Playing Hard to Get With Death
All Dave could do was monitor the Orc's vital signs. Brow furrowed with frustration, he racked his brains, trying to recall anything that might help. He'd seen a CDC memo about this type of poison several years ago when heightened fears of terrorism, both foreign and domestic, urged caution over unsolicited mail, strange packages left unattended, and any number of other methods of delivery. Most of the country had been bent out of shape over the threat of anthrax, though. Very few were concerned about the more easily obtainable abrin powder.
The EMT never thought he'd face someone in this area, a community so accustomed to the nuisance plant that its members were practically raised from diapers knowing not to mess with it, actually suffering from exposure.
He wished he could look at this Orc and muster some kind of detached scientific interest, as well. Nargratûrz was an anomaly in Dave's experience, and most certainly ought to be explored from both medical and biological perspectives. Funny how sitting this close, listening to that skittering, uneven heartbeat, watching the icy sweat glisten on the Orc's clammy skin, robbed him of his indifference.
It didn't help that Dale's cousin was crying as though her closest friend lay dying. He almost felt as though he were losing someone dear.
Sam couldn't stand hovering behind Dave or Dale, so she sat on the couch, maneuvering herself to pillow the Orc's head on her lap. It was silly, thinking that physical contact would keep him alive longer, but Sam was willing to try it.
As she stroked his face and smoothed his coarse hair, she couldn't help thinking about her father. He'd passed away when she was a child, barely old enough to understand what it meant to die. Unfortunately, she grasped the concept while he lay suffering in the hospital, and knew exactly what she would lose when that beeping machine stopped.
She felt as helpless now as she had then. Compounding the loss of a parent was the loss of knowing. Her father had traveled the world; she would never know all the places he'd been, all the things he'd seen and done. Her father was a geologist; there were things the rocks told him that he'd never had the chance to tell her. What was it like to grow up in Montana? Did he fall in love with her mother when they first met? Where was he when he heard JFK was assassinated? So many unanswered questions, so many untold stories...
She barely knew Nargratûrz, but there was something about him, something that begged her to come closer. I am a person like no other you've met before, he seemed to say. Come inside and explore; I have so much to tell you.
"Tell me everything, please," she whispered, and a tear fell, landing on Nargratûrz's cheek. His yellow eyes fluttered open a little.
It seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to speak, and his voice was weak and hoarse. "Lat blord-izish-ûr?" he rasped, somewhat surprised. [You weep for me?]
"First thing I'm going to do," she told him shakily, "is teach you English."
Leaning over the back of the couch, Dale fretted as he watched his cousin caress the Orc. It was easier to let himself bristle over the idea of Sam taking a shine to someone like an Orc, with all the things he knew about them. Hard as it was to reconcile Orcs as he knew them with Nargratûrz, he still wanted to paint this guy with the same brush.
He couldn't get over the stupid name. What the hell kind of parent named their kid 'useless'? He couldn't fathom it. If they thought he deserved a name like that, shouldn't they have offed him at birth?
Rubbing his face roughly, Dale had to admit he was just distracting himself from the real worry: a person was dying, and if they didn't pull a miracle out of their asses in the next day or so, he wasn't going to make it.
Without knowing why, he started talking to the Orc.
"Lat skaatuz urbh-ishi-ghaara," he said quietly. [You came from inside the mountain.] Nargratûrz slowly shifted his attention from Sam.
"Akh," he replied. "Afuz-izg-lût. Narkuluz-izg zashu nagaz. Snaag. Narzash. Mokum." [I was cast out. I was not like the others. Weak. Different. Hated.]
"Amat ulu mokut-lat?" Dale asked with a frown. [Why would they hate you?]
A slight smile twitched Nargratûrz's mouth. "Nar mauk-izg bhoghad. Narmok-izg kulûktoru. Nargzab-izg iistat gus gundu agh hornu." Shrugging, he concluded, "Kul-izg snaag." [I do not fight well. I like beautiful things. I am curious about rocks and animals. I am weak.]
Nargratûrz's sweaty brow furrowed and he looked away for a moment. With a great effort, he said, "Lat kul shaûk Sam-ob." [You are Sam's mate.]
Startled, Dale glanced at his cousin and was relieved to see her still idly stroking the Orc's head, blissfully ignorant of what the Orc just said. Dale swallowed uncomfortably; that statement put a really gross thought in his head he wished hadn't gone in there.
"Uh... nar," he said firmly, shaking his head, "narkul-izg. Ta narbrusat ash." [No, I'm not. She doesn't have one.] Frowning, he asked, "Ta bugduzat-izish 'shaûk'?" [Did she call me 'mate'?] Nargratûrz nodded silently, and Dale sighed. "Ta nar iistat pukhal. Ta nar iistat amal 'shaûk' nûmat," he explained. Frowning over the lack of vocabulary at his disposal to convey this concept, he took a deep breath and plunged in. "Ta kul lûb kranklûk-ob krank-ob-izub." [She doesn't know the language. She doesn't know what 'shaûk' means. She is my cousin (literally 'daughter of the brother of my father').]
Nargratûrz seemed to sag with relief, and smiled a little. "Ghung nar mat-izg, nargzab-izg to nargzabat-izish. Ta kulubat shaûk-mir, ghung kulub-izg turkûrz bugdat to zash." [If I don't die, I want her to want me. She would be a good mate, if I could be worthy to call her the same.]
Wrong-footed on so many levels, Dale gaped for a second before rallying. Now was probably not the time to shoot down any whimsical idea the Orc entertained if it helped him last another hour. Marty would be back soon.
Dale especially didn't want to imagine his cousin necking in the backseat with someone like Nargratûrz. It would almost be as bad as thinking of one of his daughters going on her first date with anyone.
Forcing an encouraging smile, he reached down to pat the Orc's shoulder. "Lat runk at-ishi, bhoghad? Nar modhn gus shokat. Modhn gus slaiat." [You hang in there, all right? Don't worry about mating. Worry about living.]
"Nargzab-izg nar matat," Nargratûrz said, his ragged voice hitching. "Nar zash za." For the first time, Dale saw real fear in the Orc's eyes. [I don't want to die. Not like this.]
Dale swallowed hard. "Tugl-izgu puzgat-lat matuga-ghaara." [We're trying to keep you from dying.]
"Lat kul mau?" Nargratûrz asked. [Are you a warrior?]
Eyes burning and jaw clenching, Dale said, "Akh, kul-izg." [Yes, I am.]
"Lat brus dulug?" The Orc's voice broke and tears spilled from his eyes. [Do you have a weapon?] A mirthless chuckle escaped. "Kraiub-izg hûr yonk ghung fiithub-izg dulug." [I would feel braver if I held a weapon.]
Dale swiped away his own tears and shook his head. "Ah, god dammit. Nar, nar kramp-izg. Gotl-izish." [No, I don't. I'm sorry.] The disappointment on the Orc's face, even as he nodded acceptance, wrenched a groan from Dale. He dragged the back of his fist across his mouth, grimacing with the effort not to lose it.
"Dave," Dale rasped, "how's he doing?"
"Hanging on," the EMT replied thickly. He held the stethoscope chestpiece over Nargratûrz's left breast. "Not as strong as it was, but still going."
"Shakrop durbûrz," Dale told Nargratûrz firmly. [Stay strong.]
Marty didn't bother knocking when he returned; he barged right into the cabin, the strange old man in his wake. Stamping his feet to shake the snow loose, Marty called unnecessarily, "Made it. He still with us?"
"Yeah, over here," Dale replied. He glanced at Sam; she looked relieved and hopeful, but there was dread as well. One more piece of bad news was all it would take, he mused.
As Marty helped the old man out of his heavy coat, Dale approached. He was immediately struck by the incongruously brown hair on a man seemingly in his seventies or more; not a grey hair on his head, or in the long, well-trimmed beard that covered his chest. In keeping with Marty's assessment that the man looked like a Hippie, he wore an African dashiki decorated in soft earth tones. The aged face was a rich brown as well, but somehow not like an African American or South Asian, and not like someone who simply worshipped tanning booths. One look in the eyes, though, and Dale suddenly felt very small; almost infantile.
This old man had seen a hell of a lot.
"Uh... you were looking for an Orc," Dale said awkwardly. "He's right over here."
"Thank you for accepting me into your home," the man said politely as he followed Dale to the couch. Dave stood up.
"Are you a doctor?" he asked.
A slight smile played on the old man's lips. "I'm afraid not, young man. I am merely a caretaker." His gaze fell not upon the Orc, but on Sam. His eyebrow lifted slightly.
"Everybody, this is Mr. Wendell," Marty supplied as he joined them. "Mr. Wendell, that there's Dave, Dale, and Sam. And, uh... Nargratûrz."
"I'm very pleased to meet all of you," Mr. Wendell said with a bow.
"Please, sir," Sam said tightly, her hands never leaving the Orc's face, never stopping their soothing motion, "can you help him? Can you do something?"
A kindly smile softened Mr. Wendell's expression. "I see by your tears that this Orc is among friends. I confess, I've not seen such compassion for their plight in all the years I've dealt with them. This is most... encouraging."
"All the years... What do you mean?" Dale frowned.
"I mean, my friend, that he is not the first to emerge, and likely not the last." There was a note of sadness in the old man's voice. "It is unfortunately becoming more common, though the last one to be... cast out, as it were, was on the other side of the world, and a century ago."
"What happened to him?" Marty asked.
Mr. Wendell glanced at the pilot. "I did not find him before the Swiss authorities did, alas. They were terribly confused and afraid, as one might expect. No less than the Orc, of course. You see, Orcs hide because long ago, they were hunted nearly to extinction by your people. They have remained sealed in their mountains for thousands of years, never changing their ways. They remember from whom they ran, and upon whom to lay the blame for their confinement."
"Why do they... cast them out?" Sam asked. She glanced down at Nargratûrz; his eyes were closed. She didn't think he was even aware that the old man had arrived.
"Orcs do not change very easily," Mr. Wendell replied. "Had they remained in the world, and were left alone, they may have adapted and blended in. But they could not stay. The wrath of Men was too great a force to stand against. Though they were spared a bloody end, running from such a fate has cost them a great deal. Now they cannot tolerate any of their kind... deviating from the expected, one might say."
"Okay, I'll bite," Marty interjected, "since nobody else is steppin' up. What the hell're you talkin' 'bout? You're sayin' you actually knew this Orc... a century ago? How the hell old are you?"
Mr. Wendell beamed at the pilot. "Most observant. Yes, I knew him, as did a certain university student on holiday in the Alps that summer. The student spent considerable time in the Orc's company within the government facility, learning the Orc's language so to communicate with him. I was obliged to make my own way in."
"Who are you really?" Dale asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.
"No one of consequence," Mr. Wendell replied. "Merely, as I said, a caretaker." Something in the old man's eyes told Dale that he'd get no more than this.
"You... take care of Orcs," Sam said quietly.
"My task has ever been the stewardship of the beasts and birds, the land and vegetation," the old man explained. "Because Orcs are neither as savage as beasts, nor as civilized as Men, I have... adopted them, so to speak. In the beginning, I assured the safety of those who encountered them, for an Orc out of his element and faced with death becomes quite violent."
"You mean you killed them," Dave stated flatly.
Mr. Wendell's face clouded with remorse. "I am afraid I have been forced to do so on many occasions, yes. None grieved me quite so much as the last one. He was, as you no doubt suspect, the subject of much exploration and examination. You see, an Orc's body regenerates more swiftly than a Man's. He may recover from a wound that would kill a Man, or resist the effects of diseases you would fall prey to. Mankind's desperation to find cures for devastating diseases has, at times, known no bounds, even ethical ones. Particularly when the victim has no voice and no advocate."
Sighing, he continued, "His name was Dufulb, and he begged me for death, such was the suffering he endured for the sake of 'scientific curiosity.' He had committed no crime nor any act of mischief. He simply emerged in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I believe the time he spent conversing with that student was pleasant for him."
"Um... this student...," Dale ventured, and Mr. Wendell smiled.
"One in the same," he confirmed. Again, his expression implied further questioning would bear no fruit.
"How did he get here, though?" Dale pressed, switching tactics. "I thought... that story was supposed to be set in Europe."
"In those days," Mr. Wendell said with a smile, "it was possible to traverse from the far east to this new world by means of a narrow strip of land. That connection has long been severed. No doubt some fleeing Orcs sought refuge across that bridge."
"Look," Sam interjected, her voice shaking hard as tears poured down her face. While they bantered on about an Orc a hundred years ago and god knew what other nonsense, Nargratûrz wheezed and shuddered. He could breathe his last while they meandered around the real reason Marty risked his life to bring the old man here. "I don't know who you are, but if you can save him, please do."
"I can, but you must promise me," Mr. Wendell said sternly, "that you will protect him from your people. Keep him secret, keep him safe. Men are not ready to see Orcs walking about the world. His life would be a misery were he discovered. He would suffer unto his death for the betterment of Men, or so they would believe."
"I promise," Sam sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut. "I promise. I'll do anything. Please hurry."
"Yeah, me too," Dale said with a nod. "My dad doesn't come up here much anymore; he can stay here. We'll look out for him."
"I won't say a thing to anybody," Dave agreed.
"Mum's the word," Marty chimed in.
Mr. Wendell's gaze travelled from one to the next, his smile broadening. "I can't tell you what a relief this is. There is hope for his kind after all." Sighing, he added, "I had thought I would be called upon to slay an Orc today. Thank the Valar today is not that day." Smiling once again, he approached the Orc and took Dave's place, perching on the edge at Nargratûrz's hip.
"Fûth, ash fiim," the old man said gently, placing his palm on the Orc's forehead. [Waken, young one.] Nargratûrz's eyes fluttered open. "Lat zaug ghashnat-izish lab bugud âshûrz," Mr. Wendell went on, "nar amal ikhuz lat-ir tiil. Ta kulat bugud narturkûrz." [You must tell me your first name, not what was forced upon you last. It is an unworthy name.]
Nargratûrz felt no ability to resist, and possessed no will to defy. He was beyond the reach of the elders who shunned him, instead feeling closer to the dam who sang to him. She would be offended by the name they'd given her little one. Sighing, he said, "Hornhûr."
"Za kul maaz," Mr. Wendell beamed. [That is better.] Pulling the blanket down to expose the Orc's naked torso, the old man placed his palms flat upon Hornhûr's heart and belly, then said, "Lat zaug dhûlat, Hornhûr fiim. Amukh lat fûthub, lat kulub fol urzkû." [You must sleep, young Hornhûr. When you waken, you will be whole again.]
"Amukh fûthub-izg, kulub-izg turkûrz Sam-ob?" [When I waken, will I be worthy of Sam?]
"Lat kul rad," Mr. Wendell replied with a knowing smile. [You already are.]