Zorgamazoo (9 page)

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Authors: Robert Paul Weston

BOOK: Zorgamazoo
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But Morty could read it, without any doubt.
In an instant, he easily figured it out.
He turned in a circle. He admired the view.
Chapter 8
a
ghost
of a town
When Katrina
looked closer and squinted her eyes, she was suddenly struck by a hidden surprise…
Concealed in the bushes and blossoming vines,
in the elms and the oaks, in the willows and pines,
behind all the branches, behind all the leaves,
were doorways and windows and shingles and eaves!
 
“Helloooooo!” Morty hollered, “is anyone here?
Or is it just us…plus the rabbits and deer?”
 
But no one called back, because no one was there.
The zorgles were gone and the question was: Where?
 
That
, thought Katrina,
is what I'd like to know.
These countryside zorgles—where would they go?
A whole village of creatures can't fall through the gaps.
They can't just suddenly vanish! Or could they, perhaps?
 
“Alright,” she proposed, “let's knock on some doors!
Let's look in some windows and open some drawers!
It's a mystery, Mort! Like Phillip Marlowe!
Like Sherlock and Watson or Hercule Poirot!”
 
(Katrina, you see, was a bit of a buff,
when it came to detectives and mystery stuff.)
Morty, of course, he persisted to think
that he was a coward, a phony, a fink,
completely unfit for
mysterious
things
(he was rather more comfortable off in the wings).
 
But Katrina was right. They should push on ahead.
“Alright then, let's search,” he reluctantly said.
 
“Great,” said Katrina. “Now, here's what we'll do:
I think that it's best if we split into two.
We can cover more ground if we do it that way.
It's simply more sensible, wouldn't you say?”
 
Before Morty could grumble, “Well,
no,
I think not!”
Katrina went rocketing off like a shot.
She was anxious and eager to sniff out the truth,
to play the detective, the snooper, the sleuth.
 
So Morty, alone, was just a bit scared.
His fingers were trembling. His nostrils were flared.
The whole of his face was a panicky frown,
because Zorgamazoo was a
ghost
of a town.
Meanwhile, Katrina was deep in the wood,
going farther, perhaps, than she probably should.
Yet still, she kept searching and scampering through,
to the outermost fringes of Zorgamazoo.
 
She came through the trees, before coming to stop
on the rim of a cliff, near a treacherous drop.
She stood there a moment, perched out on the ledge,
on the verge of the mountain's calamitous edge.
 
The view made Katrina feel suddenly free,
looking over the city, the hills, and the sea.
 
With her hand, she shielded her eyes from the sun.
It's started
, she thought.
My adventure's begun…
 
On the edge of the cliff was a towering tree.
It'd grown up as high as Katrina could see,
and surrounding the trunk was a spiraling stair;
so she climbed it, of course, to see what was there.
 
At the top was a cottage, a cabin of thatch,
built into the trunk, where the branches attach.
The door of the cottage was open a crack.
It creaked in the breeze. It hung eerily slack.
Pushing open the door, Katrina went in,
as a gaggle of goose-pimples prickled her skin.
 
Inside, the cottage was thoroughly trashed.
The chairs were in splinters, the windows were smashed.
The floor had been scuffed. The dishes were chipped.
Even the pillows and cushions were ripped!
 
When Katrina saw this, she instantly knew:
These were signs of struggle—and that was a clue!
It meant that the zorgles were
kidnapped
, of course!
They were stolen away! They were taken by force!
 
 
 
Yet this gloomy deduction was only the start.
She knew it was only the tiniest part;
just a droplet of truth in an ocean of doubt,
and soon, other questions were starting to sprout:
questions of
who,
of
why,
and of
how
?
These countryside zorgles—
where
were they now?
As she was thinking and wondering why,
she heard, down below her,
a whimpering cry.
It rose to a pitch that could bring you to tears
by stirring your soul (or by splitting your ears).
 
“Who's there?” asked Katrina.
“Who's making that sound?
Hey, Morty, that you? Quit fooling around.”
 
But the wailing went on, like the wind in a squall,
and Katrina could tell: It wasn't Morty at all!
The howling resounded inside of her head,
like a ghostliest, ghastliest wail of the dead.
 
It was then that she knew it was time to admit:
She and Morty, perhaps—well, they shouldn't have split.
After all, there she was, unaided, alone,
with only this eerie, ethereal moan.
 
But in spite of her doubts, she valiantly tried
to quell her misgivings, push panic aside,
as she climbed from the tree and down to the ground
to seek out the source of this whimpering sound.
At the bottom, she followed the noise to the edge
of a thicket, an almost impassable hedge.
The branches were dense, so impossibly thick,
that the bramble was virtually made out of brick!
 
The sound, as she stood there, it started to change,
it sounded less eerie, less fearsome and strange.
Drawing nearer, she realized, it wasn't so bad.
It wasn't so scary, just incredibly…sad.
 
“Hey,” said Katrina, “you sure gave me a scare!
But why're you crying? What's the trouble in there?”
 
Whatever it was, it let out a
yowl
,
a sob that was more like an animal's growl.
 
At this point, Katrina assumed that she knew:
This must be a zorgle from Zorgamazoo.
“Hey, listen,” she said, “and please, understand:
My friend and I came here to give you a hand.”
 
The creature, however, did nothing but groan.
It let out its loudest, most miserable moan.
“Okay,” said Katrina. “I can hear you're upset.
I know I'm a stranger, we've only just met,
but perhaps you can help me. I'm asking you,
please,
could you do me a favor? Come out of the trees.”
 
But the creature was stubborn. It bellowed some more,
with a moan that was quickly becoming a roar.
 
“Fine,” said Katrina, “just have it your way.
You can whimper and snivel and bellow and bray;
you can splutter and blubber and kick up a din,
but if you don't come out, then I'm coming in.”
 
And so, with a shove and a thrash and a push,
she scraped her way in, through the bramble and bush.
Inside, was a creature. It was curled in a ball.
But it wasn't a zorgle. Oh no, not at all.
It was hardly a zorgle from Zorgamazoo.
No, this thing was
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
bigger. . .
and
hairier
, too.
Chapter 9
a
windigo
beast
The creature, it seemed, was a heaping of curls, its tresses the color of luminous pearls.
“Leave me alone!” cried the mountain of hair.
“You leave me alone…or I'll
eat
you, I swear!
I'll simmer your blood! I'll pickle your legs!
Your eyeballs? I'll fry them like Mexican eggs!”
(Well now. Such violence! Such ominous threats!
Let me tell you, good reader, it gives me the sweats!
 
Threats such as these, if they ever persist,
they should not be ignored, or simply dismissed.
For example: If someone approached you one day,
some hairy and menacing monster, let's say…
 
Supposing this monster came over and said:
“Pardon me,
would you mind if I boiled up your head?”
Well, first you should scream. Then you should run.
Because boiling one's head—well, it isn't much fun.)
 
So perhaps you'd assume that Katrina Katrell
would run away screaming and yelling, as well.
But no, that was not what our heroine did.
She didn't run off or go flipping her lid.
 
She stayed where she was. She was perfectly still.
“Sorry,” she said, “but I don't think you will.”
 
The creature looked up. There were tears in its eyes,
while under the tears, was a look of surprise.
“Oh no?” said the beast, as it rose to its feet.
“Just come a bit closer. You'll see what I eat!”
 
The creature stood up, and Katrina could see,
she barely came up to the top of its knee!
 
This creature was
big
. No, bigger than big,
and covered with hair like a velvety wig.
 
It had sinewy arms and a generous shape,
resembling some sort of unusual ape.
Its shoulders were sloped. Its knuckles were long.
It might well have come from the Kingdom of Kong.
 
But what made young Katrina ogle and stare,
were the
ribbons and bows
in the animal's hair!
 
“You're a girl!” she exclaimed; it came out in a shout.
It was such a surprise, she just blurted it out.
 
“So what,” said the beast, “and what about you?
Maybe you hadn't noticed, but you're a girl, too!
And girlies like you, I usually squish,
because
girl à la mode
is my favorite dish.
You see, my name is Winnie. I'm a windigo beast!
I'm fiercest in all of the west—
and
the east!”
 
“Okay,” said Katrina. “Sure, I understand.”
Then she took a step forward and put out her hand.
“Well, my name's Katrina, Katrina Katrell.
It's a pleasure to meet you. Here's wishing you well.”
 
“Bah!” cried the beast. “Get away from me, kid!
You come any closer, you'll regret that you did!”
 
“C'mon,” said Katrina, “you might act like a brute,
but you're not fooling me. See, I'm pretty astute.
You're not really so vicious, not really so bad.
Any nitwit could tell, you're just…kinda sad.”

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