Ork’s Scrithams Day Secret

Twas a frostbit, glistenin’ night li’ this, when first I yarned you the tale o’ Scrithams. An’ since then – like me with my Paps – you gnawed at me for a retell more nights than I can count. But tonight, since I feel a bit tickled, I reckon tis time we moved on a tad. Tis time you learnt one o’ ole Ork’s closest kept Scrithams secrets.

*

     In the years what followed that first Scrithams Day feast, Ork keened, with secret pride and mirth, the town of Rancor take to that special day like steelfins to whitewater. He also keened that with each passin’ celebration, the folk’s eagerness for it came sooner and with greater depth. And why not? It was a grand day of feasting, friending, drinking, singing, and, of course, the exchange of returned things that folks dubbed “regifting.”
     Oddly enough, all this anticipation and jovial celebrating had an peculiar effect on folks. They began to care less when things went missing during the course o’ the year, ‘cause, ofter than not, whatever it was went missing would show up again on Scrithams Day morning … or so it seemed. Not only did this work to favor Ork – after all, it was a lot easier to take things when folks was not hunting for a taker – but it made for yet another strange turn. You see, it freed folks somewhat from their worldly frets o’er belongings and such, and for some, it make ‘em open their hands ofter to those needin’. This in turn brung more folks to Rancor, and with them came more shopes, more skilled hands, more goods and more silver and lustrous gold.
     All these folks also meant there were more homes. At first, this was not a worry for Ork. He rather liked it. More homes meant more things to take and a growing Took-Book, and, in the end of things, a bigger sack o’ silver from ole Gob when he come to town to buy from Ork. But soon, more homes and more takin’ meant more returnin’ for Scrithams Day. And so, the givin’ back o’ Scrithams Eve had grown to a big job indeed. And what’s more, the takin’ necessary to supply all that givin’ back was beginning to feel a lot like work. And who needs that?
     Chaw on this: As his neighbors in Rancor prospered, so did Ork. His takes were better than ever and he didn’t need to pull as many to put grub on the table, clothes on his family, coin in his purse, or grog in his gut. In truth, Ork had grown a tad soft and a bit more lazy. In that year, he had simply taken less, and his Took-Book was lean as an ole lone lion.
     Now, for the first time ever, Ork was behind. He had never imagined being behind in takin’. Sure, he always wanted more: more grub, more grog, more gold … But there was a simple balm for that: more takin’! And, in that task, he had ne’er been behind. But somehow it was no longer ‘bout filling his own hungers. In some cases, he needed to take, just to have something to return, and it didn’t really matter what. He would only be returnin’ whatever he took in a short while. Those what he took it from, could hardly miss it in that amount of time. It didn’t seem worth the trouble. The whole mess did not set right with Ork.
     (Poor, ole Ork)
     As he sat in Shady’s, staring into his tankard, Ork mulled over his predicament. There must be somethin’ wrong with me! He thought. Since when has taking e’er been trouble? And when did I stop caring ‘bout what I took?
     He thought about the Scrithams Days past and let out a deep sigh.
     He did love to see the folks, especially the children, enjoying their newly returned or regifted things. So, regardless of how it made him feel, he knew he needed a way of catchin’ up, and quick! But how?
     “If only I could get everyone out of their homes for a while…,” he mused.
     “What’s that?”
     Ork looked up at his old drinkin’ buddy, Glamwart and realized he had spake out loud.
     “Oh—I. It’s been so…nice out and the sky so clear,” he said. “I think all the folks of Rancor should get out and get some fresh air.”
     “Nice? You call this nice?”
     “Well…it’s not unbearably cold. And the stream’s barely froze. I just worry that folks stayin’ inside so much will make ‘em ill.”
     “Don’t fret, Ork? Everyone will be gatherin’ for the Scrithams Day feast in a few days. They’ll get plenty of air then…and grog too!”
     Ork stood up, grabbed Glamwart’s head like a melon and kissed its lumpy, bald top.
     “Glamwart! You’ve the brain of a warchief!”
     “What?”
     “I know what I must do.”
     Ork pushed his tankard towards Glamwart. “Here, my ole friend. Drink this.”
     Glamwart stared distrustfully at the stone vessel then slid it back across the table while Ork battened his fur cloak. “I drank two, maybe three pints while you were starin’ at that one and I lost track. Did you drink from that one yet?”
     “Oh! Sorry, my friend. I almost forgot.” Ork grabbed his tankard, took a slug of grog and plunked it down in front of Glamwart with a rattlin’ belch. Their ole pal, Axegrindel replied in kind from across the tavern.
     Glamwart grinned from ear to missin’ ear. “Thanks, Ork. I don’t know how I’d drink me fill without ya.”
     “No worries.”
     Ork was one o’ few what knew Glamwart never trusted Shady. Said he smiled “unnatural much for a barkeep.” And so, Ork always took the first sip from Glamwart’s cup whenever Shady poured, just to “make sure it ain’t poisoned.” Of course, this meant free grog for Ork, so it was hardly a chore. It is a point of contention whether Ork put the notion in ole Glamwart’s fat head to start with, but only Ork knows.
      (Clever Ork.)
     The day next, Ork made arrangements and orders for a small feast in the town’s hall. He got out his Took-Book, made a list of all the folks missing from it, added all the folks new to town, threw in a fistful of the best cooks and most entertaining folks, and invited them all to bring their best homespun dishes to his “before-the-big-feast feast.” He would supply the drink.
     In the market, Grimhand grabbed him off the street and dragged him into Chief Blacktooth’s lodge. A few moments later, he was standing afore the chief’s throne – a huge, deeply-carved monstrosity with a tall, winged back an’ heavy slate arms.
     The throne room was a large, dim chamber with torches in the corners. Though Ork had sneaked into this lodge before, he had been careful ne’er to enter this room. He tugged on the neck of his tunic, which felt strangely tight, and wondered why he was the only one there.
     “What’s this I hear about a ‘before-the-big-feast feast,’ Ork?”
     The chief’s voice erupted from the shadows of his throne and echoed from the high, sooty ceiling.
     Ork stiffened. “It’s just—”
     “Aren’t you afraid it will blunt the greatness of our Scrithams Day feast?”
     “Well, I—”
     Clang!
     An ax fell from the dark recesses o’ the throne to land on one of its arms. Ork held his tongue.
     Blacktooth shifted forward, revealing his immenseness. He was every bit as intimidating as his father, Fangjar Foe-Cleaver for whom the great throne was built. “I thought you liked me, Ork.”
     “I do.”
     “I thought you at least liked the Scrithams Day feast.”
     “I do, great one.”
     The chief became sullen. “You could not keen it, but before the Scrithams Day feast came to be, it was trouble keepin’ our warriors in line through the three winter moons. The drinkin’ and feastin’ and regiftin’ and drinkin’ is as a warm fire to cold warrior hearts. Gives ‘em somethin’ to look forward to and somethin’ to remember on ice patrol. The Scrithams Day feast must be great. We need it.”
     “That’s why I’m hosting the before-the-big-feast feast.”
     Blacktooth squinted his good eye.
     Grimhand prodded Ork forward with the haft of his spear. “You better explain yourself, Ork.”
     Ork cleared his throat. “Remember how last year there was too many dishes of bruss-cabbage and green-bean grout and not enough desserts?”
     The chief continued to glare at Ork. “I do.”
     “Everyone was eatin’ greens for days after. Caused quite a stench in Shady’s.”
     “And truth be told,” said Blacktooth, “there wasn’t nearly enough grog!”
     “Yes! And that’s why I’m holding my feast first.”
     Blacktooth rested his great, grizzled chin on his fist. “So…you are going to eat all the leftover bruss-cabbage and green-bean grout ahead of time?”
     “No, my chief. My feast is to get the folks new to town involved in the feast and make sure we are eatin’ desserts instead of greens in the days after. My wife and daughter will work with the womenfolk to make sure they each make the right dishes. And … to make sure that we have the best dishes, we’ll have a sampling, judged by the best cooks in Rancor.”
     “Will there be grog?”
     “Plenty.”
     “But not so much grog as to take from the Scrithams Day feast.”
     “Yes, of course. I made a special deal with Shady. We’ll keep the menfolk happy while their wives plan the Scrithams Day feast.”
     “Hmmm.” The chief rubbed his ham-like hand o’er his thick lips. “Seems, Ork, you’ve thought of everything…”
     “Thank you.”
     “…save one.”
     “What’s that, my chief?”
     “I will also judge the food at your feast.”
     “I’d be honored! I’ve got your invitation right here.”
     Ork reached into his pouch and pulled out a tiny rolled velum. He didn’t know whose invitation he held out to the chief, but it didn’t matter; Blacktooth wouldn’t take it. Accepting an invitation implied a chief needed permission.
     Ork bowed and put the small scroll back in his pouch. The asking was done; tradition had been served. But best of all, Blacktooth’s grin told Ork he would live to see another day.
     Ork rushed from the chief’s lodge and set about planning how he would sneak away from his feast, get into each home on his list and do his takin’. While it seemed daunting to take from so many houses on one night, he was also excited and began to feel like his old self. If he pulled this off, it would be the greatest take of his life, perhaps the greatest take, of any taker, ever! 
     While he’d make up a tale for his friends, ‘bout some bobble the scrithams brought back to him on Scrithams Eve, he knew that his true Scrithams Day present had come early. The fun of takin’ was back!
        (Happy, grinning, clever ole Ork.)
     The banquet (and Ork’s greatest take) fell on a gusty, ice-licked night. And yet, no one was missing from his list. Step one: check!
     Ork and Shady stuck a drink in each man’s hand at the door and kept the spirits flowing. Step two: check!
     Chief Blacktooth made a grand entrance and marched to the long table of food ‘gainst one wall attended by his plucky troops – a gaggle o’ the best cooks in town. They followed their fearless leader as he waded into the dishes prepared for that evening. They sniffed and tasted, hemmed and hawed, oohed and aahed. At last, the chief, his appetite fully inflamed, announced the winners of the contest and sat down to feast. Step three: check!
     All the families joined the chief at their tables. They greeted old friends, met new neighbors, and ate foods both favorite and strange. And, of course, they drank.
     As they feasted, the womenfolk, now equipped with their chief’s “scoutin’ report,” begun to make their plan for the comin’ feast. The children, quick to finish their meal, escaped the table and began a game of chase the dragon. Old or new, the children played like friends what had grown up together.
     Ork continued with Shady, to keep the men’s cups full. At one point, Glamwart, whom Ork had accidentally invited while drunk, called him over.
     “Ork, at last!” he said holdin’ out his empty cup. “I thought thirst would kill me fore you come.”
     “Enjoying yourself, ole friend?”
     Glamwart looked from side to side. “I was, ‘til Shady poured me a drink. Why’s he here?”
     “I needed him an’ his supply of grog. It’s part of our deal. Wait! Did you drink the drink Shady poured you?”
     Glamwart looked around again. “No, no. Course not. I spilled it in this fellow’s cup…by accident.” With that he gave Ork a wink.
     Ork looked at the man sitting next to Glamwart. He was a newcomer.
     Glamwart tugged Ork closer. “I’m just waiting for him to go toes up.”
     “Not happenin’, Glamwart. I tasted all of this grog when I brung it here.”
     Glamwart frowned, looked at his neighbor’s cup and sighed. “Guess that’s a cup of grog I’m never gettin’ back.”
     Ork laughed. “Plenty where that came from.”
     “I get ya needin’ Shady’s supply, but why do ya need Shady?”
     “I need his pourin’ arm. I’m just the muscle.”
     “Muscle?”
     “I lift the kegs if he’ll lift the pitchers. Bad deal, I know, but I was drunk when I made it.”
     “I warned you ‘bout that one. Don’t get a name like that for nothin’.”
     “So ya did. So ya did. By the way, what’s your new friend’s name?”
     Glamwart smiled and nudged the man next to him. “Chunk, this is me ole friend Ork.”
     The man stood. He was lean with a feral look, like Grimhand. He had a scar on one cheek and wore his hair in the traditional warrior knot.
     He held out his hand. Ork grasped his meaty limb and felt the man’s fingers circle his forearm.
     “Name’s Dunk,” he said.
     “Ork.”
     “So I hear, and glad to meet ya. You throw a stout feast, Ork.”
     “Thank ya.”
     Suddenly, two young’uns run up to Dunk.
     “Da! Da!” they mewled.
     “What is it?”
     “Tolock hit me!”
     “Mica started it!”
     Dunk clapped his hands. “Tolock! Mica!” The children quieted and Dunk continued. “What did I tell you about hittin’?”
     Tolock and Mica glared at each other. “Never hit family.”
     “Unless…?”
     “Unless they sass Ma.”
     “Or…?”
     “We wanna spankin’.”
     “So, ya want a spankin’?”
     They wagged their heads.
     “Very well.”
     The girl, Mica turned and ran to rejoin the game.
     The boy looked up at his father. “Da?”
     “Yes, Tolock?”
     “Da? When is Nan coming to visit?”
     “I told you, Nan is too old for the journey from Raven Tor.”
     “Aw, Da! Nan makes the best sweets and tells the bestest tales. I miss her.”
     “I know, son. We all do. Now go play with Mica.”
     The boy frowned, but did as told.
     “Handsome family, Dunk.”
     “Thanks, Ork.
     “You come from Raven Tor then?”
     “Aye.”
     “Last spring?”
     “Aye.”
     “And your mother…surrendered?”
     The warrior crossed his meaty arms. “She stands alone.”
     Ork nodded. “A widow.”
     “It is the way of the journey.”
     “The way of the journey.”

*

     The woman folk were deep in their plannin’ and the men deep in their drink. It was time for Ork to make his move. He told Shady he would fetch more grog from the tavern. As it was part of their deal, Shady nodded, smiled, and kept pouring.
     Ork went to the rear room o’ the town’s hall and moved two kegs from their hidin’ place. He then slipped out the rear and went ‘bout his business.
     The glistenin’ swirled ‘round him like a great, white cape, hidin’ him from eyes that strayed by and sweepin’ his tracks into oblivion.
     He sneaked from cottage to hovel to lodge, and took and took and took. In each home, he found a few valuables to fill his sack, a few bites for his belly, and a few coins for his purse.
     After all, a tradesman deserves to get paid and this is a great service I do for my neighbors. Why, without me there would be no Scrithams Day! 
     (Clever ole Ork.)
     He took silver and copper and even some gold when he found it; each weighted, by his reckoning, to the riches of the home.
     On his way back to the town’s hall, he passed by Bent Hill. While he hid his sack by the crick what runs under the road there, he keened a dim glow from a tiny skin window in the hill. He crept up on it and found the wee door to Rua’s home. He had forgotten the ole widow what lived at the bottom of the hill, beneath the grander lodges on the high road. She still lived underground, like the ole ones in the Time of Wandering. Some said she was born under the hill. Others said the hill was born after.
     It dawned on him that not only had he forgotten she lived there, but he had forgotten her completely from his list – she was completely absent from his Took-Book. Like everyone else, a widow without a husband or son to take care of her was invisible. She was to them already dead. It was … the way of the journey.
     Ork sneaked the door open and entered. Rua was asleep on a small bed in the corner with only a small fat candle to keep her company. The hearth was dark and the room frigid. The few belongings were worn, patched or rusty. By the amount of space and the placement of the bed, Ork guessed there had once been more furniture.
     Nothin’ here, he thought.
     Ork was just about to leave, his eye caught a glint from the mantel. Ork, being Ork, he decided to get a closer look.
     As he approached the hearth, he keened that Rua had hung up three pair o’ socks to dry. They each were in need of repair and still damp. What fire there may have been had not been enough.
     He raised his eyes to the top of the mantle. What he found there was a very fine wedding knife restin’ on a small stand. The handle was of smooth bone and the blade shone like silver. He reached up to touched it and the blade and handle fell separately to the floor with a ting and a clatter.
     “Is that you Juke?”
     Ork spun and saw Rua sitting up. She squinted and peered ‘round the room.
     Ork’s heart raced. There was no place to hide, save the hearth. He stooped and backed into it, careful not to pull down the socks or knock over the pot hanging over the dead coals.
     “Juke?”
     It was then that Ork realized she was calling for her long dead son, Juke. He and his father, Kan, were lost in battle many years before.
     “So cold,” she muttered. Her voice quacked with frailty. “Better start the fire.” She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up her candle. Her bare feet hit the floor. “Brrr. Oh, my.”
     Ork keened the sharp, broke pieces of the knife before the hearth and scooped them up. He became frantic. What would she do when she found him? Would she scream — call for help? Even the cry of a widow, could bring the town guard.
      This is crazy, he said to himself. You know Rua. Just tell her you’re here to check on her. Just bein’ a good neighbor. Who can resist a good neighbor? Especially one of the surrendered…
     Ork arched his back and stood up from the fireplace.
     Rua screamed and jumped back. Her candle fell to the floor and went out.
     “Rua! Rua! It’s just me—” he said reaching to touch her hand.
     Immediately she calmed. “Juke? Oh, Juke, you terrible rascal! I thought you a chimney spirit. You nearly scared the life out o’ me.” She took Ork’s hand, then suddenly hugged him.
     Ork froze in body and mind. He looked down at the top of her gray head and tiny frame, and felt her squeezing his ribs. He had never felt so uncomfortable in all his life, and yet never so cherished.
     “So glad you’re home, Juke,” she said. She turned and tugged him by the arm. Her hand was cold as a steelfin. “Come along. Put me to bed. Then you can start the fire for your ole Ma.”
     Still stunned, Ork absently put the broke weddin’ knife into his cloak pocket and helped Rua to bed. Once there, he pulled her wee, ragged quilt up ‘round her neck and did his best to tuck her in.
     He went to makin’ a fire, but could find no firewood anywhere in the house. He stepped outside to search for wood, and found only a few wet twigs.
     I’ll find some firewood and come back later. Right now, I need to appear at the town’s hall before I’m missed!
     He went back inside, took an old, worn fur from the floor and threw it on the bed. That’ll have to do for now.
     “I’ll be back with some firewood,” he said.
     As Ork turned to go, Rua grasped his hand.
     “Good night, son.”
     “Good night … Ma.”
     “Forgettin’ somethin’…?”
     Ork stared at her. He started to tense. What have I forgotten?
     She lightly tapped her forehead with her finger.
     Ork slowly leaned forward and gave her a kiss where she had pointed.
     She smiled, and closed her eyes with a sigh.
     

*

     Ork soon made his way into the back of the town’s hall. The barrels he had moved before leavin’ were gone, so he grabbed two more from hidin’. He then rolled one of ‘em out to where Shady was still pourin’.
     “What took you so long, Ork? I’m almost out.”
     “Got stuck in a drift.”
     “Well, get that over here and help me pour. My elbow’s gettin’ sore.”
     The feastin’ and drinkin’ came to an end and all left full and happy. Ork and his family cleaned up and started for home.
     “How did it go?” asked Berkta.
     Ork nodded. “Well. Go ahead home and start the fire. I have to take care of some business.”
     “Can I come, Da?” asked Korka.
     Ork eyed his daughter. Her interest for his “business” had increased since the first Scrithams Day feast and he was inclined to teach her a bit now and again. One day, she might become a talented taker, but he fretted about her.
     “Well…”
     “Please, Da!”
     “It’s okay with me,” said Berkta. “No one’s about this late.”
     “Very well,” said Ork.
     He took Korka to Bent Hill and up to the rich lodges at the top. Here they quietly loaded their arms with firewood and descended to the widow Rua’s place.
     They sneaked in and quietly set the wood in the corner. Then Korka hid by the door while he started a fire in the hearth. The widow remained asleep.
     Once outside, Ork turned to his daughter. “Take off your socks.”
     “Why, Da? It’s cold.”
     “Just do it.”
     Ork sat next to her and removed his socks also.
     “Give ‘em here. Now, put on your shoes and wait by the road.”
     Ork took their socks and reentered the widows home. When he returned it was without the socks. They started the cold walk home.
     “Da?”
     “Aye.”
     “What have you done with our socks? Is it a secret taking-trick?”
     “No, Korka.”
     “Did you fill them with riches and now they’re in your pockets?”
     “No, Korka.”
     “Then what have you done with our socks?”
     “I left them to dry on the widow’s hearth.”
     “But my socks weren’t that wet.”
     “But Widow Rua’s socks were and have many holes.”
     “I don’t understand.”
     Ork pulled a wad from his pocket. “I have her socks right here.”
     Korka crinkled her face.
     “I couldn’t leave her without any socks. That wouldn’t be right.”
     Korka looked down at her feet, which were growing colder, then back to her father.  “What manner of takin’ is this?”
     Ork looked at his daughter’s face. That’s a good question, he thought. At last he said, “A new kind.”

*

          Over the days next, Ork went over his Took-Book and planned out in great detail how he would pull off the comin’ Scrithams Eve sneaking about and returning. On the second day, he was out in his barn, makin’ sure he hadn’t sold Gog anything he planned to return. His hands grew cold and so he slipped them into the pockets of his fur cloak.
     “Ouch!”
     He withdrew his hand and found it had a small cut. Carefully he reached back in and pulled out the offending object. It was the blade from Widow Rua’s weddin’ knife.
     “Oh, my,” said Ork scratching his head. “I didn’t mean to take this. I better return … it.”
     Ork left the barn, taking an armful of firewood and strode straight to Witchwood. The ole scrith was still foreboding to the folks of Rancor, but Ork had grown accustomed to the gnarled, twisted trees of this dense wood. He hadn’t exactly worn a path into it yet, but he entered somewhat regularly to see if he could find his friend and adopted son, Scrithams.
     He hadn’t been in the scrith since summer and hadn’t seen the mysterious boy or his frightening parents for a couple years now, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.      It was during a winter much like this one that they took his family and vanished with all of the townsfolk of Rancor into the netherworld.
     Ork took a deep breath and marched into Witchwood. He went to the place where he first laid eyes on Scrithams and his mother – the place of Scrithams’ birth. He cleared a spot amongst the twisted roots in the hollow, started a fire, and waited.
     As he fed his last piece of wood to the flames, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and spun ‘round, nearly falling into the fire.
     Standin’ there was a young man with pale, nearly translucent skin and very pointy ears. He wore simple, flaxen clothes, better suited for summer.
     “Scrithams…? Is that you?”
     The man tilted his head and smiled, taking years off his face.
     “It’s me…Ork!”
     “Oor-ruk,” said the youth with some difficulty. “Ork?”
     “Yes, it’s me.”
     “I know. Was I expecting someone else?”
     Ork laughed. “No. Not at all. It’s good to see ya again. You’ve grown.”
     Scrithams examined his own body. “Yes.”
     Ork sat before the fire and warmed his hands. “Please, sit.”
     Scrithams came and sat next to him. He copied Ork’s hand movements, but didn’t seem to know why he was holdin’ ‘em to the fire. “How is…Berkta and Korka?”
     “They are well. How have ya fared?”
     “I have been far away from this place a long time. But also quite near. I’m sorry, this language feels strange to me now.”
     “You’re doin’ fine. I know I can’t speak a lick o’ your language.”
     Scrithams grinned. “Of course not.”
     Though he wanted to sit and chat with the unearthly boy, Ork was feeling quite cold and knew he needed to get home soon.
     “Scrithams, I have come for a favor.”
     “I know. But not for you.”
     “No. It’s for someone else.”
     “That is why I have come here.”
     “You knew.”
     “I…felt it – felt you.”
     “From where you were?”
     “Yes.” Scrithams looked toward Ork’s pocket and nodded. “Show me.”
     Ork held out the two parts of the weddin’ knife, which he had held in his hand for the past few hours. Scrithams smiled and took the broke knife. He closed his eyes.
     “Hmmm. This has much meaning to the one you do this for.”
     “I reckon.”
     “And…somehow to you.”
     “Me?”
     “Yes.” Scrithams ears began to glow and a faint light shone between his hands.
     “Well, my mother had one like it,” said Ork. “It was buried with her.”
     “No. Not in memory. In a day to come.”
     Scrithams smiled, opened his hands and showed Ork the restored knife. The bone handle was pale and polished. There was no sign of tarnish on the blade.
     “Thank you.”
     “You’re welcome.”
     “Say… Would you like to come home with me? Kora misses you. And Berkta will ne’er forgive me if I don’t bring ya. Tomorrow night, I make my yearly returns. You could help!”
     Scrithams nodded and they walked to Ork’s home.

*

          The next day, Scrithams played with Korka, visited with Burkta and joyfully fixed a few things around the house. Ork mostly slept, to prepare for his big night. When night came, Ork kissed his wife and daughter goodnight and left with Scrithams in tow.
     The returnin’ went wondrously quick. Scrithams was of great help. While Ork sneaked in, Scrithams kept watch and handed him items from his sack. Scrithams also had an uncanny knack for hidin’ them and erasin’ their tracks with wind and snow. Of course, it didn’t hurt that latches sprung open with a touch of his finger. Occasionally, he spotted something broke ‘round the home they were in and fixed it on the spot. He just couldn’t help himself.
     At the last lodge on the high road atop Bent Hill, a small boy came into the common room as Scrithams handed Ork a toy horse with rider through an open window.
     “Who are you?” the boy asked with wide eyes.
     Ork spun to hide his face and Scrithams leapt into the room.
     The boy stared in awe at the alien creature that seemed to fly in from outside.
     “Are—are you a scritham?”
     “I am.”
     “My new friends told me ‘bout you.” The boy turned to Ork. “And who are you? You don’t look like a scritham.”
     Ork kept his face to the fireplace. “I…I am a chimney spirit!” he said in a raspy voice.
     The boy flinched.
     “But I,” added Ork, “I help the scrithams… to return things what were borrowed.”
     “Oh. Why are you hiding your face? Are you ugly?”
     “If you look on my face, you would be … uh … it would be…”
     “It would be terrible,” said Scrithams.
     “Oh.”
     Ork chanced a peek over the edge of his cloak. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, young Tolock?”
     “I was thirsty and…  Hey! How did you know my name?”
     “I’m a spirit, remember?”
     “Oh.”
     “Now toddle off to bed or-or…” Ork looked around him, tryin’ to make up somethin’ quick that would get the boy to leave. He had the toy horse and rider in his hand. There were tools and a bucket of coals next to the hearth.
     Perhaps I could threaten him with a fire-iron. No, no, no! Too scary. I could threaten the horse…? Foolish Ork, what does he want? He’s a child.
     Ork held the toy up over his shoulder. “Or I’ll put horsey back in Witchwood where I found him and leave you a lump of coal instead.”
     The boy spun and disappeared around the corner.
     Ork sighed as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He set down the wooden horse by the bucket of coals and left with Scrithams.
     On the way down the hill, Scrithams asked, “Did the boy truly leave his toy in the scrith?”
     Ork chuckled. “No, but it was in the creek bed at the border.”
     Finally, they came to Widow Rua’s home. Ork told Scrithams to wait outside and he entered with the socks, Burkta had darned and knife Scritham fixed.
     He quickly went to the hearth and hung up the socks, then dropped a coin into each. He took out the weddin’ knife and set it on the tiny stand. As he turned to go, he keened Rua in her bed. She shivered and mumbled as she slept. At that moment, he felt her lonely existence and the emptiness of it fell on his heart. He stood before the hearth of her cozy, empty home and felt like the world had been dragged away, leaving him stranded in a desert.
     His sadness turned to shame and a hint of anger. He snatched the weddin’ knife from the hearth and left.
     “Come, Scrithams. We have another chore to do and not much darkness left.”

*

     The morning next, the citizens of Rancor awoke to a frosty, white Scrithams Day. They went about their usual Scrithams Day activities – looking for their returned items and preparing for the feast.
     Round bout mid-day, they gathered in the town’s hall with all their food and drink and returns. The feast was abuzz. Everyone was so excited to be together and show or regift what the scrithams had returned.
     Suddenly, the Widow Rua was walking between the tables toward the front of the hall where Chief Blacktooth sat. She bore an uneasy expression and a toy horse in her hands.
     The hall slowly quieted as the townsfolk saw her and realized who she was. Most had not seen her in a long time. A surrendered widow stayed away from crowds and tribal events. Her presence at a feast was thought to be bad luck.
     Blacktooth looked to his right and Grimhand jumped to his feet. He quickly rounded the head table and barred Rua’s way. He frowned at her over his crossed arms.
     “Grimhand,” she said. “Juke visited me a few nights back.”
     “Rua…”
     “I know…  I must leave.”
     “It is the way of the journey, Rua.”
     “The strength of the tribe.”
     Grimhand nodded.
     Rua handed him the toy horse and turned to go. “It’s good to see you, Grimhand.”
     “Wait!”
     Everyone turned to see who had shouted. The newcomer, Dunk stood next to his family’s table holding his son by the shoulder.
     “Where did you get that toy, woman?”
     Grimhand scowled at him. “She is one surrendered, Dunk.”
     The warrior tensed his jaw. “Still. I would know how she came by my son’s horse.”
     Rua bowed her head. “It is good to be seen, Dunk.” She then raised her eyes to Grimhand. “I know I should have stayed home, but I could not, knowing the scrithams had made a mistake. They brought me that toy instead of the wedding knife they took.”
     Dunk reached into his tunic and drew out a bone handled knife. “The scrithams left this sticking in my mantel.”
     A murmur rippled through the crowd.
     “Quiet!” said the chief. “The scrithams do not make mistakes. Everything taken returns to the one it came from.”
     The townsfolk nodded to each other and began to jabber.
     “Silence!”
     The crowd quieted and returned their attention to their chief.
     “This is most disturbing,” he said. “What does it mean?”
     Ork stood on his bench so Blacktooth could see him.
     “Ork, I hear you have the most experience with scrithams…” The chief gave him a dark look. “And you know how important Scrithams Day is to us. What do you think this means?”
     Ork scratched his chin and did his best to look thoughtful. Finally! Telling all those tales at Shady’s is paying off!
     “Great chief,” he began, “I think the scrithams are tryin’ to tell us somethin’ – to teach us somethin’.”
     “And what is that?”
     Ork looked around the room nervously. Blacktooth and Grimhand were glarin’ at him like a pesky ant.
     “For generations, since the Time of Wandering, we have allowed widows what stand alone to be surrendered. We have left them behind on the trail. For generations, we have told ourselves, ‘It is the way of the journey. The strength of the tribe.’ We all know these words. But by the wisdom of the scrithams I keen a new way.”
     The crowd erupted.
     “Hear me out! Hear me out!” shouted Ork. When they were quited to whispers he continued. He raised his hand to Dunk. “I keen a strong, young warrior family; now deprived of the wisdom and comfort of an elder.” He then indicated the Widow Rua. “I keen an elder without a family to comfort and share her wisdom. And … I see a weddin’ knife — a sacred gift from husband to wife — to be kept on the family hearth — now on a new hearth.”
     The hall was hushed.
     Dunk’s wife rose, took her son from her husband’s grasp and walked with him to Rua. “I am Tula, she said with a nod. “And this is Tolock.”
     Rua bowed her head. “It is good to be seen, Tula.” She then rested the wooden horse from Grimhand’s hands and handed it to the boy.
     Tolock looked at his mother. “She looks like Nan.”
     Tula grinned. “Yes, she does.”
     The boy turned to Rua. “Do you know how to make sweet squealerkey pie?”
     Rua looked to the boy’s mother who nodded.
     “Why yes, Tolock, I do. My son Juke loved my sweet squealerky pie.”
     Tula put her hand on Rua’s elbow and began guidin’ her to their table.
     “Do you know any stories about horses?” asked Tolock.
     “Oh my, yes!” said Rua. “Some of my favorite folks are horses…”
     All the townsfolk began to whisper then talk and shout. By the time the widow was with Dunk and his family at their table, the whole hall was louder than ever. Even had Chief Blacktooth and Grimhand shouted at the top of their lungs, they would not have quieted.
     Dunk handed Rua the weddin’ knife and motioned for her to sit.
     Ork felt a tug on his leg and looked down to find Korka grinning at him. He stepped down from the bench and sat to continue his feast. Berkta put her hand on his and Korka hugged his arm.
     “I keen now why you do what you do, Da.”
     “Just ‘cause I do somethin’ opposite my nature once a year, don’t read into it. I still plan to trick my way into line ahead of the drunks, sneak my fill of Shady’s private stock, and take more than my share of the sweet squealerky pie.”
          (You know ole Ork was ever the cleverest.)