Lore of the Underlings: Episode 8 ~ The Trial, Page 3

  “He’s just a hoodlum then.”

  “An imp, your honor.”

  Fyryx threw his hands in the air. “Just when I thought we were getting somewhere!”

  He circled the triple-deck witness stand. He had a different tack in mind.

  “So you would confess, esteemed professor, that this munchkin Yin is less than a whiz kid.”

  “Yet…”

  “Not all that head-strong. Impressionable.”

  “Well…”

  “Vulnerable to a siren’s song or any pied piper’s tempting tune.”

  Dustum swooned, looking pie-eyed, sweaty. “I suppose… maybe… like any teen.”

  “And you would know, wouldn’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  His hair stood on end. His skin went ashen.

  “Rumor has it that you’ve been teaching treason bookman. Treacherous tracts.”

  “Oh no, no. Only the standard textbook. Lives of the Semperors, Treasured edition. The full illuminated version. Volumes one through fifty-eight.”

  “So those reports are all mistaken — that you’ve read Sylliver’s Travels in class? A classic you well know is banned.”

  “S-S-Sylliver’s… who could have… how did you… no, judge Fyryx! It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh really? Remember you’re still under oath.”

  “It was just half of one torn leaf of it… a family relic six hundred years old. An innocent show-and-tell, that’s all. The children saw only a handful of runes.”

  “And yet enough to corrupt this wayward son.” He flicked a wrist at Treygyn. “Clouding his mind like dust in the wind. What else could explain his walk on the dark side? Who beckoned him to ‘Go west young man’?

  “You!”

  Dustum needed an exit strategy. Sadly the bookman had nowhere to go.

  “If that weren’t bad enough,” added Fyryx, “I’ve heard word from a little birdie of something nearly as concerning…”

  Ho-man screwed up his eyes at Freebird. The mockatoo balked, “Awk! Don’t blame me!”

  The prosecutor wagged his finger.

  “I have hearsay to confirm that you skipped the Pledge of Compliance one morn.”

  Madam Pum shuddered.

  Some gasped.

  Dustum fainted.

  Or at least feigned that he did.

  “Gotcha teacher!”

  Ferrous the smith caught the slack academic, safe in his sinewed hands. “Whew!” The tawny man’s brawn saved the wan scholar’s skin, stalling his fall from grace. For the moment.

  “How convenient,” Fyryx whined. “That’s fine — but he’s just earned detention.”

  “Begging yer pardon, superintendent…”

  The plainspoken artisan got his attention.

  “Proctor needs a doctor quick. No worries. I’ll take care of it.” He looked to step down from the stand, his thick arms cradling the bookman.

  “Off to the hospital. Lickety-split.”

  His offer was met by a hot spray of spittle. “Chill out samaritan. Cool those boot heels. I’ll say when you’re done,” fussed Fyryx. The tortoises bared their teeth. Ferrous froze.

  He sat Dustum down on the platform. “This could take a while my friend.”

  Ho-man looked flustered. He interrupted, trying to keep the record straight.

  “If you’ll just confirm your address witness… Let me check my list… It has you at the Village Smithery, under the shedding chestknot tree?”

  Fyryx answered for him. “Naturally. But let’s forge ahead. I have questions…”

  Suddenly from the settlement hill — clang! — a lone alarm bell rang.

  Treygyn shouted from his hangout, “Master! The furnace!”

  “Yes my apprentice…”

  Fyryx eyed the smith. “Explain!”

  Ferrous gestured back toward town. “My fires require emergency tending, justice. Or else — poof — we’re done!”

  “How long have we got?”

  “Fifteen minutes I’d guess.”

  “And then what?”

  “This whole outpost’s toast.”

  “Toast?” The word stirred flatulent Bylo, who sat side-barred half awake. “Make mine pumperknuckle, burnt. And pump up the jam on top of it.”

  Fyryx shook his head at Ferrous. “No exceptions, crafty witness.”

  “What if I just spilled my guts?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ferrous took an epic breath while Freebird the sidekick played emcee. “Time for a monologue. Awk! Heeere’s smithy…”

  “Always been at the bellows, have I. Chip off the old block like my daddy. Born out back of the smithing shop. Reared by the anvil and his knee… He taught me everything that I know. Honesty, sweat, hard work, wood lore…”

  Ferrous rubbed his crew-cut head. His once ember eyes looked darker, dampened.

  “Then it was two score and four years later. I stood still at the forge. Alone. Master of the hardwood, yes. But broodless in my irony home. Wedded to my jealous hearth. No wrightful heir to share the time.”

  He looked up and around the courtroom.

  “That’s when I first noticed some little rascal starting to stop by my shop each noon — a tyke on his trek home after school. Up on tiptoes in the window. Backsack of scrollbooks. Snot-nosed. Mute. The kid didn’t utter a rune for moons. Just hung around wide-eyed for hours on end until the dinner bell rang. Then he ran.

  “I think he was drawn by the ironfire. The clang of the making of things. I dunno. The glow of the smoke and the folk-talk and gossip. Sparked his interest I guess — this young Yin.”

  He pointed a soot-stained hand at Treygyn. Treygyn blushed like that boy again.

  “And then one day his spirit, his spunk trumped the sheepishness. He asked to be my apprentice. Part-time anyway.”

  “Do say,” said Fyryx.

  “So I taught him everything I know. Bellowing, stoking, stirring, poking, fire walking now and then. Molding, pounding, bending, rounding. Sharpening some things at the end. And not to mention the founding fathers — smelting, melting, and their cast of friends.

  “Lad had a natural knack for it too, what we wrought, the artifacts of life.” He caught Treygyn’s attention and winked. “Simple implements. Tools like us. Just what is just plain useful, handy. Everyday treasures — nothing fancy.”

  He pulled a bunch of something from the pocket of his quilted pants. “I’m talking things like these nine inch nails that keep our Keep together and standing. Shoes for our chevox. Or plowshares for farm work. But most of all the toiling sticks that made my little sweatshop famous.”

  From her perch the elderwoman nodded to confirm his claim.

  “A shame you couldn’t see the laddie wield one,” Ferrous beamed with pride. “I’d like ya ta witness the promise he has. Stick tricks he’s picked up so young…”

  Bong! Gong! A second alarm. Double trouble. Overtime.

  “Better get down to brass tacks craftsman.” Fyryx hit wits’ end with him.

  Meanwhile the court clerk checked the sundial on his wristwatch. “Sudden death.”

  And woodsmith turned to character witness. “Last few bullet points. I’ll be quick.”

  Judge Hurx tapped his foot. “I doubt it.”

  Turtle one, on the bottom, had an itch and shifted weight to scratch it. Ferrous, tossed, lost his spikes but spoke on.

  “Bottom line — he’s fine (for a teenager), with more skill than run-of-the-mill. ‘Cept maybe…”

  “What?”

  “When his friends come by.”

  “Friends, eh? Clerk take note. I’m listening…”

  “Every afternoon like clockwork, orange sun high in the sky, I spy a couple of them out back. Always scheming, up to something. Mischief-making valley folk.”

  He paused and squinted at the crowd. “In fact I see the blokes right now.”

  Fyryx craned his neck to look but they’d already ducked from sight. “These clucks,” he
cracked, “egged this one on?”

  “Scrambled his brains, the rotten yolksters. Poached him from his smithing work. But I can’t vouch they hatched this plot… It’s got to do with a chick, I think.”

  “Chick? A girl?”

  “The daughter of Yo. Though I don’t claim to know much of women — I ply softer mettle than them. But he came to me asking questions, advice. And even this smithy could read his eyes.

  “He was beside himself by fair day.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Fyryx, “it’s short of a motive. Not cause for effect. Oh yes, I know less of that fair sex than even you do. Voodoo dolls to me. And yet my male intuition senses a manufactured conspiracy…”

  The brother Treasuror drew in closer.

  “You swear you know no other catalyst? Nothing to get off your chest?”

  “No justice.” Ferrous looked flummoxed. “Unless…”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless you count talking politics. You know — chawin’ with folks, just chewin’ the fat. And tellin’ ‘em tales of wonder and wanderlust from old Syland’s misty past.”

  “Really! Now what could go wrong with that?!” Fyryx was at his most sarcastic. “Myth maker. Master fabricator. I’ve got a mind to arrest you right now.”

  The partisan artisan tried to explain and buy a little more time somehow.

  “It’s largely harmless fun yer honor. Homespun yarns of my daddy’s dad, Grandy. Thought the boy’d enjoy them too. And he did. They mesmerized the kid.

  “Grandy, he was an olde tyme journeyman, back in the day when they crisscrossed the island. Traded rare ore in all thirty-three sectors. Knew each one like the back of his hand. And o the epic adventures he had…”

  “Surely the kind long since forbidden — pushing the limits, at our land’s end.” Fyryx fought the glaring sun and eyed the witness with disdain. “Now I see clearly who’s sparking dissent, casting aspersions on our regime. And forming a rebel alliance no doubt of fresh young revolutionaries.

  “Pikesmen! Put this forger in irons!”

  Ferrous steeled himself, but then…

  A three-alarm death knell shook the ground and opened a crack for the quick-footed craftsman.

  “Apocalypse now judge, gotta go. It’s a towering inferno!”

  Fyryx just turned away. He looked sick. “Saved by hell’s bells… how ironic.”

  The turtles unstacked.

  Ferrous backed down taking Dustum in arm.

  In a flash they were gone.

  Fyryx mashed his fist and hand. He took some frustration out on Ho-man.

  “How many more clerk?”

  “Um… six, seven, EIGHT.”

  “Call them all. I just can’t wait.”

  “Would be a world record.”

  “You heard me. Just do it.”

  The magistrate muttered then sputtered out loud. “I vow that somebody’s going down.” He scoured the room, “Time to lower the boom…” and stomped on a rat worm that happened by.

  Splat.

  So Ho-man summoned the Syland Eight, nigh witnesses who’d seal Treygyn’s fate. And their own, if Fyryx had any say in it.

  They were split up by kinship or teamed with mates, each group claiming a separate base — a place on their choice of the tortoises three. “Everyone must take a stand. Make it snappy!”

  Once all had a stance, the clerk took attendance.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Engyn Yin?”

  Treygyn’s folks were on the smallest one.

  “Yo,” answered Engyn.

  “No. Yin’s on first.”

  “Naturally, that’s what I said.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Who are you calling Shirley?!”

  “Stop!”

  Short-tempered judge Hurx called them out. He barked like an umpire and they balked.

  “Enough of this act. Who the heck’s on second?”

  Ho-man winced but chanced an answer.

  “Yo mama, sir.”

  “How dare you!”

  “It’s true — Yeela Yo and daughter Xoxo.”

  “Oh.” He looked them over.

  Both were hooded and cloaked in the southerly folkway. They bowed in the judge’s direction.

  “Go on.”

  “And last, to the grand stand…”

  The great tortoise roared.

  “I couldn’t have said it any better.” Ho-man saluted the creature.

  It snorted.

  “According to Big Tort he’s got cohorts — meaning the friends of Yo and Yin. Four forlorn teenagers born in this wasteland… Raise your hand when I call your name…

  “Layly Hayway and Vallon Vix.”

  Two girls gave the slightest wave.

  “Goolox Orx. Mister Billyum Slyme.”

  Two guys thrust a fist — their gang sign.

  Freebird flipped them the bird sign back.

  “Thanks for reminding me lads!” chimed Ho-man. “Almost forgot to give the oath…

  “Witnesses, listen! Everyone swear?”

  A few of them nodded.

  “I guess we’re good.” He sidestepped toward the forgotten stranger. “Now let the quips fall where they may.”

  Suddenly, the turtle fleet weighed anchor. They drifted as if at sea. Three lost ships on a star-crossed ocean. Islands of treasured castaways.

  Rescue was far from the master’s mind.

  “Bring me the heads of the leaver’s clan, the pride of our mother and father land.”

  The baby terrapin, still in motion, made for Keep kommandant Hurx…

  “Mach schnell!”

  And served Treygyn’s parents on the half shell.

  Fyryx approached the stand extending his hand. “Herr Yin! Your papers please!”

  Engyn’s knees wobbled. His wife Hoona sobbed. “We don’t want no trouble your honor,” he said and glared at his prodigal son.

  Treygyn cast his brown eyes down to the ground. He could not bear the stare.

  “Papers Herr Yin. I won’t ask again.”

  Hoona frantically pawed through her worn old sow’s ear purse. She shook like a leaf. To her relief, she found the dog-eared green card she was looking for. “H-h-here d-d-dear…” The paper was warped and stained with tears.

  Her husband took the card and squeezed her hand. Then Engyn surrendered it.

  “We’re just simple oilers, commissar. Instigators and traitors we ain’t.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” spat Fyryx.

  The grand inquisitor scrutinized the tiny document. He turned it over.

  Then he studied the Yins themselves.

  They were plain folk to be sure. Tattered. On the dirty side. And short — descendants of Guur-syr or some other sector of the south.

  Their skin though was the envy of many, rich and tanned as the land itself.

  “Businessman are you?”

  “Family farmer.”

  “With two sons?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  Engyn pointed an oily mitt at a boy on the far side of the tent. The jittery kid was the spitting image of Treygyn, but in miniature.

  “Trogyn. Please sir — he’s eleven.”

  “So?”

  “Tro is innocent! Leave him out of it!” Brother Trey wailed. He looked up and upset. “Mini me’s just a twerp, your worship.”

  Fyryx ripped the card to shreds.

  “Everything seems to be in order here mein Herr…”

  Bits hit the floor.

  “But you’ve still got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

  Engyn and Hoona knew what was coming.

  “How is it that you Yins were ever permitted to parent? Or licensed to spawn?”

  Neither one dared to answer him.

  “It’s time we had a law, a test, to weed the bad seed out. You mutants…

  “If I were master of this race…”

  Engyn mustered the guts to interrupt and mount a brief defense. A little re
sistance. His finest minute.

  “Overlord, we’ve done our best with the lads.”

  “W-we have.”

  “Not good enough by half.”

  “But… we taught a work ethic.”

  “S-s-sent Trey to school.”

  “And let him apprentice with the woodsmith, at the expense of his oilweeding chores.”

  Fyryx shrugged his shoulders. “All that said — what fool believes a leaver?

  “Or a leaver’s family.”

  Hoona fell to her knees. She pleaded.

  “He’s a g-good boy. It’s true, it’s true. You must hear the rest of the story s-sire. Ask Miss Xoxo. Oh, she’ll tell you…”

  Fyryx walked away unmoved. He went to the center stand and stood.

  He stared at the two folk in the hood.

  “Yo, Xoxo! Show yourself. Decloak.”

  “No!” said her guardian. “I’ll do the talking.”

  “Well then! Shields down, mother Yo.”

  The figure yielded and threw back her cowl. The shadowy shroud flew from her shoulders, billowing ghost-like to the floor.

  Everyone peered or pointed fingers.

  “Innkeeper’s wife looks good these days!”

  “Like a woman half her age.”

  “What’s her secret?”

  “It’s a trick!”

  This wasn’t Yeela Yo.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t like surprises,” hissed Fyryx. “Explain yourself girl. What’s the meaning of this?”

  She hesitated for just an instant, adjusting her eyes to the naked sun. They were pure, dark amber like buckle-bee honey, more musky than sweet, less dawn than dusk. In contrast her skin was salty caramel, hair spiced chocolate slicked straight back. It fell in a vell-tail past the nape of her neck. She smoothed it with her hand.

  Maid of a land made of sugar and sand. A tiny thing just turned eighteen.

  She whispered something to the other then spoke out loud for all to hear.

  “I am the elder sister sir, first-born daughter of Yeela and Hoxso, here to stand for the family Yo and stand up for our treasured Xoxo.”

  “And your name?” asked the clerk.

  “Qoqo Yo.”

  Fyryx seemed to know the clan.

  “You’re from the tavern. The one on the green.”

  “Yes your honor, the old Keep Inn. Our folks run it. We help out.”

  “And yet who’d expect that, given your habits, you’d get thee to a brewery. Especially this one,” he gestured at Xoxo, “still dressed up for monking business.”