The Scrithams Day What Almost Wasn’t

Oft I’ve yarned you with tales of Ork and Scrithams now, an’ you reckon you heard it all, but li’ Ork, an’ li’ my Paps, I’ve kept my share of secrets. The yarn of the Scrithams Day what almost wasn’t for one. Oh, I’m sure you heard many folks yappin’ on bout that Scrithams Day li they wrote the book, but few are the coins in a widow’s purse and fewer still what know the truth o’ what happened…

*

Ork slammed his empty tankard on the table. “More blood grog!” he shouted. “Next round’s on me!”

It was two brawls past the first spilt drink on a Fireday night at Shady’s and split lips, loose teeth, and blacked eyes were all-together ahead of broke noses, two to one. But with Ork buying a round, no one was keeping score. Besides, grudges was for elves and goblins. The same bruises and bruisers would be back the next night to crack jokes and slap backs, until someone didn’t laugh or slapped too hard and the head crackin’ would start all o’er again. In the mornin’, of course, friendships, like hangovers would be back in strength, for they were of a proud village and strong tribe.

The town doctor sat in one corner by the bar repairing the stitches to Shady’s scalp, while Ork sat in the opposite, counting his good fortune and secretly drinkin’ to a good night’s take.

Truth was, Ork’s high mood weren’t just from blood grog and a good haul. It’d been a good year. He’d been crafty and sneaky and all the things a great taker should be. And, he had also been hard-working. In fact, he had ne’er been this steady at it in his easy-take-easy-go youth, but that was before the town of Rancor depended on him and Scrithams to pull off their yearly night of returnin’ took things and miracles. Now, he was eyein’ a very short list of the folks what he had yet to mark off in his Took Book, and Scrithams Eve was still a couple days off. Plenty o’ time to finish his list and get things ready. He tapped the loot bag under the table with his boot and drew a line through two names on his list with a grin.

Two nice things for me, he thought. And some nice things to return. Sure, they’d be even nicer if they were missed since spring, but it’s better to lose and get back than to never lose at all.

“Three more,” he said, countin’ his list. “Three more and I’ll be ready.”

“You’ll be ready for what?”

Ork looked up over his shoulder. Grimhand was looking down at him.

How did I let a clod like him sneak up on me? Must be this grog.

“Huh?”

“I said, ready for what, Ork?”

“Oh … I’m just making some plans for Scrithams Day.”

Grimhand narrowed his eyes. “Of all the folks in Rancor, you get the most excited about Scrithams Day. Why?”

Ork smiled. “That’s easy. It’s the only day all year I can get my fill of squealerkey pie, where Burkta don’t menace me.”

This seemed to satisfy Grimhand and he walked toward the doctor. Halfway across the room, he looked back and gestured to Ork that he would be watching him.

That’s just what I need. Grimhand snooping around when I’m so close.

Ork caught the eye of his friend at the bar. “Glamwart, where’s my grog?”

Ork’s drinking buddy came to the table with two pints and put one in Ork’s hand. Ork took a slug, exchanged it for the second pint, and Glamwart plunked down in the empty chair.

“You should have heard what I just heard,” said Glamwart, leaning forward.

Ork put down his tankard. The only time Glamwart leaned forward like this was if he thought he had a secret worth keeping. Occasionally, he was right, so Ork listened.

“Well?” said Ork.

“Doc’s drunk.”

“Doc never drinks with us.”

“He is tonight!”

Ork did his best to focus across the bar. The doctor’s needle shook as he pulled his stitches tight on Shady’s head wound.

“And…?”

“I heard him tell Shady there’s a sickness making its way round the market square. Just started two days ago and already several families are ill.”

“So? It’s winter.”

Glamwart shook his head. “Not the same. Not the same. He hasn’t been able to help any of them.”

“So it’s a tough sniffle.”

“No.” Glamwart leaned forward so far his chin whiskers scraped the table. “It’s a hex-scourge,” he whispered.

Ork pushed back from his friend at the dreaded name. “Are you sure?”

Glamwart nodded.

“He said ex-hay-ourge-scay?”

Glamwart looked up as he replayed Ork’s words in his mind. Finally he nodded.

“So why tell Shady?” asked Ork.

“On account of Shady’s gramps bein’ a medicine man. He was askin’ for advice.”

“Why would he talk bout that aloud … in here?”

“He let slip. He thinks I’m deaf in this ear.”

“But it’s the other ear. The scar gives it away.”

“Exactly. I told ya he was drunk. But the crux of it is it’s different this time.”

“Different good?”

“Different bad. He’s tried everything, even the Spirit Crook.”

Ork furrowed his brow. His own drunk was wearing off fast.

“The Spirit Crook always worked in the past, Ork. Even for exes-hay.”

This was serious. Hex-scourges had killed many of the ancestors and ended many tribes. Causing sickness with curses was a dangerous, arcane act. Only the most vile person or desperate enemy would risk such a thing getting loose. Them what cursed were oft bit by their own curses two fold. And hex-scourges had the worst record of all.

“Then it’s not a hex,” said Ork, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or Glamwart.

“So why is Blacktooth calling a meeting of the elders?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Doc.”

Ork looked again across the bar. Grimhand was pushing his way through the crowd to the door, dragging the doctor with him. Ork grabbed up his loot bag, took a last pull from his grog and followed.

*

Ork stepped out into the frosty air. The icy snow crunched under his feet. Up ahead in the moonlight, he saw Grimhand and the doctor scurry up the dark, narrow ruts of the road, silhouetted against the white snow blanketing the old Rancor graveyard and sleeping fields that bounded the far side of the main road.

Grimhand escorted the good doctor by the scruff of his coat all the way to Blocktooth’s lodge and inside. Ork waited in the shadows till his toes near froze, but the doctor ne’er came out.

If Blacktooth wants to keep the sickness secret, he’ll keep the doctor and elders under lock until they swear an oath. And Grimhand will shut up anyone what threatens the silence.

Just as Ork was about to walk away, Grimhand left Blacktooth’s and marched up the road directly at him. Ork tucked back into a corner and held his breath as the massive warrior passed. It looked like he was headed back to Shady’s. Once he was out of sight, Ork picked a less direct route and started home full o’ questions and dread.

*

Near Market Square, he passed the hunched figure of widow Glumpot, toting a lantern in one hand, and a black iron cook pot on the other arm, draped over by a raggedy checked cloth. She was dressed, as usual, in boots and a patchy apron, with her gray hair braided and tucked under a wide-brimmed leather hat. She was known round town for that strange hat – practically famous for it.

“Evenin’, Ork.”

He jumped a little, expectin’ her to walk past without a word. For one, she were a widow, and most widows still kept to theirselves, and two, they’d never met.

“Um … Evenin’?” he replied.

The amber light of her lantern deepened the good-natured crow’s feet, blazed in the long peach fuzz of her wrinkled-apple cheek, and sparked in her deep-set, onyx eyes.

“Care for some warm soup on this chill night, Ork?”

“No, thank you. I need to be home.”

“You comin’ from Blacktooth’s? I know how he values your counsel since the whole Scrithams Day thing.”

Ork scratched the back of his head. “Um … not exactly. How do you know me?”

“Everyone knows you! You’re Ork, father of the elf boy.”

“Oh.”

“Not like that. Don’t get me wrong, I get plenty fired at ‘em for killin’ my man and my son, but I reckon you takin’ in that orphan two winters ago was…It was a kindness, and showed great courage.”

“I see.”

Ork caught a whiff of the soup in her pot and blurted out, “That smells good.”

Why did I say that, he thought.

“Have some,” she said.

She lifted the cloth from the iron pot, revealing a simple knotted-vine design circling the outer rim. Something about it was oddly familiar.

“My son gave me this little fella,” said Glumpot. “Cute, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“So, want some?”

“No. No. I need to be home.”

“Then walk me home. It’s just up yonder.”

Ork nodded. “Of course.”

They turned up the street and headed to Potter’s Alley, a community of tightly stacked homes on a winding labyrinth of narrow streets. Her home would take him only a short distance out of his way.

“So, what are you doing out this late?” he asked.

“Oh, I just come from the square.” She thumbed behind them.

“The square?”

“Visiting friends. Oh, I missed helpin’ folks and cookin’ my healing bone broth. Wasn’t able to do in years past, but thanks to the Scrithams… Well, you know.”

“Aye. We’re all better for it.”

“Thank you. Such kind words. You’re just as I expected.”

“I am?”

“Aye.”

Ork saw her safely to her door and then rushed home.

*

The next night, Ork went out to nick another name off his list. That done, he dropped his loot bag to the soft snow outside the side window and started to leave. As he swung his second boot over the window sill he caught sight of Widow Glumpot tottering on the main road headed toward Potter’s Alley. The lantern and pot swung gently from her arms in rhythm with her steady turtle pace.

Ork sat on the sill and watched after her as she turned the corner and disappeared into the night.

What a kind, old thing she is. Hope she don’t get sick in this cold and with a possible hex on the loose.

Suddenly there was a muffled cough from behind him. He looked over his shoulder as a dim sliver of light expanded onto the wall across from him, and lit up a shield and an old map of Rancor stuck with a number of red pins near the center. Ork pushed off from the window sill and fell two floors into the snowdrift next to the lodge, where he lay very still.

“Ha! No wonder it’s cold in here,” said the voice of Hamfist from above. “You left the window open again!”

“Me? It must of been you.”

Hamfist coughed some more before he appeared and spat out the window. “This blasted cold. You’ll be the death o’ me, woman!”

“‘Twasn’t me!”

“Yes, dear. Must of done when I shooed that bat I mistook for your mother!” The window shut with some finality, and Ork scurried from the scene.

*

Late the next morn, Blacktooth sent out the town crier to nail up notice that Market Square was closed to buying and selling. Folks had to go to the small markets scattered round town for supplies. It further said, “if the fever round Market Square is not cured by sundown Scrithams Eve, there will be no Scrithams Day feast.”

By noon, Ork was sitting in Shady’s, staring at the parchment Glamwart had hastily thrust into his hand before heading to the bar to order two.

Ork read the notice twice, then flicked the corner like an offending hand. “He can’t do this! He can’t cancel Scrithams Day!” He then slapped the notice down on the table.

What’s Blacktooth up to? This note isn’t quiet at all.

Glamwart came with the pints, sat one in front of Ork and stood waiting next to him. At last Ork looked up from the parchment and stared across the room. Glamwart cleared his throat and nodded at the table. Ork absently took a gulp from the tankard and sat it back down. His buddy pushed it across the table and set the untouched pint before Ork.

“Where did you get this?” asked Ork.

Glamwart sat. “From the post by Bent Hill. But there’s a dozen more all over town.”

“Why is this one so wet?”

“I got ambushed into a snowball fight with the Hatchet brothers on the way here.”

Ork nodded and returned to gazing into the flames in the fireplace.

How can this be? What am I going to do? I have to fix this! But how?

*

“Did you hear what I said, Ork?”

Ork blinked and looked up past his full tankard and Glamwart’s empty. “What?”

“They say the fever’s only hit in the district round the square.”

“So?”

“If this is a ex-hay, someone’s targeting the rich bloods and merchants.”

Ork muttered absently and thrummed the table. “Targeting, targeting, hex…”

“Aye. That’s what I said.”

“Why?”

“Why what?

“Why would someone target rich bloods and merchants?”

Glamwart scratched his chin. “Well … Maybe it’s someone what don’t like rich folks …”

“What do they have what no one else does?”

“Silver.”

“No.”

“Lots of silver?”

“No.”

“Then goods?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ve got it, don’t ya, Ork?”

“Not yet.”

Ork took a sip of his grog and scrunched up his face.

“What’s wrong, Ork?”

“Nothing worse than warm blood grog.”

“I’m with you, but I hear they like it that way in Dangle.”

Ork shook his head. “Barbarians.”

Glamwart laughed. “Aye.”

Ork suddenly sat up. “Speakin’ of barbarians… What do you know of Hamfist?”

“Hamfist?”

“Yeah. You know… Big fella what helped me decorate for Scrithams Day last year. Wields a hammer left-handed.”

Glamwart scratched his chin. “Well, I know he helped you last year. Oh, and his wife makes a mean squealerkey pie! She won a prize I think. Why do you ask?”

“I saw something…” said Ork, rubbing his lips. In his house. Hamfist had a map of Rancor on the wall…and pins stuck in it round the square…

“You saw what?” asked Glamwart.

“Nothing. Nothing.” Ork stood up, but then leaned over to whisper in Glamwart’s good ear.. “Look, do me a favor. Find out who’s got the fever, make me a list. I’ll be by for it later tonight.”

“Sure, Ork. You gonna tell me what this is about?”

“Later. I gotta get home. Burkta will have supper on soon.”

“You’re a lucky man, Ork. Lucky, lucky man.”

*

Ork trudged home. By the time he opened the door his head was so full of twists and turns and blind alleys that he nearly forgot where he was.

“Da! Da!” shouted Korka and Isselrud, hopping up from the hearth.

Ork grinned as they ran to him. They were of one spirit but two very different bodies; sturdy, think-boned Korka, who looked like her mother more every day and Isselrud, who was as pale and thin as the day Ork adopted him off the streets.

“You’re just in time,” said Burkta.

Ork bent to hug his kids. “Good! Now help your Ma.”

The children ran to the table, helped their mother place the plates and food, then sat in their usual places across from one another. Ork sat across from his wife and after a word of blessing, they all ate.

Near the end of the meal, Burkta asked, “Not good?”

“Huh?” said Ork.

“The food.”

“Oh, no. It’s very tasty.”

“Then what is it? You didn’t eat much and haven’t said a word.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No, Ork. It’s not like you.”

“I’ve got much in my head, what with the fever and Scrithams Day just around the corner.”

Burkta reached across and put her hand on Ork’s. “Yes. I heard Blacktooth was threatening to cancel it.”

“I can’t let that happen, Burkta!”

“What are you going to do about it? You’re not a doctor.”

“I don’t know. But I decided I must do something.”

“Is that why you were late the other night?”

“No,” said Ork, staring at the fire. “I ran into Widow Glumpot.”

“Glumpot? She struck me as an early bird. She was at the market with me when Grimhand closed it. Her and Chessa and the kids.”

“Hamfist’s wife?”

“Aye. She was gettin’ supplied for those delicious squealerkey pies of hers. We all ended up gettin’ everything from the farmer’s market this side of Hamshackle.”

“Did Chessa say or do anything unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“Strange, suspicious?”

“The only thing suspicious is how jealously she guards the secret of her pie crust. She got a lot of things, things I know don’t belong in squealerkey pie, just to throw me off!”

Ork thought back to that perfect crust on Chessa’s squealerkey pie at the previous Scrithams Day feast. And the aroma that rose in the tiny wisp of steam as she cut it for him. And the melt-in-your-mouth texture…

“So you ran into Widow Glumpot late the other night?”

Ork’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“Glumpot. The other night.”

“Oh, Aye. She was out late delivering bone broth to some friends in the square.”

“Sick friends?”

“I think so.”

“She must have a lot of old friends there.”

“Really? She lives over in Potter’s Alley. I thought they must be new friends.”

“Oh, no,” said Burkta. “Don’t you remember? Her husband and son had that nice leather shop in the market.”

“Not really.”

“Well, it’s been quite a while. She lost the shop and her home after her husband and son didn’t return from the war. Faelendale, I think.”

Ork nodded. “Like Rua.”

“Aye,” said Burkta. “Sadly, ‘tis a common tale.”

Burkta stood and started picking up their plates. “Children, it’s time for bed!”

“Aw, Ma!” they whined in unison.

“Don’t aw, ma me! Get to bed quick and I’ll let Da read ya a story.”

The children rushed to got ready for bed. After a bit, Korka approached Ork at the table with something behind her back.

“What ya got there?” he asked.

She pulled out an old book with a finely stitched leather binding. He took it from her and examined it in the firelight. A book was still a rare thing in Rancor, and it took him by surprise to see it in his house. It was a book he had taken many years back, but couldn’t seem to sell or return it. He dusted it off from time to time to gaze at the fanciful art work and read bits as he could, but it had been some time since he’d laid eyes on it.

“Where did you get this?”

“I … I was in your workshop and saw it, and thought you could read it to us.”

“It’s elfish!” he said to her.

“Isselrud says it’s full of good stories. He wants you to read it to us.”

Ork looked at the elf boy peering at him from around the corner.

“Come here, Isselrud.”

The pale boy came to the table. His head was down.

“Is that true, Isselrud?”

“No, Da.”

“It’s not?”

“I was in your workshop too.”

“Oh. I see. And what have I said about taking things from my workshop?”

The boy fidgeted. “Um … To always ask.”

“So…you askin’?”

“Yes, Da.”

“Very well. But you need to put it back, or hide it good. No one must know we have this book. Understand?”

“Yes, Da.”

“Yes, Da.”

“You do understand it’s in Elfish?”

“Yes, Da,” said Isselrud. “But Scrithams taught you, didn’t he?”

“Aye, between him and the war…But I don’t read it so good.”

Korka put her arm around her father’s shoulder. “That’s fine, Da. You read it and just tell us what it says in your word.”

The kids spun and scampered into bed. Ork pulled up a chair beside them with a candle on the bed post and the book in his lap.

“Ah, here’s a short one. I should be able to handle that much.”

Ork began to read the text and speak it into the words of his people.

**

Long ago, in the kingdom of Gloaming, there lived a goblin king. He was a greedy king, taking everything for his own what he laid eyes on. For this reason he went to war with the people … the elves over the Vale of Plenty. The war raged for a year, but the elves proved stronger than the goblin army and forced them back into their … lair. To punish them for all the death and destruction they wrought, the goblins, including their king, were forced to toil for the elves…in the mines.

One day, there was a great cave-in. All the goblins were trapped or buried. The elves could not reach them. Many starved. Many grew sick. There, in the dark, the goblin king, desperate for revenge, spat up a terrible curse with his dying breath. He breathed it into a cauldron where its venom festered and stewed, growing stronger over the centuries in the dark

An age passed, and the goblins and the goblin king of Gloaming were forgotten.

The elves grew in number and wisdom, and in territory. Their need for building stone and minerals for tools and weapons also grew. They used their knowledge to quarry and mine and explore deep into the mountains round the Vale of Plenty.

One day, an Elf explorer happened into a cave filled with dunes of fine, pale dust. And sitting atop the tallest dune, he found a very old iron cauldron. It appeared to have no value, and was little more than a curiosity, but still the explorer took the cauldron for his troubles and went home.

On the way down the mountain, he grew very hungry. He picked some wild onions, mushrooms, and peppers, and put them in the little cauldron to make a soup. The soup had a great aroma and strangely rich flavor. He found it very satisfying and strengthening, so he continued.

At the first village, he stayed with a family and insisted on sharing his soup. Over the next days, the family grew ill with fever and aches in their bellies, so the explorer stayed to take care of them. It wasn’t long before the entire village was sick, but the harder the explorer tried to cure them, the sicker, the more pained they got. He left the village to get help from the next town, but when he returned, the entire village was overgrown with thick, thorny vines and was unapproachable.

Sickness and thorns soon consumed the next town, and the next, and the next. Before long, everywhere the explorer went for help he found the same thing. Somehow, the sickness and thorns had been rooted ahead of him. By the time he arrived anywhere, he only had time enough to meet people before they fell ill and their homes were overgrown by thorns.

Even his hometown fell prey to the dreaded scourge. It was here that he witnessed the terrible secret of the thorns. He watched as a swarm of thorny vines grew from the mouth of a dead man he had been trying to heal. The vines grew so quickly that he had to run from the house to escape. Here too, the explorer experienced his greatest grief, when he lost his family and his friends.

Disheartened, the explorer left his home. He marched for miles, ignoring his hunger and thirst, and climbed a high hill overlooking the vale. Staring at the ruins of his beloved homeland, he laid down to die.

At that moment, he heard a low, scraping chuckle. The black cauldron fell from his pack and rolled to a stop before him. The chuckle became a laugh and goblin words what resonated from the mouth of the cauldron.

“The vale is mine. At last, the vale is mine.”

And that is how the Vale of Plenty passed into legend and the Vale of Thorns was born.

**

Ork closed the book and looked up to his children. They were far from sleepy, sitting with their knees up to their chins and their eyes wide open.

“Oh…” he said, before examining the front and back of the book. “I guess that’s not much for a bedtime story, is it?”

The children stared at him.

“Well,” he continued. “That’s not the end, ya know. That elf explorer … why he got up, kicked that rotten ole stew pot into a hole an buried it.”

The kids let down their knees, but still sat holding their covers up to their chins.

“He then covered it with a boulder … as big as a house. Four boulders in fact. And no one ever found it.”

Ork gently steered Korka and Isselrud into lying positions. He tucked them in and kissed each on the forehead. He started to walk back to the hearth room, but looked back and said, “Oh! And he married a queen and had two wonderful children, and they lived happily ever after.”

*

Ork kissed Burkta goodnight and went out into the wintry evening to finish his list. Scrithams Eve was, after all, only a day away.

A heavy fog of ice crystals floated through the valley and the moon hid behind a thin veil of gray clouds.

A perfect night for taking, he told himself.

Both lodges on his list were little, so he finished early with his task and knocked off. It wasn’t until he was nearly home that he realized he had been so distracted that he hadn’t taken anything for himself.

“You’re slippin’ Ork,” he muttered.

He pushed open the door and was scraping his boots when he heard Burkta and the children moaning. He went to their beds and found each one holding their bellies. Their foreheads were warmer than should be.

He tapped Burkta by her shoulder. “Burkta. Burkta!”

She didn’t respond, so he shook her. “Burkta!”

She roused and said, “Ork, I feel bad.”

“You’ve a little fever.”

“My stomach hurts somethin’ terrible.”

“This is very important Burkta. Where did you go today after the market?”

“Huh?”

“Where did you go?”

“We stopped at Chessa’s. We had tea and biscuits, and a little soup.”

“Were the children with ya?”

“Aye.”

“Blast!”

Ork gave some willow bark to Burkta to chew, then put cool, wet cloths on all their foreheads. He grabbed his cold-iron hatchet and dag and ran out the door.

*

Ork went to Glamwart’s and knocked until his friend showed at the door with a lamp.

“Glamwart!”

“Ork?”

“Good, you’re up!” said Ork, pushing his way in.

“I wasn’t…”

“Burkta and the kids are sick with the fever. I need your wife to take care of them while I put an end to this thing once and for all!”

“Is this bout the list you wanted?”

“No. Yes. Do you have it?”

Glamwart held up a finger, then wobbled into the back room.

“What is it?” said a female voice.

“It’s Ork.”

“At this hour?”

Glamwart returned with a piece of parchment. “Here. I waited at Shady’s but you never showed.”

Ork looked at the list. “Baldhammer’s ghost, that’s a lot of names!”

Glamwart nodded. “It’s spread to the area around Potter’s Alley and up Dregs Trail to Hamshackle.”

“Ork?” came a holler from the back room.

“Yes,” he hollered back.

“What’s wrong?”

Ork leaned towards the door. “Burkta and the kids are fevered. Can you watch ‘em while I take care of some business?”

“Of course,” said the voice. “I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you!”

Glamwart noticed the weapons in Ork’s belt. “You know what’s going on now, don’t you?”

“I think so,” said Ork with a frown. “I don’t understand it, but I think I know who is doing this.”

“The ex-hay?”

“Aye.”

“Need my help?”

Ork thought about it a moment. Hamfist was a big man, and from all accounts hell on the battlefield, but he was an out of shape brawler and lacked Ork’s skill and training with a blade. And if he was caught off guard…

“No,” said Ork. “I think I can handle this one alone.”

*

Ork strode up the main road and cut directly across the graveyard and snow-covered fields in the bottom to Hamfist’s house. He knew he could break in and have a blade to the big man’s throat before waking him easily enough, but thought better of it. What if he was wrong? A cornucopia of problems spilled out of his mind at the prospects of gettin’ it wrong, gettin’ caught, gettin’ found out! Not to mention Chessa would certainly be in the bed too. No. That approach was too risky for a hunch, so he banged on the door.

Hamfist opened the door, looking groggy and grumpy. Ork stepped back and the big warrior closed the door and stepped outside.

“Ork? It’s the middle of the night!”

Ork acted fast. He pushed Hamfist back to the wall and put his dag and hatchet to either side of his neck. Hamfist flinched and stretched up straight trying to get away from the cold blades. His eyes were large as Ork pressed in.

“What do you want?” said Hamfist in a surprisingly high tenor.

“I want you to stop what you’re doing to the folks of Rancor.”

“What I’m doing? What am I doing? What folks?”

“The folks round Market Square … the folks up Potter’s Alley and Hamshackle … my family… You’re gonna stop the hex and reverse it. Now!”

“Hex? Hex? I don’t know anything bout a hex!”

“Stop it now or by Baldhammer I’ll see the color of your blood tonight!”

“Honest Ork, I don’t know bout any hex. My clan’s never been good with magic. You think I’d fool with a hex?”

Ork narrowed his eyes at Hamfist. “You’ve got a map in your house what shows all your targets round the square — all the people with the fever. What is it? You want a shop for your wife to sell her pies? You want Kull‘s bakery? What are you after?”

“I think there’s been a mistake, Ork.”

“And you made it.”

“No. I think you did.”

Ork tightened his grip on his weapons and glanced at Hamfist’s fists. They were still against the wall. He wasn’t making a move against Ork.

“Your wife saw my map when she was here earlier, didn’t she?”

“Um … Yes. She did.”

“It’s not what you think. Remember last year, when you said I could organize the Scrithams Day decorations round the square?”

Ork licked his lips. “Yes.”

“I use the map your wife saw to track which merchants are ready and which need help.”

Ork blinked. “You’re tracking the merchants…for decorations.”

“I can’t keep it in my head like you.”

The tension in Ork’s chest lessoned. But he knew better than to trust an enemy’s words, even one you hold at blade point, so he stayed poised to attack as his mind worked out the puzzle. He looked into Hamfist’s eyes. There was no lie there.

At that moment, out the corner of his left eye, Ork spotted Widow Glumpot shambling from the Market Square district onto the main road. The amber lantern and black pot swung back and forth from her ams, casting nebulous shadows and light. Her hunched form shuffled through the murky street like a specter, to and fro, wherever the folks of Rancor were sick and dying.

Ork lowered his weapons and Hamfist rubbed his in-tact throat with a sigh.

“Sorry, Hamfist.”

“You really thought I was behind the fever?”

Ork stared vacantly at Widow Glampot on the gloomy road. She’s been right in front of me this whole time. In front of all of us! This is payback. She lost everything. First her family, then her tribe, then her livelihood and dignity…

Hamfist pointed at his door. “Since you’re here, you want to see my map? I did ya proud, Ork. Nearly all the merchants are ready for Schrithams Day.”

Ork scratched the wart on his chin. But how could she put a hex on so many?

At that moment, a shadow of an idea started to form in Ork’s mind.

“Hamfist,” he said. “Did Widow Glampot’s son die in Faelendale?”

“No. The Wastelands. Awful place. Nothin’ but dust and thorns and dyin’.”

“Thorns?”

“Aye. Big ones. Nigh impossible to pass in places.”

Ork put his weapons in his belt and started for the main road.

“Sure you don’t want to see my map?” said Hamfist.

Ork turned and walked backwards toward the road. “Good work, Hamfist. Finish the decorations tomorrow.”

“But Scrithams Day is canceled.”

“Not yet it isn’t!”

*

Ork shadowed Glampot through the foggy streets all the way to Potter’s Alley. She went into her wee house and he spied on her through the tattered curtains on the window. She put the pot by the hearth and started a fire. The light shown on her worried but determined face. She dropped a bone into the pot, added water and vegetables, and set it over the fire. She then turned out her lantern, kissed the wedding knife and two locks of hair sittin’ on the hearth and went to bed. The firelight glistened in her black eyes as she stared across the room.

She lay back on her pillow. Her eyes seemed to search the rafters for something. Suddenly she said, “Please don’t let them die. Take me if you must, not them. Reveal to me the secret to cure this scourge.”

Ork turned from the window and put his back to the wall. She’s not trying to kill them. She’s trying to cure them. If  she’s not behind this hex, who is? He peered once again through the window. How could I have it all wrong?

At that moment, some wood in her fireplace burnt through and shifted. A swarm of tiny sparks flew up the chimney, and the flames rose to lick the black iron pot. Bathed in fire, the true pattern round the rim became unmistakable. The twisted vines had thorns.

The Goblin Cauldron!

Ork waited, until Glumpot fell asleep, then he crept in, and, using her large wooden spoon and checked cloth, took the cauldron from the fire and left. He headed straight for home and his workshop where he would keep the pot from doing any more harm.

“That does smell good,” he said as he walked up the road to his house.

He lifted the lid and a puff of steam hit him in the face. He was so hungry. He dipped the spoon into the cauldron and scooped out a taste of the hardy smelling broth.

“Just a taste,” he told himself. “What’s the harm in one little taste?”

He blew on the hot liquid in the spoon, and was about to put it to his lips, when he realized what he was doing. He stared at the spoon and the pot and shook his head. Still, he held the spoon, ready to drink from it. His hands were shaking.

I’ve got to drop this. If I drink this, we’re all doomed!

In his mind, he saw Burkta, Korka, and Isselrud sick in their beds. He dropped the spoon and threw the pot against a boulder on the side of the road. It clanked against the stone and rolled on the ground, coming to a stop on its bottom. He kicked over the cauldron so the remaining broth spilled out on the ground, then examined it on all sides.

Not a mark on it.

He pulled out his hatchet and bashed the cauldron repeatedly, but nothing he did made a dent. Panting, he stood over it and considered burying it, or sinking to the bottom of a lake.

No. I’ve got to break this thing or the curse will go on. Maybe Scrithams can break it. I better get to Witchwood!

*

Ork picked up the cauldron and marched into the scrith, to the place he and Scrithams usually met. He made a fire and waited. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long.

Scrithams walked out of the tangled woods in his usual form and with his usual smile.

“Ork!” he shouted. “Is it Scrithams Eve already?”

“Nearly.”

“What’s wrong? I sensed that something was wrong in Rancor and I came as quickly as I could.”

Ork pulled the cauldron from behind the log he was sitting on and placed it by the fire.

Scrithams stared at it. The tips of his ears flickered. “What’s that doing here?”

“You know this?”

“I know of it. You haven’t been using that, have you?”

“No, but someone has.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. I need you to break the curse. Burkta and Korka, and Isselrud are sick because of that thing. And so is much of Rancor.”

“Ah, that’s why the town is going dark. This thing has done its damage.”

“I tried to break it but it’s too strong.”

“The curse strengthens it.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can try, but it may be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the hex is out, I don’t think you can put it back in.”

Ork frowned. “We’ve got to try.”

Scrithams placed the cursed cauldron on a large flat rock. He closed his eyes and concentrated. His ears began to glow, then quake faster and faster. He growled and held his hands out towards the black pot. It moved on the rock, shaking and rattling against the hard surface. His ears were now vibrating faster and faster. They emitted a shrill sound. The pot skittered violently on the rock, and began to glow red.

Suddenly, the cauldron burst into pieces and a dark, wispy spirit appeared. It glared at them with hot eyes and hissed. Scrithams slumped to the ground and it rushed toward him. Ork drew his cold-iron weapons and jumped in its way, but it battered him aside and continued to Scrithams. It drew back its claws to strike.

Just then, two orb of pale light appeared, floating on either side of Scrithams, and the phantom froze. The orbs grew blindingly bright. Their light tore at the spirit like a wind and shredded it. Ork watched as the pieces evaporated into nothing.

The orbs of light dimmed and descended to land on Scrithams. He awoke, regarded the two orbs with a smile, and nodded. The orbs began to change colors and Scrithams ears glowed in similar shifting hues.

“No. Don’t be mad. Ork is my friend. He needed my help.”

The orbs continued to change colors and brightness.

“The others may need my help now. Yes. I understand. Thank you.”

The orbs rubbed against Scrithams’ cheeks, made cooing sounds, then flew into the treetops and shot out of sight.

Ork put his weapons in his belt and helped Scrithams to his feet.

“Well…?” he said. “What did they say?”

“The curse is broken.”

“Good!. Let’s go home.”

Scrithams and Ork sped home. When they got to the door, Scrithams hid and Ork went inside. A few moments later, Ork shooed Glamwart’s wife out the door.

“Thank you,” he said. “G’night.”

She put on her coat. “But they’re still sick.”

“I’ll take it from here.”

“But—”

“G’night.”

He closed the door and watched through the window as she stood gaping at the door. Finally, she huffed and trudged through the snow to the road. Once she was out of sight, Ork opened the door and let Scrithams in.

They went to the beds and examined Ork’s family. Each was still fevered and moaned in their sleep.

Scrithams closed his eyes and his ears lit up. “It is as we feared, Rancor and your family are still in danger.”

“Can you…?” said Ork, pointing to his ears. “You know.”

“Fix them with my magic?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“What can we do?”

Scrithams smiled and touched Ork on the arm. “One of my favorite things.” He walked to the door and stepped out into the frigid air.

Ork was befuddled, but followed after him. “Eat squealerkey pie?” he said sheepishly.

Scrithams laughed. “No. That’s one of your favorite things. But maybe after…”

“Then what?”

“We fix the cauldron.”

“What?”

“But this time, we make it my way.”

Ork’s furrowed brow slowly relaxed and a smile spread itself across his face.

At that moment, the two orbs of light zipped in from the tree line and set all the shards of the shattered cauldron at Scrithams’ feet. They placed a snowdrop flower in his hand and again communed with him in their silent manner. He nodded, said thanks, and they flew away.

They put all the shards on Ork’s table and Scrithams concentrated once again. His ears glowed brightly and the pieces of cauldron began to reassemble. As they came together, the inside of the pot began to glow. While light still shown through the cracks, Scrithams dropped in the snowdrop flower. There was a bright flash and the cauldron was in one piece. It looked the same as before, including the woven thorns around the rim.

Ork stared at it suspiciously. “Is it…?”

Scrithams sighed and opened his eyes. “Yes. It is complete.”

“Is it…cursed?”

“Oh me, no!”

“Will it cure Burkta, Korka and Isselrud?”

“One way to find out.”

Ork took the cauldron, added water and put it over the fire.

“What’s with the snowdrop?” he asked.

“My…parents brought it from a sacred place far from here.”

“We’ve got them around here, ya know?”

“Not like this one.”

Ork shrugged and added the ingredients he had seen used by Widow Glumpot in her bone broth.

“Could you…?” said Ork, stirring the pot.

Scrithams concentrated and pointed at the cauldron as Ork stirred. In moments, a wonderful smell began to fill the room. Ork took a spoonful of the soup and looked at it.

“Go ahead,” said Scrithams. “It won’t harm you anymore.”

Ork tasted the soup. It was delicious, and as it went down, he felt a surge of warmth and vigor.

Immediately they woke each member of Ork’s family, made them take a few spoonfuls of the soup, then waited. Their moaning stopped. Their fevers broke. And before long, they were sitting up in bed asking for more soup and talking excitedly with Scrithams. Ork scooped out three bowls for them, then put on his coat and went to the door with the cauldron.

“I’ve got to get this back to its owner,” said Ork.

“Should I go with you?” asked Scrithams.

“No. You’ve done enough for tonight. Enjoy some time with the family and get some rest. Tomorrow is Scritham’s Eve and my list is bigger than ever.”

*

Ork left and went as quickly as he could to Widow Glumpot’s house. Luckily, it was still before dawn and the frosty fog from the night before had only gotten thicker, providing him with cover.

He looked through Glumpot’s window. Good! Still asleep. He carefully opened the door, tiptoed in and crossed to the fireplace. The fire was all but out. Only a few embers remained.. He sat the cauldron back on its hook over the firebox and turned to go.

Glumpot was sitting up on her elbow, staring at him.

“I—um…” he stammered.

Quickly, he grabbed a few pieces of wood from the box next to the hearth and put them in the firebox.

“I was passing by and saw that your fire had gone out,” he said, desperately trying to restart the fire.

He put some kindling and straw on the embers and blew. Slowly they caught and he coaxed the fire back to life. Finally, with the logs blazing, he turned back to the room. Glumpot was once again resting on her pillow, her eyes closed. Ork sighed and crept to the door. It made a tiny squeak as he opened it.

“Thank our friends from the scrith for me, Ork.”

He froze and gawked at her. Her eyes were still shut.

She grinned and said, “I prayed last night for the secret to cure the scourge.”

“You did?”

“Aye.” She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Snowdrop blossoms. That’s the secret, isn’t it? Our friends in Witchwood knew, and they sent you to bring the secret back to me in the pot they took earlier.”

“Um—yes. That’s it exactly.”

“So kind. Just as I said.”

“My pleasure.”

Ork started to leave and she called to him. “Ork!”

He stuck his head back through the door. She was now looking at him.

“Don’t worry, Ork. It’ll be our little secret.”

Ork nodded. “I’ll ask Burkta to come by later with some snowdrop blossoms. We’ve got loads of them growing in our pasture.”

“Please do. We’ve got to get this soup to quite a few folks today if we’re going to have everyone well by  sundown tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“It’s Scrithams Eve, of course.”

“Scrithams Eve! Baldhammer’s ghost, I almost forgot! I’ve got so much to do!”

Ork ducked out the door and took the quickest shortcuts he knew to get home. He was bone tired, but along the way, he came up with a plan to make up lost time.

*

After sunrise, while Burkta picked a basket of snowdrops and went to Widow Glumpots to make soup in her pot and take it to all the sick folks around town, Ork, Scrithams and the kids got everything ready for Scrithams Eve.

“Pack it all in my sleigh,” said Ork.

“You’ve never taken your sleigh before, Da,” said Korka.

“That’s because, I usually have time to plant caches around town, but I ran out of time this year, and I’ve got many more returns than in past years.”

“Won’t the sleigh draw attention, Da?”

“It would, Isslerud, but that’s where Scrithams and you two come in.”

Both children jumped up and down. “We get to help this year? We get to help this year?”

“Yes, I think you’re both old enough this year,” said Ork. “Scrithams will give us good snow to hide us, while you two distract folks.”

“How will we do that, Da?”

“Well, Korka, do you remember those songs we sang last Scrithams Day at the feast.”

“Yes, Da.”

“While Scrithams and me are returnin’ things to folk’s lodges, you and Isselrud will knock on the door and sing one of them songs to folks when they open the door.”

“Ah, Da! I thought we would get to help with returnin’!”

“And you will. But we gotta start early this year. Once folks go to sleep, you two can help us with the returnin’.”

“Kurah! Kurah!”

Kora hugged her father and said, “This is going to be the best Scrithams Eve ever!”

“Indeed.” If everything goes to plan…

*

Burkta returned home in the evening just before sundown. She went to the barn where Ork and his team had just finished hooking the mules up to the sleigh. She entered and announced that everyone in town what had fever was fed the snowdrop soup from the cauldron and was now cured.

“Everyone is so grateful! But Ork … no one has cooked for the Scrithams Day feast.”

Ork’s shoulders sank and he looked at the floor. No squealerkey pie, he thought.

Burkta came beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. “Tis well, husband. We’ve given them back their health. Who could ask for more?”

Ork lifted his head and straightened his back. “But they deserve so much more.” He turned and looked at his team round the sleigh. “Without returnin’ and regiftin’ it just wouldn’t feel like Scrithams Day. Not to me. What say you? Should we give ‘em back their took goods?”

“Aye!” they said in unison.

Ork smiled from ear to ear. “What’s the weather look like, Scrithams?”

“Snowy, with low visibility in alleys.”

“Then let’s go!”

He kissed Burkta, put on his lucky hat, then climbed into the sleigh and drove them across the snow covered fields toward Rancor.

*

Ork’s Scrithams Eve team worked hard. As planned, folks opened their doors to listen to the kids sing and ne’er knew Ork and Scrithams were inside returnin’ their took goods behind their backs. But things moved slowly. After all the candles went out, Korka and Isselrud joined their father and Scrithams in returnin’. Isselrud handed out goods from the sleigh while Korka checked them off in the Took Book. With teamwork, a little stealth and a lot of magic, the goods were returned quickly. The last of the took goods were returned to a home on the square just before dawn.

“Well done! Well done!” said Ork to his crew, as they returned to the sleigh in the middle of Market Square.

“Ork, the sun’s almost upon us and you still don’t have a feast!” said Scrithams.

Ork scratched his chin wart and frowned. Then he snatched off his lucky hat and scratched his head.

“Seems a shame too. Hamfist has all the tables and benches and fires set up and the dais for Bloodtooth and the other judges is in place. The only thing in lack is food.”

If we only had more time…or magic!

“Scrithams!”

“Yes.”

“Everything needed to make a Scrithams day feast is here in these shops around us.”

“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“I think so. Are your ears up to it?”

Scrithams puffed up his cheeks with breath, then let it out. “I think I can do it, but after this, you will not see me for a while.”

“Why?”

“The last two nights  have drained me. And this …? I will need to rest for a long while.”

“How long?”

“I am uncertain.”

Ork looked at the cobblestones and frowned. “Then don’t do it.”

“But it’s the Scrithams Day feast, Ork.”

“I know.”

“The thing you look forward to all year.”

“I know.”

“But—”

“It’s not worth ya gettin’ hurt.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise. Besides, you’re not the only one in Rancor who needs the Scrithams Day feast.”

Ork and the kids, ran around the square, opening shop doors and knocking out the pins what held the windows of the food stands closed. As the doors swung open and the window flaps dropped, Scrithams concentrated. First, there was a little wind and then it grew. It circled the square and then it split into thin, wispy wind funnels. The funnels zipped around the square and into the shops. The next thing they knew, decorations and cookware and dishes and food of all description floated out of the shops and stands. Meats from Ninefinger’s butcher shop were skewered over the fire pits. Then the fires in the pits and in the bakery ignited. Other foods were cut up, chopped up, minced up, mixed up, stirred up, or  whipped up in the air and floated in pots and pans over the fires. While some of the wind funnels continued to cook, others brought out tablecloths and plates and spoons and knives and placed them around the tables, and hung decorations all around.

Scrithams kept this up for a long while until the smells of food started to fill the air. At this point, he collapsed to one knee and the whirlwinds disappeared. “There,” he said. “You’ll need to finish it, but it’s just like last year’s feast.”

Ork came to his side and put an arm around him. Scrithams swiftly shrunk into a dimly glowing orb and rested in Ork’s hands.

“Thank you, Scrithams. You did it again.”

The orb pulsed and then rose into the air and floated toward the Witchwood scrith, as Ork and the children watched.

Ork looked at his kids. “Isslerud, run get your mother. Let her know we need her help to bring in this feast. Korka, go to the bakery and watch the bread and pies. Put anything ready on the counters and cover it. I’ll keep an eye on the pots out here. By the time folks show up, the meat’ll be ready.”

Isslerud looked at his father. “But Da, how will people know to come? They likely think the Scrithams Day feast was canceled.”

“Ork grinned. When they see what’s been returned to their homes and smell this delicious feast on the air, they’ll know that someone’s lookin’ out for ‘em, and miracles happen, and they’ll know to come. Now go!”

*

And it all happened as Ork predicted. The folks of Rancor awoke to find their took goods returned and the smell of a feast on the crisp air, and they came — first those around the square, then others. Boys and girls, bursting with excitement, were sent out to the farthest reaches of town, to make sure everyone knew that the feast was on. For years after, many of the townsfolk of Rancor called this day the “best Scrithams Day of all.” They ate and drank and sang and danced and exchanged gifts together with such gratefulness and joy that it could be felt all the way in the heart of Witchwood.

Ork sat with his friends and family, savoring every delectable bite, drink, greeting, joke, laugh, and game. At last,  the last few days took their toll and he fell asleep, with his feet up, an empty plate on his lap, and crumbs from his third piece of squealerkey pie on his smiling lips.

And that is how the Scrithams Day what almost wasn’t, in fact, was.