Installment 3

 

Og stopped midway down the block between the current location of 7th and 17th Street.  He tugged gently at the pointed tuft of white fur that jutted goat-like from the bottom of his prodigious chin.  His left ear twitched.  He studied the crowd ahead.  It was a large, sweaty gathering comprised of nearly a dozen different species.  Humans, goblins, and a pair of minotaurs shouted epithets as they pumped torches, rakes, and pitchforks in the air.  Three ogres glowered over the heads of the others and grumbled in foul tones as several gnomes hoping to see anything beyond the horde were nearly trampled.  

Og glanced down at the human beside him.  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to go around,” he said.  

Master Birkwhite shook his head slowly.  “This is such a strange place,” he said.  “Is it always like this?”

“Well,” said Og.  “It is the third hobday of the month.”

“I’m sorry.  I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Og shrugged apologetically.  “It’s—”

Just then the Clock of Time chimed once.  It was nine-thirty.  Nine-thirty in the evening on the third hobday of the month.  Of course the man didn’t understand.  There was no reason he should.  The third hobday of the month in most other places was nothing special or noteworthy.  Og had even heard rumors that the day was downright boring in some of the remoter regions of the world.

In the city of Kalen, for instance, the third hobday of the month was called Hraegendag and was marked, most notably, by free admission to the Ironworks Museum.  In the country of Dagam, there was no event marking the day at all.  In Allahin Laswir, the capital of Ingara, it meant silly hat day at the Felt Guild.  In Oard, however, the third hobday of the month was a day to be dreaded; a day of misery, mayhem, and mob mentality.  In Oard, every living soul, from the citadel down to The Dregs, lashed themselves to a solid post, battened their hatches, and hoisted their sails, for the third hobday of the month meant one thing and one thing only—it was time for the monthly City Council meeting.  

There were rumors that City Council meetings in far away lands were not, in fact, catalysts for all out civil pandemonium.  News from distant travelers painted pictures of City Council meetings in Catemar and Silvergate, Kharzho and Dirgon as tepid affairs led by sleepy magistrates with wizened heads and soft hands.  Meetings there, it was said, were only attended by octogenarians in desperate need of friends and attention.  No one but the near-dead attended such conventions.  No one but the near-dead wished to attend such conventions.    

In Oard, however, affairs were markedly different.  In Oard, every society, guild, cult, splinter group, fellowship, brotherhood, fringe element, and federation believed that it was not only their right to air their grievances in a public forum, but that it was, in fact, their divinely inspired duty.  And so, every third hobday of the month the injured, the wronged, the offended, the righteous, and the deeply concerned emerged from their lairs, workshops, and basements and converged like a plague of squids upon City Hall.  They poured forth from every street like rivulets into a sea, and there, within the square just below the steps of City Hall, they formed a seething body of vitriol and bile.  Some arrived days in advance and camped there, hoping to see their favorite orator up close and in person.  Others angled to take up their positions behind podiums and lecterns, anxious to fume and rant and foment political unrest.

Temporary markets sprang up just to service (and fuel) the disgruntled masses.  Unscrupulous vendors sold “exotic” water at three times the going rate.  Hucksters sold religious iconography and gave vociferous guarantees as to the curative properties housed within the statues, finger bones, and locks of hair that they hawked in frenzied exaltations.  Makeshift music stages appeared overnight and minstrels earned enough coin to get them through weeks without further venues.  

It was nine-thirty in the evening on the third hobday of the month.  The city had been buzzing in agitation all week, and now the Council meeting was well under way.  How should he go about explaining all this to an outsider?

Og glanced down at Master Birkwhite.  Og was typically forced to look down at everyone.  He was, after all, a colossal, white-furred beast with ham hocks for fists and tree trunks for legs.  Even with a back and shoulders that slumped slightly from the weight of his own muscled arms, he stood over seven feet tall.  “It’s a lot,” he said.  “But, no, it’s not usually like this.  Today… people have been… especially wound up.”

“I see.”

It was clear to Og, of course, that the man did not ‘see’ at all.  The poor fellow was completely bewildered.

“I don’t know how you all live like this,” said Master Birkwhite.  “I’ve only been in this city for a little over seven hours, and four hours of that was spent waiting for the Docking Tree to process my papers.  The men working the desks looked as if they’d been placed there as a sort of punishment which they seemed all too glad to pass on to anyone getting off a ship.”

“Yes, bureaucracy here is—”

“I saw a monkey—a monkey!—appear out of nowhere.  In a fit of panic the creature jumped into the customs booth right there beside the intake agent.  The thing howled frantically then ate the poor man’s hat.  Before the monkey figured his way out, the little fellow had scattered and torn half the agent’s papers to absolute shreds.  It was unbelievable!  Unbelievable, I tell you.”

“That sounds about right, actually.”

The man stared at Og then shook his head.  “This city is a complete mess.  No offense.”

“None taken.”