Dartimien himself-exercising his new, self-proclaimed authorities-performed the wedding ceremony of Graywing and Thayla Mesinda, and only those at the altar heard his muttered comment when the bonding was complete. “What a waste,” he said, “that such a beauty should settle for an unredeemed barbarian when she might have had me.”
Through it all the Combined Clans of Bulp, unperturbed and oblivious, went about their day-to-day business in the catacombs beneath Tarmish.
Glitch the Most, once Highbulp and now Grand Chief of Mines and Stuff Like That, had become disenchanted with the search for pyrite. Four times now he had found himself buried under mountains of the shiny nuggets, simply because he happened to fall asleep at the collecting point during times of peak discovery. The experience was beginning to wear on him. So Glitch was receptive when Scrib the Doodler proposed a new project.
“Signs on shiny rock not much fun anymore,” Scrib complained. “Those all other folks’ squiggles, say other folks’ stuff. We oughtta make squiggles of our own.”
“What for?” Glitch grumped.
“For say stuff ’bout us,” Scrib suggested. “Talls an’ swatters allus make squiggles, for pres … commem … keep track of glorious stuff they did. Aghar oughtta do that, too.”
“Why?” Glitch wondered aloud.
“For keep track,” Scrib said, struggling with the concept. “Make squiggles so someday ever’body know what stuff we did. We do some pretty great stuff. Oughtta write it down.”
“What kin’ great stuff?” Glitch peered at him. “What did we do … did?”
Nearby the Lady Lidda was stirring stew and listening. “Not much,” she muttered,
“Great stuff,” Scrib said. “Like time when Highbulp had own personal dragon.”
“Bron’s dragon?” Glitch frowned. “So what? Bron tell dragon scat, dragon scat. Big deal. Glitch had dragon once. Big green dragon. Glitch’s dragon. Maybe even two dragons. Who knows? Slew red dragon once, too. Glitch did that. Single-handy.”
“Hmph!” Lidda said.
“If make squiggles to chronic … record … keep track, then everybody know Trout all that, even after tomorrow,” Scrib pursued.
“Ever’body know all ’bout glorious Glitch th’ Mos’?”
“Legendary great Highbulp,” Scrib assured him. “Big cheese. Main pain. Highbulp of all Highbulps.”
“Real twit, too,” the Lady Lidda muttered, glancing fondly at her husband.
“ ’bout time great Glitch got some recog … recog … what’s word?”
“ ‘Preciat … notori … respect,” Glitch agreed. “That it, respect! Glitch prob’ly bes’ Highbulp ever was!”
“Right,” Scrib said. “So le’s do squiggles.”
“Right,” Glitch said, nodding enthusiastically. “Le’s do squiggles! Uh, where we do squiggles?”
“Dunno,” Scrib answered. Make a monume … edif … squiggle place, I guess.”
“Right!” Glitch got to his feet and cupped his hands. “All miners!” he shouted. “Front an’ center!”
Instant pandemonium erupted in the area. Gully dwarves of the mining persuasion converged from all corners, all trying to be in the same place at the same time. The resulting collision sent gully dwarves tumbling in all directions.
“No more shiny rocks!” Glitch told them. “Got ’nough shiny rocks. Now gonna build a squig … edit … monument to glory of Glitch!”
“Why?” several wondered. But Glitch ignored them. Within moments he had several dozen puzzled gully dwarves organized into precise ranks of three to five and marching purposefully toward the tunnel which led to the world outside. Scrib followed along happily, doodling notes and plans on his piece of slate, and even old Gandy went tottering after them, clad in a cast-off grain sack and leaning on his mop handle staff.
At the fireside, Lidda looked after them, shrugged and returned to her concoction of stew. She stirred it contentedly, pausing now and then to swat some ingredient that still moved of its own volition.
The Highbulp Bron and his consort, the Lady Pert, wandered up from someplace, staring after the squadron of reassigned miners. “What goin’ on?” Bron asked.
“Gonna squiggle Glitch,” Lidda said.
“Okay. Uh, why?”
“Glitch been glorious Highbulp,” Scrib explained. “Oughtta write down stuff like that.”
“How ’bout squiggle Bron?” Pert suggested. “Bron kinda glorious, too, for a twit.”
“Sure,” old Gandy added. “Been lotsa Highbulps. More’n two. Oughtta squiggle all of ’em.”
“Okay,” Scrib said. The more the squigglier, he supposed. Maybe Gandy or somebody would remember about other, past Highbulps and their glorious careers. If not, they could just make it up as they went along.
It took the better part of four days for the miners of Bulp to build a grand monument on the parade grounds outside the main gates of Castle Tarmish, and more than a week for Scrib to carve upon its surface the epic history of the Aghar of Clan Bulp.
He chronicled every great event anybody could think of, and every legend and tale from the history of his race. In painstaking hieroglyphic he recounted the legend of the mine that flowed wine, told of the time when his people had been adopted by an ogre, elaborated upon the resurrection of the world’s greatest fling-thing in ancient times, chronicled the tale of the great dragon who had led his race to the Promised Place, and of the dragon that had hatched from the Highbulp’s throne. Every nugget of fact and legend of the Aghar race-from the imprisonment of notables by Tall slavers to the finding of the legendary Great Stew Bowl, Scrib documented with loving care.
And when he was done he stood back, staring in awe at the monumental thing he had done. Here, captured in chiseled squiggles, was the entire epic story of a great people-the definitive history of the Aghar of Krynn, immortalized for all time. Somehow, Scrib felt that a great destiny had been fulfilled and he had been its instrument. He was awed and humbled at the enormity of his accomplishment.
“Aghar forever now,” he breathed. “Forever Aghar.”
That was on a Tuesday afternoon, by Tall reckoning. The following morning, a Wednesday, Captain Gratt Bolen led a work party out of Tarmish to secure and repair the peripheries of the stronghold. The first thing he noticed was a weird, grotesque little monolith standing in the parade ground. It looked as though someone had collected every shard and fragment of broken stone in the area into a tall, ungainly pile, then plastered over the whole thing with mud. And every inch of the dried mud was covered with scratches, gouges and chisel marks.
Gratt Bolen walked entirely around the thing, shaking his head and growling. Even to his coarse sensibilities, the odd, ugly little monument was an eyesore.
“Get some men to clean up this mess,” he ordered. “This is a parade ground, not a garbage dump.”
Thus was the grand history of the combined clans of Bulp lost forever. But by that time the Aghar of Bulp were some distance away, moving generally westward. They didn’t know where they were going, nor did it matter. They were simply moving.
The new Highbulp, Bron the First, had decided it was time to vacate the premises when a horde of Talls armed with scoops, pails and brooms invaded the catacombs.
Cringing in the shadows, the gully dwarves watched for a time as the Talls went to work, tidying up the entire area for human use.
“This place not fit to live in anymore,” Bron decided. “This place all infested with Talls. This place not This Place anymore. Time to move.”
The Lady Pert nodded in agreement and gazed at her husband with approving eyes. Bron was sounding and acting more like a true Highbulp every day. He even walked with an arrogant swagger sometimes, when he thought about it. Given time, the consort decided happily, her husband could turn into a real twit.
Bron had no idea where the new This Place would be, but he felt he would recognize it when he saw it. After all, there had always been a This Place. Therefore, there always would be a This Place.
This Place was wherever the Highbulp said This Place was. And wherever This Place was, there the gully dwarves would be-bumptious and innocent, grotesque and oddly appealing, operating on simple inertia and inadvertence, as changeless as any elemental force could be on the world of Krynn.
