Gods Only Know

The God of Spirits, Hangovers and Blackouts came across his champion on the winding road. The deity’s skin was the gold of good whiskey. His breath was the vapour trail of bad vodka.

“Here you are, my valourous knight.” The god appeared from the nowhere of an eternal party that other gods had been wise enough to leave before the cleanup started.

Baulking at the vomit reeking breath of the golden god, the gangly teen turned away and screwed up his face.

“I have need of your service, dear follower.” The god, Du Raunc spoke to a patch of air floating over the freckled boy’s left shoulder. “You will be my champion.”

“I’m not your follower. Dear god,” said the boy who himself was unsure if he was placating the deity or taking his title in vain thanks to the eternal creature’s foul breath. “I follow the Goddess of Quiet Reflection and Instruction Manuals.”

“Shush,” said the god, floating in a golden mist of its own burp.

“That’s the one.” Jay Free Mason nodded.

“Not a problem, lad.” Du Raunc smiled a jovial smile, his greatest attribute. It was a smile that said: go on, have another drink, you know you want to. “I just need a brawny hero like yourself to tackle some D’orcs.”

“Brawny? Me?” Jay pulled up the sleeve of his loose shirt to show the undefined snowy skin of his twiggy arm. “What am I supposed to do about orcs?”

“Drive them off a vineyard they are despoiling as we speak.”

“No chance,” Mason said, walking on.

“You defy your god?” The golden being winced at the bright sun of midday.

“Not my god,” the lad said with his back to Du Raunc.

“I can make you rich.” Said the eternal being, hovering by the lads side at a fork in the road. Using his breath as a weapon, he teased his champion down the desired path. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Jay Free Mason.” The boy’s ruffled hair whipped in a breeze that smelled of smoke and grapevine.

“Jeffrey Maison, a marvelous name. I’ll name a vintage after you when you save the vineyard.”

“JAY. FREE. MASON.” Said the boy, separating each word with a karate chop that would have broken his fingers hitting anything other than air. He turned away and quickened his pace as the winning smile of the god became a sly sneer.

“Jay. As I said, a great name for a hero. And here you are at the site of your great victory. Look upon the acts of villainy for inspiration.” A golden arm pointed to the blackened bones of a burnt out building opposite a vineyard. Blackened skeletons inside stood somehow erect inside, awaiting their vengeful champion. Far from cowering in fear, the skeletons stood in line along a wall, as if awaiting orders.

“HEY ORCS, YOUR MOMENT OF RECKONING HAS COME. COME AND FACE YOUR DEATH.” Having yelled the provocation, Du Raunc vanished.

“Seriously?” Jay threw up his hands, splashing himself with the whiskey that had appeared in a tankard his hand was mysteriously wrapped around.

Three orcs emerged from the burning vineyard with machetes in hand.

“It’s just a misunderstanding, Jay,” he said to himself. “You speak orcish. Time to defuse the situation.” I hate talking to strangers, he thought. Mentally dusting off his orcish, he threw out a serviceable greeting. “Mighty warriors, may the blood of your enemies fall like the rain.” Why did I pick that one? “I am not here to fight you.”

“What did he say?” The tallest orc asked the shortest in Gaelic. Folding muscular gray-blue arms over its chest, it lifted its chin.

“Something about being here to fight us. You heard what he said in English. He wants to kill us.’’ The short orc gestured to the human with his machete and then drew it in a slicing gesture across its throat as it mentioned killing them. Beneath the leather gloves the olive green skin of the slightest orc peeked through.

Seeing the orc point to him with its blade and pretend to cut a throat, Jay threw up his bookwormish hands. “You don't speak orcish?” Mason asked.

“Orcs haven't spoken orcish since we left the Orkney Isles hundreds of years ago, racist. We speak English and Gaelic now,” the tall one spoke. A burn across its neck spoke to Jay's imagination of fiery battle.

“Ah. That is a lot easier.”

“What's your problem wizard?” asked the tall orc, raising its machete to point to Jay with the point of the blade. Its yellow eyes narrowed.

“I don't have a problem. I was just on my way home. This isn't even my usual road.” He smiled to disarm the situation, then remembered that displaying teeth was a threatening gesture in orc culture. To hide his shaking hands, the boy clasped them behind his back. “What makes you think I'm a wizard?”

“Only way a runt as skinny as you would take us on would be if he was a powerful spellcaster. At least level eight,” said the tall orc, stating it as a blunt fact.

“Or level five with some seriously powerful enchanted items,” said the quiet middle orc who had thus far been quiet. He had a mop of blackish green hair falling down over his eyes.

“Funny thing about Orcish,” said Jay, rambling revously. “Did you know that the language was invented by the first orc named Orckidden Me? Similarly, elvish was created by the elf, Elvis Itchulayter. I really like the old languages.” He laughed in the high pitch of a teens breaking voice. He then coughed to cover it up. “I'm not a wizard though, no.”

“Dumb move to threaten us when we were busy then!” Said the middle orc, throwing his arms wide as he yelled, making his companions jump.

“Busy, doing this?” Jay waved his shaking hand around to the burning farm and the burnt out building with its blackened skeletons.

“It's what we do,” said the big one, pride in his voice.

“Our speciality,” said the middle one, as if it was a practiced routine.

“We're very good at it.” The smallest one swung his blade and smiled. “We're doing the whole area like this. Needs done. It's the season for it.”

“Season?” asked Jay, thrown out of his mental pictures of a countryside ravaged by the three murderous orcs.

“The vines have been picked clean, the old plants are rotting. They need to be burnt to prevent the spread of the disease. Burning covers the ground in ash which is good for the new plants. Slash and burn agriculture, look it up.” The little orc threw his machete down into the dirt and pulled a flask of water from his back pocket. A playing card fell from the pocket. Jay's eyes saw the painted wizard on the card as it spun towards the dirt. The orc dropped to retrieve it before it could touch the dry soil.

“You play Basements and Banshees?” asked the eager player. Jay appeared to grow as he searched the three for other signs of fandom. He saw a tattoo poking from the arm of one which looked like a diagram of good and evil alignment.

“Only two or three hours a day,” said the middle orc, smiling with a show of enormous canine teeth.

“So you're not here to kill people and salt the earth?” Jay asked to double check.

“Kill people?” asked the big one, frowning in confusion.

“The dead bodies in the building there, that wasn't you?” Mason pointed to the burnt husk of the building.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” The booming voice turned every head. “I don't pay you to stand around talking.” The man, clearly a farmer from his thatched sun hat and grass stained dungarees marched down the hill in his wellington boots with his hands on his hips. His beetroot coloured face was contorted in rage, scarier by far than the orcs in Jay’s opinion.

“Sorry sir,” said the largest orc. “We were getting about our business when this man threatened us.”

“Him?” The farmer pointed a finger tipped with dirty fingernails. “Threaten you?” The finger turned to wave at the orcs.” He laughed. “Drunk?” He looked back to Jay with tired blue eyes.

“No and I didn’t threaten them either, it was Du Raunc. He thought they were burning the vineyard down.” Mason waved at the burnt out building with the skeletons.

“That?” The farmer's brown gapped teeth were revealed in a mirthful grin. “That’s the science lab from the old university. They kept the skeletons for anatomy classes until it burnt down a few summers ago.” He cackled, looking at risk of teeth falling out. His dry hands the size of shovels smacked his grass stained knees. “Dear Lord Du Raunc, God of Spirits, Hangovers and Blackouts.”

“You prayed,” said the god. He appeared upside down, looking nauseous as he turned to orient himself with the world. “Ah. Excel-” He burped, holding up a golden finger. “Excellent. The battle comes to a head. Prepare to meet your makers, orcs!” Burning eyes peered at Jay, out of focus. “Let them have it, hero!”

“They could have whatever they want,” Jay said. “I’m no hero. I don’t worship you and they weren’t trying to destroy the vineyard.”

The gods head turned from the boy, to the farmer, to the orcs and back. Confusion in its purest form was his expression. “What?”

“The vineyard has blight,” said the farmer. “I need it burnt so I can start over. I’ve got other vineyards nearby that I don’t want to catch it. You start this?” The grubby finger pointed, shaking at the god.

“Me?” asked the god, avoiding eye contact. “It was all his idea.” Du Raunc nodded to Jay.

“I was on my way home when you started ranting that I had to save the vineyard. Idiot. You should be more like Shush.”

“What?” asked the god.

“Shush,” said the boy.

“I agree said the big orc.”

“About what?” asked Du Raunc.

“Shush,” said the orc, holding up a clawed finger to its mouth.