Gen Con and Orks

We’re climbing a mountain, he and I. He smiles at me with his big grin. His sly grin. He’s up to something.

“Gur noona toda?” he asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not tired at all.”

He limps along with his twisted foot, keeping perfect time, the fox robe he wears keeping out the wind. “Toonada vren shootha,” he says next. You’re carrying too much.

I look at the bag on my back. It’s filled with trinkets and baubles. Things I’ve kept from an older time. “I’m carrying what I need.”

He shakes his head. Then, he points at a tree. We stop there and despite what I told him about not being tired, I’m silently grateful.

He goes over my bag, looking through it. “What do you need this for?” he asks me, holding something up.

“It’s important to me.”

He makes that unhappy noise in the back of his throat and throws it away.

“Hey!” I shout, getting back up. But he ignores me and pulls out something else. He shows it to me.

“Tanada. Fith footha.”

“It reminds me of the time when…”

He interrupts me. “Gurna? Gurna oon pooth?”

I nod. “Yes, I still have the memory of it.”

He throws it away. “Taya tay,” he says. Then, you don’t need it.

He goes through the bag some more, tossing as he goes. “Da na,” he says. “Da na, da na, da na.”

“Toonada vren shootha,” he says again. You’re carrying too much.

“If you carry too much,” I say, remembering the words I wrote. My own words. “If you carry too much, your hands won’t be free to catch what life gives you.”

He nods, smiling. Then, he laughs. He tells me it’s funny that I need to be reminded of that when I wrote it myself.

“Shootha de nay ta talla,” I tell him. Even the teacher needs to be reminded.

My bag empty, we continue up the mountain. The climb is easier now. My hands can now grasp what is ahead of me, the weight of what is behind me let go.

“Where are we going?” I ask him again.

“Jasha,” he says. “Alanatha too furtha.” Something to help you remember.

We keep climbing.

We’re almost at the top. He hops up a low tree branch and pulls himself up. “Pugg!” I shout. “I need help to get up! I can’t reach that high!”

A hand reaches down, but it isn’t Pugg’s hand. It is a hand larger than my head. Larger than Pugg’s head. Larger than anybody’s head. It reaches down and pulls me up.

And up. And up. And up.

I’m as high as the sun, looking into his face. His huge, angry, green, toothy, scarred face. And his one furious eye. His breath is like rotten onions and honey. And when he screams at me, it’s like the whole world is screaming at me.

“YOU LISTEN TO PUGG!!!” he shouts.

“AND IF YOU DO NOT LISTEN TO PUGG…

Then, he throws me down. I land hard. He picks up his spear and walks away, his footsteps like thunderclaps.

Pugg leans down, leaning on his walking stick. And when he talks, he uses my language.

“Just to make sure you got the message,” he says.

Then, he walks away, his little limp carrying him. I shake my head and turn, and there is a tall, slender figure in a robe, carrying a book. He opens it, turns to a page and shows me what’s written there. I read the words and nod.

“I understand,” I tell him.

He says nothing. Only turns away and leaves me alone at the top of the hill.