Ogre Jorz
A Black Lake Short Story
by
R. Mac Wheeler
I shouldn’t get irritated my cousin stops every two minutes to study somethin’ in a tree. Sometimes, a squirrel, or possum. He loves badgers. An extra large pinecone. Crooks and bends of a limb. For an ogre, he’s very—eh, esoteric. I was in the forest with him this mornin’, enjoyin’ myself in nature, because of him. Why else would I traipse miles off the main village roadway to stand in the awe-smackin’ beauty of The Range? I coulda been doin’ less pleasant thin’s.
Most call him special, with that smirk that says they mean somethin’ else. I hate those—folk. Jorz is special, only because he’s never had an angry or mean thought. Sees the beauty in all. Even the cranky old troll that ran our school, way back. Gosh. Did we really graduate high school seven years ago? Time stinkin’ flies.
I’ve known him, as my best friend, my entire life. As babes, prolly swapped bottles when our mamas weren’t watchin’. Attended the nearby troll school together, kindergarten through grade three. We got bumped to the community school, grade four, when our village got blessed with a brand new facility of its own. I hated it at first. Bein’ around so many of our own kind, ogres, wasn’t refreshin’. Way too much testosterone, as an orc friend would say. Jorz, with his constant, soft smile, patience, kept me balanced.
He’s not a dummy. Though it may have looked odd when he’d stop and shrink down on the boardwalk in the village to study a long line of ants—that kind of thin’. Sometimes beat my math score. Thought the messenger service he started in middle school was dumb. But he always seemed to have more cash in his pocket than any other peer, and we have neighbors that are as rich as some gods—so their kiddos weren’t wantin’ for much. Ya have to be pretty well-heeled to live within a hundred miles of The Hamlet.
Then the Internet rolled out across the Range. Thought for sure the business would collapse. But no. He expanded to packages, delivered all the stuff folk started buyin’ online. Prolly owns fifty semi-trucks and two hundred delivery vans. I’m gettin’ off topic.
The gully we’d been followin’ crossed an old hen’s place. Was known for bein’ indigent. And not all there—if ya follow me. She had a rickety old table settin’ out just off the trail, sellin’ knickknacks and such for spare change. Jorz had to stop. Okay. I prolly rolled my eyes. But I love my cousin, so of course I traipsed up the ogre hen’s path to check stuff out with him.
We’re not talkin’ stuff ya’d oh and aw over. But Jorz’s eyes locked onto this ugly, and I’m bein’ kind, ceramic thin’, that looked a bit like a dog toy, if it wasn’t ceramic. A web of fingers wound around a globe-ish shape about eight inches across. A misshapen mishmash. Bulged here, sunk in there. Maybe was once white. Now graced a few different colors, none of them anythin’ close to white. Served no purpose. What was the clay thrower thinkin’ when he or she created the thin’?
“How much?” he asked the old hen. I could hardly look at her, tusks were so yellow. Ick.
“Two bits?” she suggested timidly. When have ya ever met a timid ogre?
Jorz smiled. Pulled a continental hundred out of his back pocket and gave it to her. “Buy yarself a few good steaks, huh sweetie.”
“Nah,” she groaned. “Can’t take advantage—”
Jorz shook his head, leaned over and gave the old hag, and I’m bein’ kind again, a buss on her cheek. Woulda grossed me out. Just those yellowed tusks. Ick.
So I’m gonna jump forward to the skinny of my story. I have a nephew, that is a bit troubled. Shakes for no reason. Sweats in social situations, almost like he’s a dwarf, only dwarfs demonstrate meanness to hide their discomfort. Has other—issues. Okay, like he wets his bed. Don’t mention that to anyone. Wakes up in the middle of the night screamin’. I’ve been there, heard him. Rips yar heart out of yar chest.
Jorz loves Timz. Adores the little idjit. Jorz fidgeted the entire hike to his OM SUV, hand flitted on his steerin’ wheel as he drove us, not to drop me off, but to my brother’s place. I didn’t bother to ask him.
Jorz was excited to gift that ugly, ugly ceramic doodad to Timz. My brother and his mate gave me that eye, ya know, our cousin is a complete buffoon, face. Timz was a little bit more polite. Thanked his “uncle” Jorz as a younglin’ ought an elder for a gift. How he kept from rollin’ his eyes, credit to the little rug rat. Jorz apologized, he had a business meetin’—big important bull, on a Saturday afternoon. Had to leave. Great. I was stranded without my truck. Spent the rest of the afternoon watchin’ college football with my brother. Dined with ’em all. Three crib midgets. Big family for ogres. Yep.
When I was gonna leave, Timz grabbed my hand. “Help me find a good place for uncle’s—” He didn’t know what to call it either.
I strolled with him back to his bedroom. Timz finally decided it fit on his bedside table, pushed against the nightlight the family used to battle the younglin’s night terrors.
I’ll jump ahead again. My brother called me a few hours later, told me to come over. We live in the same village, about a rock heave away. I coulda walked, but my brother sounded a bit—disjointed would be a good word, so I drove over quick-like.
Brother and his mate met me in front of the house. “Ya’re not gonna believe this,” my brother hissed. “Timz fell asleep, like nothin’, lickity splat.”
Okay. I was confused. Even though I know it usually takes a couple stories, a brow rub, to even slow the kiddo’s shakes first thin’—he doesn’t look forward to sleep time.
“Timz screamed. But not like, screamed. Maybe squealed a better word,” mama explained. “Never seen such joy on his face. Ya gotta come see.” She grabbed my arm a little forcefully, she is an ogre, and dragged me into the house.
In Timz’s darkened room, where an ogrelin’ oddly slept soundly, peacefully, like I’ve never seen him. He’s mostly always squirmin’ around even in his sleep. A thumb maybe in his mouth. His mama pointed up at the ceiling, at the shadow formed from the kiddo’s nightlight shinin’ through Jorz’s thin’amajig.
“Isn’t it beautiful,” she managed through a tightened throat before a sob snuck out. Maybe even a sob escaped from my big, tough brother’s face.
It was indeed beautiful. Couldn’t miss the clear shadow of the angel. But not just a simple shadow. The layers of shadin’ almost glittered with—as if it had a life of its own.
My brother’s mate cried fully now. She pressed her forehead against my shoulder, sensed the shudders ripplin’ over her.
“He said—” My brother’s voice broke. “Timz said, ‘Uncle Jorz found me a protector.’”
~
The End
~
Thank you for reading Jorz. Would love if you'd leave me a comment. Tell me what you thought. ~
If you're interested in my writing, visit my webpage:
I've posted the entire Black Lake series, including volume 6 and 7 which have never been published, if you'd like to give them a read:
Book 1: Expiring Covenant
Book 2: Hamlet Thrivin’
Book 3: Ogre Warlock Healer
Book 4: Warlock Apprentice
Book 5: Ogreness
Book 6: The Thing About Kriz
Book 7: Siblings Bele and Hale
