The Ork What Stole Scrithams

Twas a night li’ this, when I was wee, I keened out the window at the falling glisten, with braum cracklin in the fire, and my Paps spake to me the tale o’ Scrithams.

*

     Wa’back in erst days — in the before-time — orks was not yet orks called, and Ork was just a homespun name; the name of a man with powerful wants and suspicious manners, or so reckoned his neighbors. Ork was sharp as a warlock’s dag, a taker by nature and craft. He knew the way o’ the taker and the way o’ making. He grasped all the secrets of locks, which in back-ways reckoning wasn’t much of a trick, as he invented them.
     (Clever Ork.)
—-His home was in Rancor, a town on the edge of the great tangled scrith called Witchwood, a place so taboo, so ill-omened, that e’en mice dared not go in’t. But the land was fertile, and his neighbors good, hard-working folk. Their land and labor proved a good life for their families, and even enough to support a sneaky taker like Ork.
—-Ork did so well that after a good haul, he oft bought a round of pints on Fireday nights at Shady’s pub, as a secret way to say thanks. He did so well, in fact, that he took to writing his takes in a book he called his Took-Book. He did so, to keep straight what was taken and from who, which was very important to Ork as it pleasured him to relive his takings again and again. But it also proved useful to Ork in two other ways. First, in his dealings with Gob, a traveling peddler what sneakily bought Ork’s takings for silver and sold them in distant towns. The Took-Book kept Gob honest. Second, it kept Ork looking honest, for with his scribings, he never accidentally showed the townsfolk somethin’ that he had taken from ’em.
     (Clever ole Ork.)
—-One spring night a bright flame was keened in the scrith and great howlin’ was heard. In the days that come next, strange things were reported, and wond’ring was on the lips of the townsfolk. Some keened odd, disfavored creatures or heard wordless voices with no mouths to speak them. Some claimed to keen beings of impossible-dark shadow, while others said these beings were of pure light.
—-But ‘sides strange omens, wonderments were plenty. The first happened when a man broke his iron plow and awoke the next day to it fixed, and the blade now sharpened steel. Then a poor widow lost her purse of copper coins and was living on gnawed bones. She found the purse filled with silver enough to feed her for a year. In the seasons next, fields were sowed and crops harvested overnight for the leavin’ of a home-cooked meal. A broke cart or lame horse might be fixed for a pie. And always, whatever things were touched by the power of Witchwood seemed to be better than they were before.
—-But not every odd happenin’ was good. There were unexplained fires and broken things and missin’ goods and animals what got sick. One day a farmer came to town and spake of his ox what died for no reason other than it got too close to the scrith. First, this put fear in many, but a day later the farmer found the ox alive in his field.
—-Despite the mixed outcomes, most townsfolk soon believed that whatever had come to Witchwood was a blessin’ from the gods. Still, none dared enter the tangled scrith, for to do so held for them a double fear. What would happen if someone entered? Would they be struck dead? Would the blessings disappear? Or worse; would they be replaced by curses? Surely, nothin’ good could come of entering. And so the townsfolk found contentment and indeed happiness living in ignorance in the shadow of the scrith.
—-Eventually, everyone was blessed by the power that lived in Witchwood, save Ork. Desperate to to have a blessin’ or a piece of a blessin’ or just a tale to recount at the pub, he broke a shovel and left it leaning ‘gainst a tree by the scrith. He checked it for three days, but it sat unmoved and unchanged.
—-“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I haven’t used it since I took it from Glamwart last winter.”
—-So he pondered on this and dropped all manner of odd items on his land, near Witchwood; some of them his own, some of them taken. He even put out food and convinced his wife to bake a few pies, which he placed on some stumps in plain sight. Again, his efforts proved worthless.
—-In the weeks next, he tried many a ploy, trying to trick a blessin’ out of the scrith. Finally, he buried coins of copper and silver in the hope that they would become silver and gold, but nothin’ changed.
—-At the end of his wits, Ork decided if the mystery of Witchwoood would not come to him, he would find it and take it for himself – after all, he was a skilled and crafty taker, was he not? Hadn’t it been Ork what took Chief Blacktooth’s hatchet and Grimhand’s dag from under their noses? And them prized cold-iron too! Why would this bit of takin’ be any different? A skilled taker deserved to live, just like his neighbors; to eat and drink, and own fine things. He worked hard at his craft and that was what townsfolk said counted. That was what got rewarded, if one listened to the words of the elders.
—-(Clever, clever, connivin’ Ork.)
—-One night, after drinkin’ a gulletful of courage at Shady’s, Ork put on his lucky cap, picked up the cold-iron hatchet and dag, and slipped into Witchwood like shade on the nor’ side of a winter hill; silent as the gentlest glistenfall. No leaf did his foot turn. No one, not even the beasts of the wild keened he was there.
—-Deep into the heart he crept, following a worrisome groanin’, ‘til he spied a light in a hollow. As he approached, he heard a woman’s scream and froze. She screamed again and he drew his hatchet and dag. Although his head wanted to ran for home, his heart ran towards the screamin’ and his feet had to follow.
—-He broke out of the tangled trees into a tiny vale and saw a strange, pale woman givin’ birth by a fire. She had delicate, pointed ears, large green eyes and was wrapped in a red blanket. She screamed again as she drew out her child. At that moment, what Ork had took for a large dead tree behind her turned around. It was taller than a barn, with two thick, rooty legs and two knobby, gangly arms that reached the ground. It’s twisted, slump-shouldered torso and half-hidden head were draped with dozens of fleshy tendrils that swung like willow limbs in the wind. The bark of the thing had the appearance of melted, gray wax and moss and it’s face, below the nest-like crown and glowin’, red eyes, was a shadowy gob of maws filled with spiny, crystal teeth.
—-The monster crouched towards Ork and let out a baleful, rattlin’ howl. Ork was shaken to his bones, lookin’ up at the thing towering over him. It’s breath knocked off his cap and he stumbled back over a tree root. The fiend turned smoke black and reached for him, and he raised his hatchet and dag. As its misshapen hand swept it, Ork swung the hatchet. There was a resoundin’ clank and the creature shook, then froze and turned into a giant, gnarled oak.
—-There was a horrible howl and Ork looked to his left. Another of the hideous monstrosities was comin’ at him. He scooted away, but was trapped by the crowded trees. As the creature swung at him he thrust out his dag. There was a loud tink and again his attacker shook and transformed into a twisted, knotted tree. He kicked and chopped at the strange petrified beings, but they remained still.
—-Ork stood and tottered to the fire. The newborn laid peacefully in a woven basket, but the woman was gone. The only sign of her was the red blanket draped o’er the child’s crib.
—-“Woman!” Ork cried. “Woman!”
—-Ork searched the hollow for the woman and then fed the fire for an hour to see if she would return. He kept the fire bright and both eyes out for more monsters.
—-“She must’ve run off,” he said, staring at the sleeping child. “She was so frightened … But to leave her child? And a boy-child at that!”
—-The child, like his mother was pale with soft features. His ears were pointed like Ork’s, but slender and translucent.
—-“I’ve ne’er seen your kind round here, wee one. Well, there’s naught for it,” he said. “It’ll be sunrise soon and I can’t very well leave you here.”
—-So, Ork took the child, wrapped him in the blanket left by his mother and hiked out of the scrith. It was still early when Ork arrived at home and he was plenty tired. His wife and daughter still slept in their beds, so he placed the babe’s basket by the fire and sat next to it. He rocked it back and forth, and promptly fell asleep.
—-When he awoke, Ork found his family in the kitchen feedin’ the child and cooin’ at him like the son and baby brother they had always wanted.
—-Ork came into the kitchen growlin’. “Now don’t get too attached. His ma might come lookin’ for him.”
—-“What’s his name, Da?”
—-Ork scratched his head. “I don’t think he’s got one. But, because you come from the scrith, I will call you … Scrithams.”
—-His wife’s eyes widened. “From the the scrith?”
—-“Aye. I went in there last night. And it’s a good thing too, ‘cause I saved this tyke from two huge, hideous monsters!”
—-“Oh, Ork! You went to Shady’s. You were drunk, last night!”
—-“Well … may have been. But I did go in there. An’ Scrithams is the proof!”
—-“And what of your monsters?”
—-“What about ‘em?”
—-“What if they follow you home?”
—-“No worries,” Ork said. He puffed out his chest and thumped it with his thumb. “I killed ‘em.”
—-His wife laughed. “You’re a great taker or things, Ork, but not of lives. How did you get away? And you with hardly a scratch!”
—-“Berkta!” Ork shouted. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his dag. “I killed ‘em with me cold-iron.”
—-“Scrithams?” said Ork’s daughter. “I think I like that name. Can we keep him?”
—-“Nobody listens to me! Didn’t I just say his mother might come lookin’ for him?”
—-“Now, Ork,” said Berkta. “Don’t get so worked up. If you want to keep him, it’s all right.”
—-“If I want to…” Ork growled and left the kitchen to clean up and go to bed. “He’s not one of us!” he said. “He could never be more than-than a pet! … So, Korka, don’t get too attached!”
—-When Ork awoke next, it was to the sound of breaking dishes. He ran into the kitchen and found Berkta, Korka and Scrithams sittin’ on the floor with two stacks of dishes. The baby was gigglin’ and sittin’ up.
—-“What did you do?” Ork said.
—-“What do you mean?”
—-“He was a newborn when I brought him home this mornin’, now he’s … older.”
—-“Huh!” said Berkta. “I hadn’t noticed.”
—-“Da! Look what Scrithams can do!”
—-Korka took one of the plates and smashed it on the floor.
—-“What are you doin’?” Ork cried.
—-“It is well, husband,” Berkta said. “Just watch.”
—-Ork watched as Scrithams touched the broken pieces. The tips of his fingers and ears light up faintly as he brought all the shards together and made the dish whole.
—-Ork blinked his eyes and pinched his cheeks three times. “Do that again.”
—-Korka smiled at her father and broke a plate. Scrithams giggled, clapped and then mended it.
—-Ork sat on the floor across from the boy and picked up a plate from one of the stacks. He dashed it against the floor and it chimed but did not break. He stared at it and hit it on the floor again.
—-“Oh, Da! Scrithams has already fixed that one.”
—-That afternoon, they were breaking all manner of things and watchin’ in wonder as Scrithams mended them to better than new. However, the boy quickly tired and fell asleep before evening.
—-They set up a corner, cozy and warm, and put the boy’s makeshift crib in it. As Ork watched him sleep, he realized that the babe could make him quite rich. He imagined all the copper and silver and gold he would make. Piles of it. Enough to swim in! His dreaming was interrupted by a sudden fear. What if someone came and took Scrithams away? How could he keep Scrithams and his little miracles to himself?
—-“We have to keep this secret,” said Ork.
—-“But why, Da?”
—-“Aye husband, why?”
—-“If our neighbors learn that I took Scrithams from the scrith and anything bad happens, they’ll blame me. And they’ll come here and-and-and…I don’t know what they’ll do to us.”
—-“What sort of bad things?”
—-“I don’t know. I just feel it in me liver. If we’re blessed by Scrithams and others are not, and they somehow find out … They will come and take him! Can we afford to let the others take him? What if they mistreat him? I took him from the scrith. It’s my responsibility to take care of ‘im. And I must! For his sake.”
—-“Oh, Da! Does this mean we can keep Scrithams?”
—-“Yes, child, but we can never tell a sole. You don’t want anythin’ bad to happen to Scrithams, do you?”
—-“No, Da.”
—-“Good girl.”
—-(Clever, crafty Ork.)
—-In the days and weeks next, Scrithams continued to grow, and Ork’s family and farm became the most blessed of all Rancor. In fact, they were the only place that continued to receive the blessings. A fact that, despite all Ork’s best efforts, did not escape his nosy neighbors. Soon all the townsfolk were a tizzy about “the blessings out at Ork’s place” and the lack of blessings elsewhere.
—-One night, just before harvest season, three torch-baring men came to Ork’s farm and demanded he tell them what he had done to get so many blessings, while they had none.
—-“But if I tell you, the blessings might dry up for my family.” Ork complained.
—-“Tell us, Ork, or we’ll pull down your barn.”
—-“It will only be rebuilt in the morning or the next.”
—-“Then we’ll hold your feet to a fire!”
—-They grabbed him and yanked off his boots. “Tell us!”
—-Ork scratched the wart on his chin. “Oh, very well. Since you are so set on it, I will tell you my secret.”
—-The men put him down and gathered close to listen.
—-Ork leaned in and whispered. “Before dusk, I put out pies and smoked meats and presents on three entwined elderberry stumps near the scrith at the edge of my field. I can show you the place. Sometimes I leave broken items, to see if they will be mended. I always make sure to leave the area ‘til well after dawn. I did this for weeks, months even, while you were drownin’ in blessings and I had none. But now ‘the tree has fell across my stream’ and the blessings freely cross to me. Don’t expect things to change overnight! I was at it for a long time without any reward.”
—-The men went away grumblin’, but returned with pies and valuable trinkets to place on the trio of stumps on Ork’s farm. He gladly showed them the place and escorted them off his land.
—-Most mornings, when the men returned with Ork, at least one of the gifts was gone and any dishes were empty. Occasionally, one of the broken things they brought was mended and the men went away pleased that at least some of the blessings were now theirs. Ork seemed pleased too, if not a little plumper.
—-(Clever, connivin’, crafty Ork.)
—-Late, one autumn night, an angry storm blew in. It tore at their clothin’ and pelted the men away with hail. Lightnin’ and thunder rolled across the land and smited the tallest trees of Witchwood.
—-The storm also upset Scrithams greatly and his fingers and ears glowed for no reason. However, the next day all was well.
—-As the teller of this tale, I’d like to say that things went well from then on, but that would be a lie. If anythin’, things around Rancor began so sour. Crops, ripe for harvestin’ one day, were rotten the next, and some farm animals disappeared while others stopped makin’ milk or layin’ eggs. It was then that folks again reported dark shadows movin’ in the scrith, both day and night, and the howlin’ of wind while the air was still. All of which became more frequent.
—-Then the blizzards came. Day after day, snow and wind blew into Rancor, long before its proper season. And with the snow came the eerie red lights. They hovered in a fog o’er fields and farms and in the mornin’ animals were gone.
—-Then it was folks what disappeared.
—-The first was a young girl who went to her family’s barn to check on their cow. All they found was the rope, what had been round her waist. The neighboring families all went lookin’ for her, but none returned. Farm by farm, house by house, the townsfolk of Rancor vanished.
—-Fearin’ for their lives, Ork and his family loaded their wagon, to get out of town. When everything was set, Berkta and Korka climbed in.
—-“Do we have everythin’?” his wife yelled over the wind.
—-“We have what we need. I’ll send for the rest later.”
—-He turned and went into the house to get Scrithams. “Come on, boy. It’s time to go.”
—-The howlin’ of the storm grew shrill and became a painful wail. The house shook. Ork took Scritham’s hand and ran out the door. He started to lift the boy into the wagon, but his wife and daughter were gone.
—-“Berkta! Korka!” he cried.
—-Even the horses were gone. A swirlin’, sparklin’, snarlin’ cloud of snow and ice drifted into the scrith and the wind dwindled. As the white fog receded through the trees, four red lights appeared and then blinked out.
—-“Berkta! Korka!” His voice echoed from the trees of Witchwood.
—-Ork put the boy back in the house and started searchin’ the farm. He marched around the entire property, but found no sign of his family, not even footprints. He then searched the neighbors’ farms. When he returned home, it was late. He and Scrithams ate a meal and fell asleep in front of the fire.
—-The mornin’ next, Ork and Scrithams went out. Rancor was empty. There were no animals or pets or folks. The entire town was still and silent as a tomb. They searched houses, barns, and shops. They searched in, on and beneath. Nothin’ living remained in Rancor, except them.
—-They continued the search for days. When they grew tired, they rested in the home they were in. When hungry they ate from the nearest cupboard or pot. When sad, their tears fell wherever they were. Yes, even Scrithams was sad. The boy from Witchwood, strange and mute, was Ork’s only comfort.
—-At end, Ork’s new existence and a new kind of bitter sadness settled on him. He was alone. His tears were all cried. His family and friends and, in fact, everyone he knew except Gob was gone. And that connivin’ peddler wouldn’t come through Rancor ‘till after winter.
—-“Gob! Ha! Wouldn’t he love this? Why I can walk into any house, anytime I want and take…I could take … everything!”
—-(Cleverest, crafty ole Ork.)
—-Ork went straight to Chief Blacktooth’s home. He entered in broad daylight and began takin’ whatever pleased his eye. He filled bags and boxes and blankets with his takings. He didn’t even bother writin’ anything in his Took-Book. Everythin’ was his to take and no one would stop him. It was the best takin’ of all time … and it was without joy.
—-He stood with his spoils piled on the floor before him and shook his fists at the air. “How can this be? I’m the greatest taker on the richest take of me life! It’s not fair!”
—-At that moment his eyes fell upon the child he had taken from the scrith. He had grown to nearly Korka’s size. “Ne’er should’ve taken you. Do you want to go home?”
—-Scrithams took Ork’s hand and walked out the door. The child pointed to Witchwood.
—-Ork smiled. “I know.”
—-They trudged through the snow to the edge of Rancor, to the place where the road ends in tangled trees. When they were fifty steps from Witchwood, Scrithams’ mother stepped out from the scrith. The huge shadow behind her roared and Ork’s heart raced. He had left his cold-iron behind. The woman turned her head and moaned with a wind-like voice into the trees. The shadow shrunk and a man with the same delicate features, pale skin and green eyes joined her in the open.
—-The woman smiled at Scrithams and held her arms open to him. Ork looked down as the boy squeezed his hand. They locked eyes and Ork knelt.
—-“Is this where you belong?”
—-Scrithams nodded.
—-“And they’re your family?”
—-The boy placed his hand on Ork’s cheek. “Not all my family.”
—-Ork collapsed at the sound of Scrithams’ voice. “You can talk?”
—-Scrithams smiled and gave Ork a hug around his neck. “Thank you.”
—-The boy from the scrith then ran to his parents who stared at him inquisitively. He beckoned them down and gave them a hug. His mother’s eyes grew large, she smiled and then nodded knowingly to Ork. In the instant next, all three of ‘em changed into swirling wisps o’ light and shadow, and whisked into the tangled scrith out of site.
—-Ork went home and went to bed.
—-The mornin’ next, he saw no reason to rise. Nor the mornin’ after. The loss of his family, friends and neighbors left him empty. Even the joy of takin’; his vocation, his callin’ — the thing he liked most in life — was gone. And the Took-Book offered nothin’. It was all his fault.
—-Just then, there was a knock.
—-He sprang from bed, ran to the door and yanked it open.
—-“Berkta! Korka!” he shouted.
—-No one was there.
—-“Am I goin’ crazy?” he asked.
—-“How should I know?” said a familiar voice.
—-Ork stepped outside and found Glamwart standin’ at the corner of his house, teeterin’ like a Fireday night bender at Shady’s pub.
—-“Ork? What am I doin’ here? Where is everyone?”
—-“Glamwart! How are you? Where did you come from?”
—-“I don’t know. I think I was dreamin’, but I’m all hazy. Did we drink last night?”
—-“Aye, Glamwart! We did! And you had too much.”
—-“I better go home to sleep it off.”
—-Ork looked o’er the field behind his house and saw more townsfolk wanderin’ out of the scrith — wobbly and dazed.
—-“Aye, Glamwart. Go home and sleep it off.”
—-Ork ran into the field and began usherin’ townsfolk towards their homes. None of them remembered anythin’ beyond a floatin’, “bodiless” sensation and a world of light and shadows.
—-O’er the days next, all the townsfolk and their livestock and pets returned. By week’s end, nearly everythin’ was back to the way it had been — maybe better. That is, everythin’ save Ork’s family. Bertka and Korka were still missin’.
—-Ork waited outside his house, day after day, in the bitter cold. When evenin’ came, he stumbled into bed and prayed he would wake from the nightmare. He barely ate and drank, and failed to show at the pub for two Firedays in a row.
—-His ole pal, Glamwart came by his house and found Ork too sick to get out of bed.
—-“This is no good, Ork,” he said lightin’ the fire and lamp. “You haven’t lifted a pint in a fortnight! This won’t do.”
—-Glamwart left and told his wife of Ork’s plight. She got some of the wives together and they took turns, three at a time, cookin’ and cleanin’ and nursin’ Ork back to health. Eventually, he became strong enough to fight them off and their duty was done. Still, there was no fire in his belly.
—-“A trip or two to the pub will fix that,” said Glamwart. “Come out with me tonight and raise a pint to me health. It’s Winters Solstice, ya know?”
—-Ork grumbled but went with Glamwart to Shady’s for a pint. The place was warm, Shady was givin’ away ale, and the usual Fireday mob were there. There was even an up-to-scratch brawl. But Ork still felt lonely to his marrow. He drank his pint, stepped over the scrappers, and went home without a single g’night.
—-As he approached his house, he saw smoke comin’ from the chimney and light from inside.
—-“Stupid Ork,” he said. “You’ve gone and left the fire goin’!”
—-He opened the door and found Bertka and Korka sittin’ by the fireplace stirrin’ a pot of stew. He ran in and squeezed them, feelin’ like his life had been returned. At last he released them and held them at arms length.
—-“How long have you been back? How did you get here? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hex it. I missed you!”
—-“You just missed Scrithams, Da.”
—-“I did? He was here?”
—-“Yes. He brought us home.”
—-“An’ Da, he bade me give you this.” Korka held out Ork’s lucky cap.
—-He stared at it.
—-“Are you well, Ork?”
—-Ork snatched the cap and put it on his head. “I am now. Listen, everythin’ is as it should be … well, almost. I’m so glad you are home and I don’t want to leave, but I must go out tonight. There’s something I’m feelin’ and I want the whole town to feel it. Just promise me you’ll be here when I return.”
—-They promised, and Ork grabbed his Took-Book and ran out the door.
—-The mornin’ next, the rumor mills of Rancor were at flood level. Seems nearly everyone in town awoke to find items of all description in their homes. Items they had thought were lost, items they nearly forgot they owned, and many were exactly where they last remembered seeing them.
—-(Clever, cunnin’, crafty Ork.)
—-So overjoyed were they at their good fortune — at such a miraculous, overnight blessing — that they threw a great spur-o’-the-moment feast in the town hall. Everyone came and brought food and spirits and good cheer.
—-The celebration went late into the night with feastin’, dancin’, an’ singin’ too. Some folks got so caught up in the feelin’ o’ good-will that they gave away or traded the cherished baubles which Ork had returned to them.
—-They talked about the items returned and the strange happenings that year past, and wondered what the next year would bring. But mostly they wanted to know who or what had returned all their missing treasures. There was a lot of pondering and guessing and talk. At the height of the feast, Chief Blacktooth stood and quieted the celebrants.
—-He raised his tankard and said, “Rancor, we have been blessed this year.”
—-“Kurah, kurah!” cheered the crowd.
—-“And last night, we were visited by somethin’ or someone special who has reminded us to be grateful for what we have been given. I have it on good authority that our benefactors are called scrithams and live in the scrith. And so, in memory of their gift, I dedicate this feast to the scrithams!”
—-“Kurah, kurah!”
—-“And … ,” continued Blacktooth, “And I decree this day will be called Scrithams Day for as long as we are on the land, and we shall have a feast every year!”
—-“Kuray, kurah!”
—-Thereafter, on the eve of each Scrithams Day, Ork checked his Took-Books twice and gave back something to everyone in the town. Sometimes it was somethin’ small, sometimes it was grand (and surprisingly hard to traffic).
—-“After all,” he told himself, “once taken, gettin’ back is as good as gettin’. And givin’ back can sometimes feel good, even to a full-time, professional taker.”
—-(That clever, crafty, cunnin’ ole Ork.)