Compelling Interest

An Uruk-hai Takes a Break

[warning: contains potty humor which may be unsuitable for those of a delicate constitution]

The new army of fighting Uruk-hai trudges through the dark forest at top speed, bent on finding the Halflings and delivering them to Saruman. As individuals they know very little (the oldest among them is only months old, after all), but as a group they know all they need to know: get the Halflings, kill the others.

Toward the rear of the group is one named Ock (when pronounced correctly, his name sounds like a short, forceful belch). Ock was dug out of his earth-womb a week ago and has been training for this mission ever since. Just minutes after his emergence he was being led to the washing and fitting rooms when he passed by Saruman – he knew instinctively that this was his master.

Now, timing is everything in Middle Earth, and this moment was no exception. As this newest and nameless Uruk-hai was passing, Saruman was in the middle of a discourse with some of his leading Orcs when he had to pause to allow for a burp (he’d just come from lunch). Feeling the need for some comic relief, he decided to give the air bubble a little push: out it came, short, guttural – “Ock!” It got a little chuckle from his audience. The Uruk-hai stopped short and turned toward Saruman; he had heard something different. There was tension in the air as the Orcs stood bewildered, expecting trouble. Saruman wondered if his outburst had offended the creature.

“Yes, my lord?” growled the towering fighter, respectfully.

Saruman and the Orcs looked around at each other in giddy disbelief. Suddenly, they were howling with laughter. Saruman, the Showman, picked it up quickly. Being a wizard, he could belch on command. “Oh! Oh, yes, [belch!], we were just wondering how you were getting along!” He had to pause for a convulsion of laughter that nearly doubled him over. Wiping tears from his eyes, he continued, “Well, run along now, [belch!], and get yourself a nice outfit. May I suggest something in dark leather? Happy trails, [belch!]!” The Uruk-hai turned and continued on as Saruman and his Orcs sank into breathless belly laughter, sides aching, tears flowing. The name stuck.

Running with the group now in search of their quarry, Ock suddenly gets “that feeling” down below his stomach, and behind. He slaps the back of his hand against the fellow running next to him. His comrade turns his head viciously, ready to attack any perceived threat. As creatures of instinct, they read each other’s eyes instantly. Ock is given a gruff nod of the head, an acknowledgement of what must be done. It’s all in the eyes right now; they don’t have a word for it yet.

Peeling off from the group, Ock slows down and stops. He takes a moment to catch his putrid breath as he watches the group disappear into the forest. It’s quiet now, serene. Ock looks around; he likes the forest this way. Slowly, birds begin to chirp again, and the secretive, cautious forest comes carefully back to life.

Ock unbuckles his pants, pulls them down, and squats. An explosion of hot gas and loose fecal matter rapes the earth below him. The forest creatures are dumbstruck; wings downwind flap away in earnest. For Ock, it isn’t so much the stinging, spicy pain that causes the “fight or flight” response as it is the foul stench. The strength of it never fails to impress him. But he has mastered himself in this situation. He knows to be still and just let it happen. Only days ago, squatting for the first time for reasons he could not yet fathom, he was sure he was being attacked from the rear by a dreadful demon. He ran around and around, growling in shock and hysteria and slapping at his spewing behind as the older Uruk-hai pointed and laughed. It was the highlight of one’s day to witness the reaction of a “first timer.”

Sensing he is finished, Ock wipes himself with his giant hand and scrapes it along the ground to clean it off. He stands up and immediately positions himself on the upwind side of the offending muck. He begins the awkward task of buckling his pants. In his case, the two parts of the buckle don’t quite line up, so when he finally is able to summon all of his fine motor skills to fasten them together, the waistline is higher on one side of the fly than on the other. Ock acknowledges that “it works,” but he thinks it makes him look dumb. “The outfits are certainly durable,” he recently told another, “but the detail work is lacking.” He said this just before splitting open the head of a passing Orc, “for practice.”

Ock, trusting his nose more than his sense of direction, picks up the heavy scent of his regiment and falls in line to catch up with them – it’s a scent trail he could pick up after two weeks of torrential rains. (This is saying more about the odor’s potency than about Ock’s faculties; a human could pick up the trail just as easily – watering eyes would reveal the way.) As he comes over a small rise, Ock sees a lone Uruk-hai running around and screaming frantically with his pants down, trying to attack an unseen foe at his buttocks.

As Ock goes running past, he bellows to his comrade in amusement, “It’s not what you think, newbie!”

An Uruk-hai Gets Caught Reading

He always remembered when it began, when the bug bit him.

Graul had the distinction of being one of the few Uruk-hai to emerge from his earth-womb without the aid of the attendant Orcs. His womb was off to the side from where most of the action was, and he was a preemie - only a few days early, but the Orcs hadn’t scheduled a watch for him, so he managed it on his own. Before the busy Orcs knew it, there he was, walking among their labor and delivery work, looking a bit confused and directionless. Realizing what had happened, the Orcs immediately assigned one of their own to escort this latest to the washing and fitting rooms.

After bathing in cold, dirty water, the Uruk-hai walked along the path with his escort until the path forked. The path to the left ended at a doorway with a sign above which read: “Fitting Room – Leathers”. The other path led to a door marked: “Fitting Room – Fabrics”. The slightly shivering fighting machine looked back and forth from one sign to the next. That’s when the bug bit. The first part of the signs look the same, he thought to himself, but the last part looks different. Why? His contemplations were interrupted by his Orc attendant. “We’ll call you Graul,” sniveled the Orc. “We have to assign you a name before your fitting so there’ll be no confusion when you come back to pick up your items. It usually takes a day or two.” Graul throttled the little Orc where it stood. As the dead Orc fell into a heap, Graul looked back up at the signs. Why?

Inside the leather room, Graul was just finishing up business with the Orc tailor.

“So,” said the tailor, “come back on Thursday to pick it up. Oh, and did you want the black or the brown leather?”

“Brown...light brown,” said Graul.

“Well, we can’t go too light or it starts to look, you know, not as tough. Also, the dirt shows up easier on your lighter browns. What’ll be the name on this?”

“Graul.”

The tailor spoke as he wrote on the ticket: “G-R…” He looked up at the wall of muscle, hoping the Uruk-hai would help him with the spelling. Something told the Orc it wasn’t going to happen. He continued: “…O-L-L.” He handed Graul his copy.

Graul stared at it for a moment. There was something about it he didn’t like, but because he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was he decided not to punch the Orc’s head into his chest cavity. Graul left without comment.

A few days later, Graul was mistakenly ushered into Saruman’s presence due to a communications breakdown. Saruman had ordered his Orcs to bring him an Uruk-hai they thought could lead the others. Somehow, two different search parties went out simultaneously to scout for leadership talent. Graul was spotted by one of these parties trying to convince a small group of his fellows that there was in fact a difference between the signs above the fitting room doors. They weren’t getting it, but Graul’s zeal and passion could hardly be denied by the two Orcs who observed him.

“Excuse us, Graul,” said one of the Orcs timidly, and from a distance. “Saruman would like a word with you.” Moments later, the Orcs were introducing Graul to Saruman in the master’s opulent study.

“Graul, is it?” said Saruman, seated at his desk and looking down at some papers. “That’s a very strong name. Um, what is it you wanted, Graul?”

There was an awkward silence. Graul looked at the Orcs, the Orcs looked at Saruman.

One of the Orcs spoke up: “Saruman seeks a leader among the fighting Uruk-hai.”

Saruman, still studying at his desk, said, “Ah! Saruman just appointed that leader not five minutes ago. I’m sorry, Graul, but the position has been filled.”

Two Orcs lay dead as Graul peered over Saruman’s shoulder; he knew he shouldn’t be standing so close to the master, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. “Ah!” said Saruman, trying to keep the aloof tone he’d had seconds earlier, barely managing to conceal the sheer terror that coursed through him as he discovered the murderous giant standing not six inches behind him. “Y-you’re probably wondering w-what all this gibberish means, y-yes?” indicating the papers on his desk.

“Yes, my lord,” said Graul, flushing with excitement.

“Talk to my Orcs...” Their eyes met and did a quick take to the two lifeless creatures on the floor. Graul felt embarrassed. “Well, not those Orcs, of course, but most of my Orcs do know how to read. They can show you a thing or two.” Saruman was beginning to relax; some of these big guys made him nervous.

“Saruman, my lord?”

“Yes, Graul?”

“The signs over the fitting room doors: the same, or different?”

Saruman had to take a moment to figure out what on Middle Earth this killing machine was talking about. “The signs...the signs...oh, yes! The signs! They are different, Graul. How clever of you-”

“I knew it!!!” Graul shouted out. So loud was his voice and so imprecise his annunciation that all Saruman perceived was a head-pounding war cry that foretold his imminent destruction. “They are different!” At these words, Saruman breathed a sigh of relief and took comfort in the fact that, as a wizard, he could make anything disappear, including what now soiled his robe.

“My lord,” said Graul, as he bowed and respectfully exited, eager to share with his friends what the master had just said.

Saruman sighed again in the silence, did his little magic trick, and said quietly to his dead Orcs: “I’ve created a monster.”

Graul had made himself a den in a remote, abandoned part of Saruman’s underground complex. He called it his “little reading nook,” but only to certain of the Orcs who were teaching him to read. He instinctively avoided letting his fellow Uruk-hai in on his educational pursuits; he knew he was different, and “different” could mean expulsion from the group, or worse (and he knew that “or worse” always meant a painful, painful death).

In Graul’s little room were found a desk with two chairs, several candles, and an old Shire calendar, “The Elf Maidens of Middle Earth”, pinned to the wall. He says he found the number patterns to be very intriguing...and the fonts. His favorite month was Thrimidge.

Graul was a quick study: it didn’t take him long to realize that randomly killing or maiming his tutors was only slowing him down, so he learned to overcome these sporadic urges and focus on learning. He read mostly histories of Middle Earth, and studied the various languages and dialects, whatever Saruman would allow him to borrow. Occasionally, Saruman would send a volume or two of things he “hadn’t read in ages, and probably never will again.” These Graul could keep. Consequently, Graul had the beginnings of his very own library. He built a small shelf and put it next to his desk; his humble little volumes stretched a full seven inches across the top shelf. This was Graul’s pride and joy.

Eventually, a trend began to take shape in Graul’s mind as he studied his various books. It occurred to him one day that the spelling of various places or things, or even names of individuals, had “not really been…codified, for lack of a better word,” he said to himself. He looked at the volumes on his shelf and was struck by an idea. He took one of the volumes and opened it upon his desk. On the inside cover he found a sticker which read: “From the Library of.” In the little box below these words was found Saruman’s name. “Something to write with, something to write with,” Graul repeated with hushed excitement as he looked around the room. There, next to his feet in the dust, a tutor had left an old, quill pen. Graul hurriedly picked it up and applied it to the book on his desk. The ink having dried long ago, Graul carefully (and respectfully) scratched out Saruman’s name and etched into the paper, just below the sticker: GRAUL. He sat back and studied it. Yes, he knew it was right.

“Saruman,” Graul quietly growled to his master, standing at attention in Saruman’s study.

“You wished to see me, Graul?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the beast.

“What is this about? You want more books, different tutors, a bigger study?”

“I have a nook, my lord. It is all I require.”

“Well, what then?”

“My lord, I wish to legally change the spelling of my name.”

“You want to what?” Saruman managed to say without laughing.

“I know it must seem a small thing to my lord, but I am certain I know what my long-deceased attendant meant when he named me in front of the fitting rooms.”

“How could you know that, Graul?” Saruman was genuinely intrigued.

“It was something in the way he said it, my lord. When I saw the tailor write ‘O-L-L,’ I just knew it was wrong. It’s supposed to be ‘A-U-L.’ I don’t know how I knew - I just did, my lord.”

“You just did,” said Saruman, half incredulously. “Graul, Groll, Graul, Groll - I don’t hear any difference!”

“It’s a very subtle thing, my lord. Much of it is mental, I’m sure. When one says my name as G-R-O-L-L, I believe one can’t help but to think of the word ‘troll.’ It’s not a healthy association, my lord. The A-U-L version is so much more...dignified...my lord.”

Saruman raised a bemused eyebrow. “Dignified? Dignified?! You would speak of what is ‘dignified,’ a fighting Uruk-hai?” It was a withering blow.

“My lord, it is true, I am a lowly creature; made for the hunt, for the kill. My nature is to terrorize, torture, maim, and destroy. I recognize these things in myself and accept them. But, with all due respect, my lord, unlike the troll, I would never eat a billy goat, nor his brothers...unless for actual sustenance; that is, not just to be mean.”

Saruman was at a loss, but only for a moment. He stepped toward his giant pawn and tested him. “How would you spell [belch!]?”

Graul paused in thought. “Do I know him, my lord?”

Saruman rolled his eyes. “Just spell it!”

“My lord, I would spell it O-K.” He reflected. “O-C-K would be a legitimate, even preferred, alternative.”

“But what’s the difference, Graul?” Saruman was growing weary of this seemingly pointless argument.

“Well, again, my lord, it’s a matter of perception. I think the first spelling would have ‘Ok’ perceived as something of a simpleton by mere virtue of the name’s brevity, whereas the second spelling lends a certain refinement. Again, it is a very subtle thing, my lord, but so is perception.”

“There is something different about you, Graul,” said Saruman.

“There is, my lord?” asked Graul, not liking the sound of this. The word “expulsion” came to mind, as did the words “painful, painful death.” Graul perceived he was suddenly on a slippery slope.

“Oh, yes, Graul. It is even suggested in your manner of dress.”

Graul looked down at his uniform, not knowing what to say.

“Your uniform seems brighter than all the others, Graul. Why?” demanded the wizard.

“With all respect, my lord, I’m not sure ‘brighter’ really applies in this case.”

“Explain.”

“My lord, I had the various pieces in my outfit cut from the same piece of leather. The tone is no brighter than any piece in the uniforms of others. It’s just that every piece in my ensemble matches from top to bottom in color...and texture,” he added at the last.

Saruman looked down at the floor and shook his head in silence. “Very well,” he said at last. “A-U-L it is. My secretary will make all the necessary changes in the records. You hold your own in debate, Graul. Not many Uruk-hai can say that.”

“Thank you, my lord. It is our nature to destroy opposition, not to put forth an honest argument. I like to think that my studies have sort of taken me to the next level. By your leave, my lord, and thank you,” Graul said as he began to exit.

Saruman looked up at the retreating hulk. “Graul,” he called out.

Graul stopped and turned around. “Yes, my lord?”

“Could you at least get your uniform a little dirty, to ‘tone it down,’ as it were?”

“Yes, my lord,” Graul said, and exited.

A week later, Graul’s cozy nook is found to have been plastered, floor to ceiling, with Graul’s own insides. He had been found out by his fellow Uruk-hai. He had been misunderstood; and being misunderstood, he had been feared; and being feared, he had been torn to pieces in a vicious attack that lasted about an hour. The only place on the wall left bare was in the shape of a large rectangle. It is where the calendar had been. Perhaps, during the violent melee, the literacy bug had managed to strike again.

A Glee Club In the Darkness, Part I

Saruman enjoyed standing and watching as his morbid creation, the fighting Uruk-hai, were brought forth from the mud pits the Orcs had fashioned deep in the earth. “You take an Orc, a Goblin, mix them together, and throw their putrescent slime into the mud. Then you wait.” It was a recipe for the destruction of all that was good in Middle Earth.

As his lead Orcs listened to the plan in Saruman’s great study, one of them nodded in approval and asked excitedly, “What will you call these new soldiers of death, master?”

“I’m going to call them ‘Bon-bons,’” said the scheming wizard.

There was a pregnant pause as the Orcs stood, blinking. A greenish, fat Orc named Bint finally asked, “With all due respect, my lord. . . what does it mean?”

Saruman, somewhat defensively, said, “Mean? What does it mean? I don’t know that it means anything! I just like the sound of it. Does it have to mean something? I imagine men, elves, and dwarves throughout Middle Earth screaming in terror as they see my armies marching toward their cities! ‘The Bon-bons are coming! The Bon-bons of Saruman!!’” Saruman, who was holding the sides of his face as he enacted the scene, put his hands down and looked around. The Orcs were wide-eyed statues, trying their best to look enthusiastic. One of them near the back looked down and snickered as quietly as he could.

“Well, it’s early yet,” said a wise old Orc. His name was Schpak. “There’s plenty of time to come up with a suitable name, don’t you think, my lord?”

Saruman, taking advantage of the face saving moment, answered, “Yes...yes, of course, Schpak. Plenty of time. I was just throwing it out there, but nothing’s in stone.”

“Yes.” “Of course.” “Plenty of time.” A quiet chorus of relieved voices.

“Well, I think that’s all that was on the agenda tonight,” said the wizard. “Um, let’s be thinking of what we might want their uniforms to look like. Nothing too flashy, mind you. Comfortable, durable, functional – that’s what’s needed. Dismissed!”

That was months ago – production was in full swing now. Many, many Uruk-hai (a name eventually submitted by a small committee of Orcs and agreed upon unanimously) were now training daily for their various missions which would eventually help bring Sauron back to power. Saruman was very proud of his growing multitude. His underground complex was teeming with Orcs and Uruk-hai.

To say the Uruk-hai were training is somewhat misleading. In reality, they were born ready to overtake anything and everything in sight. Their relentlessly fierce impulses led them often to overtake the nearest Orc and tear it to pieces. Occasionally, they were even known to kill each other. Only the wizard’s magic kept him from harm – Saruman held an umbrella of protection over himself and his leading Orcs. But, again, as to training, the mere day to day existence of the average Uruk-hai was his training: ever-angry, ever-vigilant, ever-violent. But, then, not every Uruk-hai was average (as Saruman would learn more than once).

One evening, as the sun was setting in a clear sky, Saruman closed the book he was reading at his desk and sat up straight in his chair. It is time, he thought to himself. I’ve put this off long enough. Pushing the book away he stood up and made his way outside. He enjoyed the cool breeze on his face and in his hair as he walked across the grass toward the hot, noisy, underground complex. He journeyed below as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky.

As he walked along the subterranean paths, the Orcs and Uruk-hai who passed him bowed their heads in deference to the master. Saruman didn’t seem to notice. “He looks distracted,” said one Orc to another as they passed. They stopped and looked back. Saruman had found one of his leaders and was busy speaking to him; as he spoke, he looked around the vast complex. The Orc leader nodded in the affirmative and pointed to a remote part of the complex. Saruman resumed walking in the direction to which he had been pointed. The observing Orcs walked on and went about their business.

Saruman had now reached a far off, abandoned area. There were a few dark, quiet paths that seemingly led to nowhere. Saruman didn’t have to venture far before he found what he was looking for. He could see, just as he rounded a dark corner, the flickering light of a candle shining dimly from a doorway cut into the wall. Saruman froze. He listened at length and decided that, despite the presence of a lit candle, he was alone in this place. He walked slowly to the doorway and looked in. On the floor lay the splintered remains of a desk, a couple of chairs, and what used to be a bookshelf. Saruman’s heart sank. He brightened the room with his wizard magic and looked around. The walls were horrific to contemplate – everything that was once a fighting Uruk-hai, inside and out, was spread across the walls: bits of bone, clumps of hair, flesh; all of it now as dry as the walls to which it clung. There was a large rectangular spot on one wall which revealed only rock and dust. Saruman wondered at this for a few moments when his eyes were drawn to the candle: it was perched on what appeared to be a makeshift altar, put together with scraps of gut-splattered wood. On the wall not far above the peaceful flame, his eyes came to rest on two words etched into the dark, bloody crust: “Graul Lives.” Saruman gazed for some time at the words, the candle, and the altar. He was filled with mixed emotion.

Well, he thought, it’s probably for the best in the long run. Judging by the outcome it is obvious that Graul’s pursuits were not conducive to good order and discipline. I suppose he was doomed from the beginning. Still, I have to wonder what would have become of him if he weren’t ruthlessly torn to pieces in what must have been an unbelievably violent fracas. As he busied himself with these thoughts, it was as if he could hear a sublime music accompanying the melancholy images in his head – a muted choir was singing a lament for a would-be scholar, an Uruk-hai of letters, a formidable, stinking monster at one with the world of thoughts and ideas. That music! Saruman started, and said in a hushed voice, “It’s not in my head!”

Saruman looked around the room; acoustics are tricky in the realm of caves and dark passageways. He felt foolish for looking around in such a small space, but this was Middle Earth, after all, a place filled with magic and magical creatures; he was caught quite off guard and was a little disoriented by what he heard. “Where’s it coming from?” He walked out into the passageway and looked toward the black, forgotten places. Graul’s old nook dimmed to the soft glow of the lone candle. Saruman walked slowly down the path, following the mournful sounds as best he could, choosing to remain veiled in the darkness. Not far along, his right hand, which was stretched out before him to avoid running into anything, touched something soft and invisible, and at that same moment shafts of soft light instantly described something of a tall rectangle about him, much like a doorway – a black curtain hung before him. And behind the curtain was light and music.

The wizard pushed aside the curtain and walked into a newly emerging world. He instinctively closed the curtain behind him – quickly. A gruff Uruk voice rang out: “The Master!” The room instantly became still and silent. Saruman looked around in wonder and fear, curiosity and disbelief. Fighting Uruk-hai were seated at round tables; stretched out on sofas and lounge chairs which faced short, rectangular tables; standing side by side at a long counter, behind which stood a lone Uruk-hai who seemed to be serving drinks – he wore a white, long sleeved shirt with a black bow tie, and a black leather apron. Shelves behind the counter held a collection of bottles of every size and color. Every Uruk-hai in the room held a glass in his hand or had one on the table or counter before him; plates of food were here and there. Next to the array of bottles was an open doorway to a back room – it was well lit, and the clinky sounds of dishes and silverware emanated from there into the main room. Suddenly, the back room fell silent. A Shire calendar could be seen on a wall above a large sofa – it showed the month of Winterfilth, with the image of an attractive, young elf maiden seated upon a rock near an ice covered stream.

Before him and a little to his left, Saruman beheld four Uruk-hai standing side-by-side upon a raised platform. Behind them was a large banner which read:

Tonight only!

INNER ELF

Mordor’s first and only Vocal Quartet!
These guys are good!
Specially priced drinks after the show!


Saruman’s eyes went back to the four. They all wore the same pea-green outfit: soft shoes, the toes of which curled over and back to a point; tights; wide, brown belts with big, silver buckles; short sleeved shirts with v-necks, and little green hats with a red feather on the side. The hats somehow complimented their pointed ears. Their thick, black hair was cropped very short – over the ears and off the collar. They each had a big curlycue for bangs. The one on the far left cleared his throat and quietly approached Saruman. He stopped a few feet from the master and spoke:

“Saruman, my lord, I am - ”

“I know. We’ve met.”

“Ock at your service, master.”

Saruman stared unapologetically. Ock grew uncomfortable and spoke again.

“We used to have bells, my lord.”

Saruman continued to stare. Then, as if shaken from sleep, he quickly studied the Uruk-hai up and down. “Bells?”

“On the toes of our shoes, my lord. Silver.”

“To match the buckles,” Saruman concluded.

“Yes, my lord!” said Ock, smiling. His grin slowly faded as Saruman continued to stare at him.

“Well, where are they? Why were they removed?” Saruman wondered why he actually cared.

“We found they interfered with our music, my lord.”

“Of course,” said the master. Saruman looked puzzled and irritated. He was, in fact, irritated. This is because he was, in fact, puzzled. He hated being puzzled; he was a wizard. Saruman looked around the room. “What goes on here?”

“My lord, perhaps you would like to sit at a table with some refreshment as we talk?”

“Yes...yes, that’s fine,” Saruman said absentmindedly, still looking around the room. Just before moving toward a table next to the entertainment platform, Saruman waved a hand to the room and said in a less than commanding voice, “Carry on.” The room jumped to life. Dishes clattered again in the back room, the rest of the Quartet stepped from the platform and headed to the “refreshment counter.” Ock gave a snap of his fingers to the “refreshment clerk” behind the counter who nodded and stepped toward the back room. As Ock and Saruman made their way to an empty table, conversations all over the room picked up where they had left off. If one listened to one such conversation between two Uruks at the counter, one would have heard this:

“I still don’t get what you mean,” said the one.

“Just look at her,” said the other, pointing with his glass at the calendar across the room. “Look at that ‘Come hither’ stare she has. And those spiked heels! She’s the only one in the calendar who looks like that – a real vixen. I think they are completely misusing the name of the month to make it represent something it was never intended to represent.”

“Oh, come on! You obviously know nothing of the Hobbits! Can you say ‘irony’? This is a perfect example of the Hobbits’ love of wordplay! They’re having fun with it!” said the one.

A light went on. “Ah!” said the other. “I get it now!” He laughed in spite of himself. “It’s brilliant!”

“You know,” said the one, looking down at the floor, “Thrimidge was Graul’s favorite.”

“Really?” said the other, intrigued. “Why don’t we display that month?”

“Well, it’s from the nook, you know. They tried to clean it off as best they could, but...it’s still not easy to look at.”

“I see.” After a pause, “Maybe we should get a new calendar...so we can show his favorite month.”

“It’s been suggested,” said the one. They drank in thoughtful silence.

The moment Saruman and Ock seated themselves another black-and-white clad Uruk stepped up to their table and carefully placed a drink in front of each. Saruman noted that those of the white shirt and black bow tie had their hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. There were at least two or three others coming in and out of the back room with trays full of food or drink or empty, dirty dishes. Saruman looked at his drink.

“My lord,” said Ock, smiling, “it’s called a martini. Try it, my lord, but slowly!”

“Martini?” said Saruman, picking up the glass. “What does it mean?”

Ock shrugged, “We just like the sound of it. Just a taste, my lord!”

Saruman took a sip. He raised his eyebrows and looked at the clear liquid in the glass, swirling it gently. He liked it. He smiled at Ock and took another sip. He set the drink down on the table.

“Well, my lord?” asked Ock, smiling at his master.

“I like martinis!” the wizard proclaimed. Ock laughed and nodded in agreement. “Though it wants an olive, I think.”

“Beg your pardon, my lord?”

“Nothing.” Saruman suddenly became very serious. “Ock, what on Middle Earth is going on here?”

Ock, not losing his merry mood, said, “It’s Graul, my lord!”

“Graul?! What’s Graul? Where is he?” Saruman looked around.

“My lord, Graul is dead...and yet he lives on.”

“What are you talking about?”

Indicating the room with a sweep of his arm, Ock said proudly, “My lord, everything you see here is Graul. He is the reason we are here; Graul was pointing the way to new horizons, new possibilities – endless possibilities!” Ock took a sip of his drink. Saruman, having no idea what to say, did likewise. “Only,” continued Ock, “he didn’t live long enough to see the fruit of his labors.” The wizard and the Uruk-hai looked down at the table.

Saruman, finishing another sip, said, “I knew it was risky, encouraging his curiosity. I suppose it was my own curiosity that made me do it. Imagine, an Uruk-hai who studies!” He laughed, and then his smile quickly faded as he realized he may have just offended Ock.

Ock said in an understanding tone, “It’s okay, my lord. We who follow in his steps realize what is happening; we realize it is an unexpected twist.” He paused and looked into his drink. “Well, maybe not as unexpected as one might think.” He half smiled as he looked up at Saruman.

Saruman sat forward and said, “What do you mean - ”

He was interrupted by an Uruk-hai who bumped into the table and stopped. He stood in his green elf outfit right between Ock and Saruman, holding a drink in his hand. He belched loudly, looking straight ahead.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ock, steadying his friend with one hand. “Saruman, allow me to introduce - ” Ock suddenly vomited all over the floor on his other side and looked right back at Saruman as if the act were the end of his statement. Saruman sat in stunned silence as he quickly put together what just happened.

Pointing up to the Uruk but keeping his gaze on Ock, Saruman said, “You mean to tell me that that’s his name?!” Ock nodded in the affirmative as he wiped a little something off his chin. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” He looked up at the Uruk-hai. “Tell me, how on Middle Earth did you come by that name?”

“My lord, - ” he turned away, vomiting profusely, “ - at your service.”

“Now stop it!” yelled Saruman, slapping his hand down on the table with the word “stop.” “You will not speak that name again, do you hear?!”

“Yes, my lord!” the Uruk said, suddenly sober and standing at attention.

“Forget the story – I don’t want to hear it. We’re changing your name right now.”

“Yes, my lord!”

Saruman took a long drink out of his glass and thought. He searched the deep recesses of his great wizard mind. Slowly, he looked up at the face of the elf-clad, Uruk-hai vocalist as he stood perfectly still, his drink held in one hand at his chest. “That’s it,” said Saruman, finally. “Barf.”

Ock stood up suddenly and raised his friend’s hand (the one with the drink in it) high into the air. “Friends!” he declared to the entire company, “Relief has come at last! The Uruk-hai formerly known as - ” he turned and puked onto his chair “ - shall from this day forth be known as Borf! How are you spelling that, my - ”

“It’s Barf!” snapped Saruman as his hand hit the table again for emphasis.

“Belay that, friends! It’s Barf!” The company cheered. No one liked the original name, anyway.

Just before Ock seated himself, Saruman stopped him and said, looking at the chair and the floor, “Isn’t anyone going to clean up this mess?”

Ock hesitated. “Um, I’m not sure we would have thought of that, my lord.” A light went on. “What a great idea!”

Saruman emptied his glass and set it hard upon the table, rolling his eyes. He called over his shoulder to the clerk: “I need another martini over here, and get someone out here with a mop! Move it!”

“Right away, my lord!” came the earnest reply.

Barf went and got two chairs from another table. He and Ock positioned themselves away from the mess and took their seats, eager to resume the conversation with their master.

A Glee Club In the Darkness, Part II

Ock began with a question. “How did Saruman create his fighting Uruk-hai?”

“Well,” said the wizard, looking to see if his drink was on the way, “you take an Orc and a Goblin, and you…you [trying to indicate something with his hands]…put them...together, and you get an Uruk-hai.”

“Precisely!” said Ock. “The key here is -”

“How exactly,” Barf interrupted, “do you...put them together?”

Saruman looked a little uncomfortable. “Um, well – Oh! The martini. Splendid! Thank you!” he said to the black-and-white clad Uruk, who bowed slightly and headed toward the back room. Saruman took a slow sip of the drink as he tried to think of what to say next. “This,” he said, referring to the martini as a stalling tactic, “is really good!”

Ock, sensing his master’s discomfort without knowing its origin, redirected the conversation back to what he was saying earlier.

“We come from Goblins and Orcs, and it is -”

“But how -?” insisted Barf, but he was cut short by Ock.

“And it is our Orc ancestry which holds the key, my lord.”

“The key?” asked Saruman, his drink half finished.

“The Orcs are descended from the Elves!” Ock paused for dramatic effect, but it was lost on the ever-mellowing wizard, who hic-upped and said, “Key?”

Barf chimed in: “Everyone knows that long ago, a group of captive Elves were tortured and mutilated, and this group began the race of Orcs.”

“Yes,” said Ock. “So, you see -”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Saruman, trying to clear his head. “So, then...” Saruman looked over at the sign where the group had been singing. He looked at the green costumes the singers were wearing. “Inner Elf,” he said, nodding his head. “Inner Elf.”

Ock and Barf looked at each other, than at Saruman. All three said, in unison, “Inner Elf.”

The conversation went on from there, and the three discussed how Graul’s inner Elf was manifest from the day he crawled out of the mud: his interest in reading, his overall intelligence, his use of the word “nook.” So many things came together in Saruman’s mind as he revisited certain scenes and conversations with the “Uruk-hai of letters.”

“And what about all of you in here?” asked Saruman. “Why haven’t all of you been asking to borrow books from me, or creating your own nooks?”

“I didn’t want to mess up your study,” said Barf. “I figured as soon as one of your Orcs introduced me, I’d be toast.”

“Well, that certainly shows some intelligence on your part, Barf,” observed Saruman.

“My lord,” said Ock, “once Graul made the connection between his being ‘different’ and his ancestry, he realized that every Uruk shares the same potential for higher thinking. He also realized the danger that being different posed, so he quietly set about helping those of us he could to unlock our, um... our...”

“Latent,” offered Barf.

“Yes, our latent Elfish qualities.” Ock, with an increasing understanding that “the Old Man” was a little slow, paused to let things sink in.

Saruman sat for a little while. He was somewhat dazed from his beverage and was trying to remember what they had been talking about. He looked around the room and thought it strange that the room seemed to keep moving just a little after he’d stop turning his head. Something about books, he thought, trying to jog his slurpy memory.

“Well!” he said finally, with an odd smile on his face. “Ish been gr-grreat! Um, where izh everr-ee-one?”

“Uh,” offered Barf, a little hesitantly, “as soon as you walked in this evening, we all pretty much came to the conclusion that tonight would end in a big ball of fire, so most of our number have been quietly slipping out.”

Barf and Ock looked at Saruman nervously.

The wizard let out a little chuckle. “Ball of fire,” he said to himself. He laughed harder. “A big ball of fire!” he said louder, and began laughing hysterically. That was it – Saruman was wasted.

Ock and Barf immediately stood and went to either side of their master. Each took Saruman under an arm and began leading him through the underground complex, taking him home. The Orcs and Uruks who saw this spectacle were told that the master was ill, and Barf exhorted them to “send positive energy his way.” This caused the small crowd that heard him to perceive Barf as being somehow different, but the nasty look that Ock shot his way caused Barf to quickly change his tune, whereupon he quickly began to snarl and say, “Make way for the master!” in his best fighting Uruk-hai voice. Now, everyone was happy again.

The two Uruks got their master to his chambers without further incident and quickly reconnoitered with their fellows back at the Club. They wondered what would become of their kind after Saruman had slept on it. Should they run for it while they had the chance and hide in the wilderness? But surely the wizard would find them, anyway! Perhaps they should go right now and kill him in his sleep. A debate as to what the course of action should be raged into the night. Voices were only slightly raised so as not to give away their location; and, though some tempers flared, no punches were thrown, no weapons relied upon to gain the upper hand. A couple of Uruks took notes.

In the end, it was decided that it should come to a vote. No one was sure how they had arrived at such a fair and civilized scheme, and even the notes are vague on the matter. But a vote was finally called for.

As they were searching for a suitable way to cast and count the votes, which was leading to a whole new debate, in walked Saruman. Everyone froze. The tall quills of the note takers quickly wriggled and then stopped abruptly, poised over the paper in anticipation of what was to follow.

Saruman looked around, his face a strange but eloquent mixture of sternness and sympathy. “I have the worst hangover,” he started. His audience relaxed a little and let out a few chuckles. The quills went back to work.

The white wizard continued. “Despite the pain in my head, for which I have no potion or spell, I have been thinking hard about your situation for the last hour or so. It is obvious that you are all quite different from your run-of-the-mill Uruk-hai. But, before you go running for cover, hear me out. I have decided that whatever outcome there may be from combining Goblins with Orcs is ultimately my responsibility. No one, not even a wizard of my stature, can know every outcome of every action. We take chances, for better or worse, in all that we do.”

The Uruks nodded quietly in agreement, acknowledging their master’s wisdom.

Saruman went on. “My curiosity with Graul sprang from two places. One was my own curiosity as a well-educated wizard who realizes that there is always more to be learned. The other was my curiosity as a...as a creator...as an...artist? No. Um, as...”

“As a father?” Everyone looked at Barf, who was staring at Saruman with a boyish look of love and pride. [From one set of notes: “Despite the fierce hideousness of his Uruk face, Barf’s expression was a beautiful sight for all who beheld it.”]

“As a father,” echoed Saruman, whose eyes were welling with tears. “I can’t end this in a big ball of fire!” he declared with a smile. A collective sigh went up from the Uruks. “It seems to me that there must be a parting of ways here, and soon. The longer you stay here, the more likely it is that you will end up like Graul.” There was an urgency in Saruman’s voice that quieted the Uruk-hai and bent their minds toward action. “You must quickly and quietly build a back door to this Club, a door that opens into some remote cluster of trees and rocks that will allow you to leave this area undetected. And you must flee from this place and go as far away as you can, and never return. I will keep a sharp lookout for others who begin to display your Elfish traits. I will take them aside and send them your way. It will be easy enough in this violent place to explain away the disappearance of anyone, even groups at a time. Please don’t look so downcast. It is either this, or each of you will eventually meet his own violent end at the hands of his ignorant brothers.”

Just then, Graul entered from the back room of the Club, and for a moment, not even the quills divulged this bit of information to the paper below. Everyone was utterly stunned.

“Who do you think wrote ‘Graul Lives’ on the wall of my nook?!” he said with a big, ugly smile.

Saruman had never imagined hugging an Uruk-hai before, but there he was, embracing Graul as a father grabs hold of a lost child just found. [“Not a dry eye in the house,” said the quill to the paper.]

Understanding the present danger, the reunion was quick and hushed, but very intense. Graul explained what had happened the day he was attacked; how, thanks to having come across some exotic writings from the East which explained the art of self defense, he was able to smear his attackers all over his walls; how, afterwards, he immediately built that “back door” that Saruman had just suggested and made his escape; how he came back one dark night and scrawled those words into the crust of his attackers – he said he couldn’t resist the irony. This got a laugh. He spoke of a far away land that he had been scouting out for himself and others who might follow – a safe haven for readers, writers, thinkers, learners. His listeners were filled with mixed emotion: ecstatic that Graul was still among them and had found for them a safe place to go, and saddened that they must leave Saruman, who had so lately discovered them for who they really are, and had accepted them.

Saruman’s wizard senses told him that there were Orcs and Uruks scouring the forgotten places nearby, trying to find their absent master. The “goodbyes” were rushed, but heartfelt. Graul quickly led the group into the back room and revealed an opening behind large boxes of cocktail napkins, doilies, and straws. They exited single file, but with great Uruk speed.

Just as the last of this group made his escape, the black curtain hiding the entrance to the Club was thrown aside. A group of Uruk-hai and Orcs dashed in and looked around. They were bewildered by what they saw, but relieved to have found Saruman.

Their master eyed them calmly and said, “Welcome to my nook.”

One of the Uruks said, “Isn’t this a little large to be considered a noo-?” He stopped short, feeling very self-conscious under the gaze of his comrades. Saruman locked eyes with him and knew that this Uruk would not be far behind those who had just left on what he would later call “The Path to Higher Learning.” The Uruk felt somehow assured by the look in Saruman’s eyes, and suddenly everything around the Uruk went up in a ball of fire – the other Uruk-hai and Orcs, the furniture, the front and back rooms, the calendar – everything but himself, Saruman, and the cave they were in.

Saruman indicated a discreet opening in the cave wall back where boxes of doilies had once been. The opening was ringed by golden points of light which winked like stars, but these were only visible to those whom Saruman enabled to see. “Go!” said Saruman. “You will find your brothers.” The Uruk dropped his weapons and left immediately, with a certain sense of relief. His weapons and footprints faded and disappeared. Magic is so cool! thought the wizard.

Before the well-documented events occurred which led to the defeat of Saruman and Lord Sauron, the white wizard was able to send well over 600 more Uruk-hai down the Path. He was quite proud of this at the end – proud like a father.

The Uruk-hai who took to the Path lived primarily in safe, wooded areas, not too far from human settlements. Initially, they were led and organized by Graul, who eschewed the title of King and preferred to be addressed as “Mr. President.” Eventually, the Uruks intermarried with some of the rougher women from the surrounding towns (the kind who liked the “bad boy” types), and over time their descendants shed the pointed ears, hulking figures, and putrid breath. They did, however, tend to retain the bad teeth, and a passion for reading, writing, and learning.

In fact, not a few descendants of the IEU (Inner Elf Uruk-hai) were known to be among the members of the founding faculties at Oxford and Cambridge. Contemporary accounts record that this was evidenced by a casual study of the waistline of certain faculty members' pants: perfectly even across the fly.