“No weapons in the queen’s presence.” A contingent of the queen’s guard had joined the wizened one. One of the guards eyed Goron’s axe greedily and held out his hand. Bok thrust his hatchet into the open palm, but Goron wasn’t as keen. How was he going to kill the queen without a weapon?
“It’s okay. I’ll look after it for him.” Morwen claimed the axe from Goron, pausing a moment to whisper, “I’ll think of something, I promise…it might take me a little while, though, so just do your thing in the meantime.” Goron’s nose wrinkled. He was sure she smirked again. The guard gave the axe one last, longing look and settled into a sullen silence. Ten guards marched Goron to the queen’s quarters, a spacious cavern lit generously with fluorescent mushrooms which illuminated what looked like a mound of garbage.
“She’s beautiful,” Bok said his voice husky with reverence.
Who is Goron thought? What’s he seeing I can’t—he then realized the mound was Gagurt. She reached to the dizzying heights of the cavern ceiling, a shapeless blob as feminine as a boil. Slimy, grey meat was encrusted with jewels—sapphires, diamonds, rubies, jade, topaz, and many more Goron did not recognize. Some were as large as fists, others little more than raindrops. How was he to kill this monster? It didn’t have a neck to throttle.
The horn blower bowed low. His lips almost touched where his knees would be. “The winners of today’s race, my queen.” Two large eyes, like black holes in the sky, blinked slowly, and the head lowered a fraction in recognition.
A mouth opened like an axe wound and belched, sending a ripple from the throat which gained in ferocity as it traversed the belly before dying out somewhere near the foot. Involuntarily Goron stepped back only to bump into the sharp ends of the guards’ weapons. They prodded him. “Go to her, she’s ovulating,” the horn blower said.
Morwen watched the slaug, withered and brown like a strap of beef jerky, spoon a mud-coloured fluid from a great vat into a barrel. He sampled each spoonful—for quality’s sake—with rubbery lips, smacking them with satisfaction. Four boggarts, his assistants, were nearby having a mid-morning nap. “What are you putting in the barrel?” Morwen asked.
The slaug rolled bloodshot eyes and huffed. “Address me as the brewmaster, or don’t talk to me at all.”
“Brewmaster,” Morwen corrected. Now that she was closer to the vat she could smell the liquid’s sickly-sweet odour.
Satisfied he’d been accorded the respect he deserved, the brewmaster continued, “If you only knew how many times I’ve heard that before. Next you’ll throw your arms up in the air when I tell you it’s sluugouak, fermented vegetable juice.” The brewmaster paused, his bloodshot orbs roving over Morwen. “Well!”
“Well what?” Morwen asked.
“Pretend you’re surprised.”
Morwen threw up her hands, opened her mouth, and wobbled her head moronically.
“Then with a casual air, you declare you’ve never heard of it and can you please try some for curiosity’s sake.” The brewmaster paused again. This time his bloodshot orbs rolled up to Szat perched on Morwen’s shoulder. Szat poked out a fat, purple tongue. “Well!”
“Sorry, I didn’t know we were still playing that game. I’ve never heard of it, and may I please try some, Brewmaster.”
“Bugger off, it’s not for you,” he said and rapped Morwen on the head with his ladle. The boggarts chuckled. Morwen didn’t share their merriment and clobbered one with the haft of Goron’s axe.
The brewmaster’s attention returned to Szat perched upon Morwen’s shoulder. “Why’s he so fat? You haven’t been letting him run riot in the vegetable garden I hope?” Szat blew another raspberry. The boggarts giggled.
“He’s big boned,” Morwen said walking away. She stayed nearby and kept a close eye on the brewmaster, eager to see what he was going to do with the barrel.
An hour later his four assistants loaded the barrel and the inebriated brewmaster onto a wagon and did the rounds spooning out generous portions to all the slaug guards. Morwen had an idea.
Skruc flipped over the dirt-brown mushrooms. The gills emitted a puff of yellow gas. “Gaash miath’uunt or death mushrooms, their gas drains their victims of hope, causes their suicide, then the spores feast on the corpses,” Skruc said.
Almost instantly Morwen’s stomach clenched, her heart quickened, and she felt a vague feeling of disquiet. “Could they be made into a poison I could put in a vat of sluugouak?”
Skruc grinned having anticipated the question. “Of course, but two won’t be enough.”
A growing darkness moved to the centre of Morwen’s vision. It brought with it a sense of despair and hopelessness. She began to pace the room.
“Remember it’s the mushrooms, just mellow out,” Szat said.
Morwen forced herself to take a series of long, deep breaths. “A barrel then?”
“More than enough for a barrel.” Skruc tenderly stroked the mushrooms’ gills which produced another cloud of gas. “It’s going to take me a few hours to extract the poison, though.”
The breathing exercise didn’t help. The despair Morwen felt was overwhelming. What was she thinking? Her plan was pathetic. She would be too late. Goron would die, and she would be forced to live as a slaug forever. It was best to end it all and save herself the misery.
“Why are you not affected by the gas?” Morwen asked her jaw trembling.
“Life as a boggart is an unpleasant affair. We’re always suicidal.” Skruc stood on his tiptoes and began to rummage around on a shelf that overflowed with bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colours. “Found it.” Skruc held up a cylinder-shaped, glass bottle inside of which sloshed around a pink liquid with veins of red. He passed it to Morwen. “It’ll make you feel much better.”
Poison I bet—she wanted suicide. She uncorked the bottle and took a sniff. It smelled of roses and strawberries. She drained the bottle without another thought. The
