos, Nala felt a tug in her belly.
Mmm…?
Then the horse took a gallop, through the Southern gate and out of town.
Mmmm…?
She thought she heard Gran Akha saying something.
Ugru below…
Praying something.
Nala looked, and saw that Gran was looking up at the moon.
“Is it time?” Nala asked.
Gran grinned.
“Yes. It’s time.”
She took Nala’s hand again, and they rushed through the crowd toward the Yeller’s District, and the Teller’s Altar at its heart.
* * * * / * * * *
“Which ones do you think I should tell tonight?” Gran Akha asked, excitedly.
Nala thought about it, as she bit into the perfect chicken drumstick. She thought it was the last of the meat, but she hadn’t even eaten half of what Grish had handed her.
Leftovers! she thought, gleeful.
Nala didn’t want to talk with her mouth full (or stop eating) so she shrugged, “I-o-know,” and took another bite.
“Maybe a scary one?” said Gran. “Spring is a surprisingly good time of year for demon stories, you know…”
“Mmm,” nodded Nala.
“Or maybe one of the small sagas? I could get grim and tell the Sage at the End of Days?”
Nala thought of the tapestries.
“Ugru?” Nala said, then took another bite.
“Ooh, which Ugru one should I tell? I’m thinking I’ll do 3 things in all.”
Nala nodded, still chewing.
“Maybe ‘Cape of Stars’?” Gran suggested.
“Uh huh.”
“Or ‘Fortune’s Daughter’?”
“Sure.”
Gran laughed. “How are you still eating?”
Nala shrugged. “Should I stop?”
“I just don’t want you to make yourself sick,” Gran said.
“I won’t,” said Nala. “ Wait… Are we here already?”
They were.
A crowd was already gathered. But not a festival crowd.
The Yeller’s District was tense. Grim. People spoke in hushed voices, and clumped together.
The locals eyed the refugees nervously, and the refugees… Well, some of them seemed numb and ignored the bad stares.
Others stared back defiantly.
At the Eastern Gate, there had been music and dancing and juggling and food. Nala could hear it, in the near distance.
Not here.
The crowd was packed full of hungry faces. The Telling was free, after all— it was perhaps the only thing some of these people could afford.
Lots of parents, but more children. Lots of grief, and some anger.
The Yeller’s Altar stuck up like a spike from the trampled dirt square. The moon hung behind it.
It was a stage for one, and it was so tall it had to have a ladder. At the top, there wasn’t much space to stand on— no room for a chair, not even space for a crutch.
It was a stage designed to ward off overstayers.
Each season had a festival in Orcshire Valley— Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Death.
The Spring Festival was always the best attended, but even so, Nala had never imagined the town could fit so many bodies.
Gran Akha shook out her hands, as if she were shaking them dry. She breathed in and forced the breath out.
“Or maybe I could do a—?”
A bell was rung. Its ringing cut through the chatter.
Then another.
By the third strike the crowd had gone quiet as a grave. Even the party in the distance went silent for the ringing of the bell.
An old Orcish woman stood next to the bell.
“Is that…?” Nala began.
Gran nodded. “Ica.” From earlier.
Her skin was thin as paper.
Mmmm rumbled Nala’s belly.
Ica’s single eye glazed over the audience, not seeming to see anyone.
Her raspy voice rumbled far farther than it should have been able to reach.
When she spoke, her voice was like paper too, only all could hear it, and all that heard her could tell…
Ica had power.
“A Telling Moon… A night on which no witch
Will be allowed to lie. So says the Moon.
Ugru below, our shadow, You.
May devils
Never
Rise.”
Ica’s eyes (or rather, her eye and its shadow) landed on Nala. The woman who looked at nothing saw right through her.
No, she thought. Not through. Saw into. This woman saw into Nala’s very soul.
The whole crowd looked at what she was leering at, which meant their eyes found their way to Nala.
Nala wanted to shrink into herself, embarrassed.
Then Ica’s lip curled into a smile, and she laughed.
It was a coarse laugh, a mean laugh. It was horrible to hear, and impossible to miss.
Then she turned her back and climbed down the ladder. She laughed all the way down, and stalked to where she sat.
The crowd shuffled uncomfortably.
Gran Akha stood up awkwardly, and began to walk toward the Yeller’s Altar, through the sea of mixed faces.
Blue skinned orcs, and green orcs too. There was a woman in town who was from one of the red tribes, but she was getting old now, and all orcs go grey after a certain age.
Gran Akha got up to the top of the ladder, and looked out at the crowd.
“Not the introduction I expected!” Gran Akha said.
There was a smattering of laughter, but that somehow cranked up the tension even more.
She licked her lips and went on.
“Three tales I have for you! Three tales tonight!
They call this place— the Cradle of Magic!
I’m lucky enough to call it home. So…
Welcome, ye weary, yes, welcome to Orcshire,
Three Tales from my childhood. Two myths and a legend.
I hope you find the truth that hides
In each moment that I’ve tried to capture.
Mmm. Mmm. Breathe with me now— Mmm.”
There was still silence, but it was different. The silence was softer now.
“Mmm…”
The cloud of grief gentled itself into a mist.
The spell was beginning.
Gran Akha took 9 slow, long breaths…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Second three.
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Third three.
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm… Hhhh…
Mmm…
…and by the ninth exhale,
Hhhh…
…reality had melted away,
and Nala found herself
immersed…
…inside…
…a Story.
* * * * / * * * *
GIFT SHOP
1. Hats & Hoodies
2. ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
3. 8bit Music for Moonthread
* * * * / * * * *
Its so beautiful and clear writing! You deserve more fantasy fans, Anthony!! 💥🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
I'm wondering if, growing up, Ica's nickname might've been Icky. I'm also curious what ill Icky Ica will be up to when the orcs come out of their Telling reverie. It'd be a good opportunity if she's some kind of villain, though my predictions but been all misses thus far.