Zorgamazoo Page 9

Dullbert wasn’t upset, though he didn’t rejoice.

  He merely stood calmly, somber, and still.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “Yes, I imagine I will.”

  He climbed into one of those Octomabots,

  and although he was nauseous, his stomach in knots,

  he said not a word, just uttered a sigh,

  as he watched all the Graylians, waving goodbye.

  Then the countdown began. It went backward from ten.

  The rockets ignited, they rumbled, and then:

  blew cindering billows all over the place,

  as Dullbert Hohummer was launched into

  Chapter 14

  the hero himself

  When

  Dullbert arrived at the end of his tale, he seemed hollow and breathless, pallid and pale. His eyes, they were fixed on the dark of the night. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he switched off the light.

  “Come back!” called Katrina. She clutched at her bars.

  She rattled her cage, by the light of the stars.

  But there was no answer, just silence and gloom,

  as phantomlike shadows rose up in the room.

  “We’re done for,”

  said Winnie, who started to cry.

  “We’ll languish in here ’til the day that we die!”

  Morty, meanwhile, uttered nothing at all.

  He was hunched in the corner, curled up in a ball.

  He was trying his utmost to whistle a tune,

  to cheer himself up, with his usual croon.

  But all of his music was caught in his throat,

  so that nothing came out, not one single note.

  “I say!” said a voice. “Yes, haven’t we met?

  I’m certain we have. I would never forget!”

  It came from a creature, half-eagle, half-cat,

  in a cage near the one in which Mortimer sat.

  This was a griffin—part-lion, part-bird.

  He grinned in his cage. He chirped. Then he purred.

  He was staring at Morty with wonder and awe.

  And for whatever reason, he liked what he saw.

  “You’ve come!” he exclaimed. “I knew it was you!

  And take it from me—you’re way overdue.

  But one thing’s for sure, you look pretty good,

  younger, I’d say, than I figured you would.

  A bit chubby, perhaps, but perfectly fit.

  You hardly have changed, not even a bit!”

  It took Morty a moment to figure it out:

  that he was the one being spoken about.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He was rather bemused.

  “I don’t think we’ve met. You must be confused.”

  “No-no,” said the griffin, “you misunderstand!

  I know that old face like the back of my hand!”

  He called to the others. He summoned the troops.

  They gawked from their cages in curious groups.

  “Over here!” called the griffin. “Look who it is!

  It’s that valiant explorer! That wandering whiz!

  They told us this guy was incurably sick,

  but that was just drivel, just some sort of trick!

  “Because here he is now, no longer at large!

  He’ll help us escape! He’ll be leading the charge!

  I know you all know him, from ogre to elf:

  It’s Bortlebee Yorgle,

  the hero himself!”

  The words of the griffin were taken as cause

  for whooping and cheering and joyous applause!

  Morty, however, was sort of ashamed.

  It wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t be blamed.

  “Folks. . .” he said quietly, shifting his weight.

  “I’m sorry to have to set all of you straight.

  I wish I could help. I mean, we’re in a jam!

  But I’m not the zorgle you think that I am.

  So my news isn’t good, but rather it’s bad.

  You’ve got me mixed up, I think, with my dad.”

  The griffin stepped backward, clicking his tongue.

  “I suppose that your right. You’re just a bit young.

  But wait!” he went on, that magical beast.

  “You’re a Yorgle, remember? That’s something, at least.

  That’s a name we admire, a name we revere.

  It means something special to everyone here!”

  The others agreed. They knew Bortlebee well.

  And all of them there had a story to tell…

  The mermaids, for instance,

  recounted a time,

  when Bortlebee Yorgle was still in his prime,

  exploring the sea that lay under the waves,

  the channels and currents, the coral and caves;

  in a green submarine, through bubble and brine,

  to depths where the water was darker than wine.

  It was there he discovered a mystical town,

  glowing like jewels in the crest of a crown:

  a silver metropolis, gleaming and sleek.

  But the town called “Atlantis” was springing a leak!

  So he made the repairs, with the help of his sub,

  like plugging the drain when you hop in the tub.

  And for saving their home in the briny abyss,

  the mermaids gave Bortlebee Yorgle…a kiss!

  A pixie named Qwixi was next to recall

  how her people had learned to play Zorgally Ball.

  She spoke of her youth, on the Malabar coast,

  where the sand was as pale as the soul of a ghost;

  where life was idyllic, untroubled and free,

  on the fanciful banks of the Indian sea.

  One evening, a zorgle was found on the shore.

  He was dripping and drowning and soaked to the core.

  Unconscious, he lay like a heap in the sand,

  with an odd looking sphere in the palm of his hand.

  Little-by-little, the zorgle revived,

  bewildered and grateful at having survived.

  Since his manner was one that the pixies could trust,

  they mended his wounds with their magical dust.

  He explained how a storm had demolished his boat,

  despite all his efforts to keep it afloat;

  and how, when his vessel was lost in the squall,

  the one thing he could save…was his zorgally ball.

  The pixies were puzzled. It seemed a bit daft.

  Why not a compass, a paddle, a raft?!

  When they’d asked him this question, Bortlebee sighed.

  I’ll just have to show you, he swiftly replied.

  So that’s what he did: He showed them the way.

  And they still play the game…to this very day!

  Then a dragon named Eddie,

  enfeebled and old,

  recalled how he once had lost all of his gold…

  He had just sold his lair and moved to a grot,

  but discovered his home was unbearably hot.

  (The cave, after all, had never been toured

  by the Dragonish Real-Estate Marketing Board!)

  So Eddie, of course, had a terrible shock

  when his home bubbled over with lava and rock!

  But lucky for him, he escaped by a hair

  by flapping away in the smoldering air.

  His treasure, however, was lost in the blast,

  as Eddie stood watching, agape and aghast.

  His grot went KABOOM and his treasure was hurled

  to every lost corner in all of the world!

  Yet though Eddie’s treasure could hardly be saved,

  on every last penny, his name was engraved.

  So as long as the pieces weren’t melted or burned,

  he hoped that someday it might all be returned.

  Then one day, it was. A package arrived.

  It was proof that some part of his treasure survived!

  And then there were mor
e, coming one every day,

  from places obscure and out of the way.

  Packages brimming with shiny doubloons

  or glimmering goblets and runcible spoons;

  and each with a letter, signed off at the end:

  The creatures recounted.

  They all reminisced.

  They couldn’t hold back. They couldn’t resist.

  They each had astonishing tales to relate,

  old Bortlebee legends of danger and fate!

  And then, in the end, when at last they were done,

  having laughed, having wept, have shared in the fun,

  they all turned to Morty, their eyes full of trust,

  and said to him,

  “Please! You can save us! You must”

  Morty just shrugged. “Well, what can I do?

  I’m even more hapless and hopeless than you.”

  As the words left his lips, you could see all around

  how the faces had fallen, how everyone frowned.

  It seemed all the hope had been sucked from the

  moon,

  It was then that their captor came sauntering back,

  his languid expression predictably slack.

  “Good morning,” said Dullbert Hohummer, the Third.

  He was followed by robots, who wobbled and whirred.

  They were dressed in tuxedos and carrying trays,

  like waiters in lavishly fancy cafés.

  They bustled about, like bees all abuzz,

  and Katrina was struck by how hungry she was.

  Her stomach was rumbling. She moistened her lips.

  She was dreaming of succulent nibbles and sips!

  She was ready to gobble, to guzzle, to scarf,

  but seeing the food…she was ready to barf!

  “Eeewwww!” she exclaimed, her blood running cold.

  “It looks like manure that started to mold!”

  “You’re right,” said a yeti, who grumbled and sighed.

  “The first time I ate it, I practically died!

  But that’s all we get. It’s all that we’re fed—

  the grayest of gruel and the stalest of bread.”

  And so they were served this slippery slop,

  plopped into bowls with a glup and glop,

  It was slimy and lumpy and thoroughly rank.

  And the way that it reeked! Believe me—it stank!

  Dullbert stood back, surveying the scene.

  He blinked as the creatures went queasy and green.

  “You know,” he said absently, tilting his head.

  “I was snooping before, and I heard what you said.

  This ‘Bortlebee Yorgle,’ this one you respect?

  He’s among the next victims I’m set to collect.

  Oh, I’ll try to be delicate. I won’t be too rough.

  But I’m on my way now to Underwood Bluff.

  The zorgles who live there are last on my list.

  It’s important, you see, that no one is missed.”

  “You can’t!” Morty cried. “My father’s too old!

  He’s sick! And he can’t even handle the cold!

  He shouldn’t be moved. He’s feeble and frail!

  His heart is so weak, it’ll probably fail!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dullbert. “Just doing my job.”

  He took out his watch, which hung on a fob.

  “I’ve no time to chat. I have to prepare.

  This business, you see, is a tricky affair.

  And sadly I see that I’m falling behind.

  So I’ll be on my way, if none of you mind.”

  He bid them goodbye with a spiritless wave,

  and left, through the shadowy door of the cave.

  Morty said nothing, just stood there and stared.

  He was rigid with rage, but he also was scared.

  He began to feel faint. He began seeing spots,

  recalling with terror those Octomabots.

  “Katrina,” he said, his mouth going dry.

  “I’m feeling like Winnie. I’m ready to cry.”

  He slid down his bars to the mesh of the floor,

  feeling even more gloomy than ever before.

  Katrina went over to offer some cheer,

  to say something kind into Mortimer’s ear.

  But what could she say? What could she do

  for a friend who felt so inconsolably blue?

  So gently, she rested her hand on his head.

  Because sometimes our words…

  . . . are best left unsaid.

  Chapter 15

  a wing and a prayer

  It was then something rather surprising occurred.

  A noise drifted up, like the chirp of a bird; like a floor, giving way with the tiniest creak, it was reedy and shrill, going:squim - squibble - squeak!

  In the cage just below her, an ogre was there.

  He was polishing something, with hanks of his hair.

  The object was round, like a peach or a plum,

  which the ogre had clenched in his finger and thumb.

  He would spit on the object, then polish and rub,

  giving every last inch a meticulous scrub.

  Therein lay the source of the curious sound,

  as he burnished this thing that was perfectly round.

  The ogre

  himself was the

  usual kind.

  He was crooked, decrepit and hardly refined.

  Though his arms and his legs

  were spindly and svelte,

  his belly was plump. It hung over his belt.

  His jowls were like rubber, his nose like a twig.

  His feet were all grubby and terribly big.

  He was old in his bones and he needed a shave.

  He already, it seemed, had one foot in the grave.

  Katrina, intrigued, put her face to the floor.

  She had never encountered an ogre before.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Hello there. I’m new.

  I’ve only just come to this weird little zoo.”

  The ogre looked up, his face like a mutt.

  His one eye was open. The other one shut.

  “Well, missy,” he said, with a yellowy smile,

  “you’ll be here forever! Or at least for a while.”

  He laughed at his joke, with a rascally smirk,

  going back to the squeaks of his polishing work.

  Katrina, still curious, wanted to know

  what it was that he did in his prison below.

  “Sir?” she inquired, acting prim and polite,

  “May I ask you a question, to see if I’m right?

  That bauble you’re shining, like silver or brass,

  I’ll bet it’s your eyeball. Is it made out of glass?”

  “It is,” said the ogre. “It’s a pretty good fake.

  I take care of it, see? So it won’t ever break.”

  Then he held it aloft, with the pupil in view.

  “So, yes, it’s my eyeball—and what’s it to you?!”

  “Well,” said Katrina, “here’s what I think:

  We can get ourselves free of this miserable clink!

  Because I’ve an idea that I’m willing to try,

  but the key to my plan, good sir…is your eye.”

  The ogre recoiled. He cowered and flinched.

  His eyeball, he clutched and he clenched

  and he clinched;

  he squelched it back into its usual place,

  in the wrinkly and puckered-up hole in his face.

  Then he paused for a moment.

  He looked up and he smiled.

  He regarded Katrina with eyes like a child.

  “Escape?” he said vaguely. “You think that we can?

  In that case, okay then. Let’s try with your plan.”

  He plucked out the eye from the hole in his head,

  “Be careful, it’s precious,” he breathlessly said.

  Then, with a gesture
like motherly love,

  he held up his eye, to the shadows above.

  Katrina, up top, lay flat on her side.

  She reached through the bars, her hand open wide.

  After they made this uncommon exchange

  (the swap of an eye; it was certainly strange!),

  the ogre’s long arms fell limp at his hips.

  He looked to Katrina with quivering lips.

  A tear trickled out from his one seeing eye.

  This cantankerous ogre…he had started to cry.

  “Don’t fret,” said Katrina. “There’s really no need,

  if we follow my plan, I think we’ll be freed.

  Dullbert, you see, he’s forgotten that box,

  the one that controls all the cages and locks.”

  It was true: There it was, on a shelf by the door,

  a long way away—fifty meters, or more.

  It sat there, just blinking, that special remote,

  like a faraway lighthouse that beckons a boat.