LOREBOOK: The Scribe and The Spleen-Eater

QUERY/RICHMOND\_ARCHIVES/FOLLOWERS/FOURTH\_AGE/HALLOWEEN:

*One of the principal holidays celebrated late each Meme is Halloween, a festival symbolizing spooky creatures and freedom from hard times. The origins of this holiday are dark and mysterious. This popular folktale, sung to me by a travelling bard in Upper Gruganda, records one possible reason for the day. Whether or not it is true, I have included it in this archive due to the insight it gives us into daily life during the Fourth Age.*

*-Blitigious Grimes, Follower of the Apocalypse*

The Scribe and the Spleen-Eater

   In the terrible times of the Fourth Age, there was a certain woman by the name of Sinead who lived in a little town called Teroch Moor. Sinead was orphaned young; her mother died in childbirth, and her father died fighting off a monster raid. The Duke of Teroch Moor was a generous man, however, and took in the girl to his castle keep. Sinead was afraid of the Keep’s tall stone walls and flickering fires, and on her first day ran off and hid away in the smallest room she could find. It was homey, warmly lit with candles rather than torches, and smelling wondrous. It was filled up with thin sheets which had dark little splotches on them that Sinead had never seen before. There was a man hunched over a desk, and she was afraid that if he saw her, he would scream and shout. But when he turned around to see her, the old man smiled.

   “Oh hello there, little one! Are you curious about this room?”

   She nodded, her scared eyes fixed open him.

   “Well, it is for writing, which is a word for setting down thoughts with ink on paper.”

   “So you do magick?” She asked.

   The man laughed. “I suppose it is not so different from magick. Lebahar the Sorcerer! It has a nice ring to it, I think. Here, come up onto my lap, and I shall teach you wizardry.”

   And so the Duke’s Scribe Lebahar instructed Sinead in the ways of reading and writing. The Duke was so impressed with Sinead’s quick learning that she was officially made the scribe’s apprentice. She grew up through the years, copying down old textbooks on different subjects. When she grew into adolescence, she was asked if she would join Lebahar in co-writing chronicles of the history of the Last Land. It is said that the greatest tales of our age, such as *King Arthur, Dune,* and *The Matter of the Seven Dragon Balls Zed* all have their origins in the writings of Sinead and Lebahar. The books became popular throughout the land.

   It was Lebahar’s belief that all children learn to read, and so on some days Sinead would venture out into the town square and instruct the younglings in the letters of the Grugandan Alphabet. As long as the sun held in the sky, she would cry out, “Q is for Quartus Zone, R is for Ringed City, S is for Stomach Prince…”

   One day, when her daily instructions was done, a woman walked up to Sinead with a cup of hot tea. She had her fire-red hair in braids, revealing the freckles upon her pale shoulders. “I hear you yelling yourself hoarse in the square each day for the younglings. I thought I would bring you this.”

   She took the tea into her hands and sipped. Lemon ginger with poppyseed and hints of Alucard root. “It is delicious. Thank you kindly, erm -”

   “Freya. I wanted to thank you. My niece comes to your schooling every week, and now I am even learning my letters! I think I will put a sign above my stand at the market, though it will be long before I learn to do such a thing.”

   “I could help you,” said Sinead, the words falling right out of her mouth. She was shocked at a new feeling rising in herself, and wondered if she was sick. She walked right back to the keep, sipping her tea all the way.

   And so the very next day when Sinead finished writing a chapter of *The True Story of the Heaviest of Metals*, she told Lebahar that she needed to go into town. He gave a quiet nod and she was off into the streets of Teroch Moor. She quite nearly got lost in the streets, as she was scarcely ever in town, but Freya found her and brought her to her thatch-roofed cottage.

   “I brought you a mock-up of the words, and we can carve it how you like.” Sinead handed Freya a little paper which held the words “Freya’s Teas” in a floral frame.

“It’s quite beautiful, even if I don’t know what it says.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s set ourselves to the work.”

   Freya had a block of wood prepared, and procured carving tools for them both. They talked as they whittled, about their respective jobs, the growing town children, and the newest gossip about the court. But it was idle talk, and with long pauses between. There came a moment as they were both finishing up the border of the sign that their hands bumped into each other. Sinead was about to pull her hand back when she realized that Freya was sitting still, and had stopped carving. She looked up into Freya’s eyes, the shimmering hazel of a pine forest. Sinead dropped her carving knife and clasped her hand into Freya’s. She smiled, a rainbow after a cloudy day, and they kissed.

   That day was when Sinead found a magick stronger than the written word.

   The next days, which the people of that time called “Ockh-Tobar,” were the happiest of Sinead’s life. Each day she wrote new stories of the old days with Lebahar by her side, and each night she sought the heaven of Freya’s arms, who always smelled like the freshest of herbs. It was on the thirtieth day of Ockh-Tobar that Sinead decided she would officially ask the Duke for permission to court Freya for marriage. She closed her newly-finished master copy of *The Deeds of the Giant Eastman*, puffed up her chest, and walked out the door to the great hall.

   When she saw the Duke, her hopes deflated, for he looked to be in a sour mood indeed. Lebahar was there with him, who wore a dejected expression that Sinead thought looked unnatural upon the joyful man.

   “My lord, I came to entreat you, but what has happened?”

   “Oh, Sinead, are you so stuffed up to your ears in parchment that you know not a thing of court politics? Today is the thirtieth of Ockh-Tobar!”

   “What does that mean?”

   Lebahar spoke up. “It means that the Spleen-Eater has issued his list for the year.”

   “Who?”

   Lebahar sighed. “It is not something we like to speak of to young ones. There is a horrible beast, a creature of Griffith the Mad, who lives in a cave a day’s ride from Teroch Moor. He is hungry for the spleens of men, and demands thirty-three sacrifices each year. He issues out a list of names the day before, and we are bound to go lest he destroy the entire town. Sinead… oh my dear Sinead…” He pulled me in for a hug and whispered into my ear: “this year, my name was on the list.”

   Sinead froze in shock. “Lebahar, you cannot mean -”

   “I will have no more of this!” the Duke shouted. “We cannot simply let our town waste away before this monster. He has taken the keep cook, our best blacksmith, Sinead - your own father - and I am finished with it.” He took a sword that hung from the wall, a glittering blade lined with silver. “I will end the tyranny of the Spleen-Eater!”

   The next day, the thirty-three sacrifices rode off in the morning, but with the Duke and all his best men riding behind for an ambush.

   And they never. Came. Back.

   Sinead grieved as she never had before. She could not stand the sight of the keep, and especially of books. She felt as though she had become that anxious child once more. Only with Freya did she find solace. Sinead stayed with her for weeks in the little peasant’s shack. Freya cared for her with special herbal teas as well as her loving touch. But they could not stay this way forever. Sinead’s saved-up coin was running out, and Freya needed to return to market. So Sinead walked back up the hill to the keep of Teroch Moor.

   Much had changed in the court when she was gone. The new duke was the young nephew of the last, a gaunt man by the name of Sniverfeld, who had come down from Norway to rule his new land. On her first day in the keep, she knelt before Duke Sniverfeld and asked:

   “My lord, since the great Ducal Scribe, Lebahar of Svalbard, has fallen before the beasts of Griffith, I ask that I, his apprentice, Sinead of Teroch Moor, be raised to the position.”

   Sniverfeld chortled, sloshing his wine onto his patchy beard. “That dandy of a Duke kept a *scribe*?! How ridiculous! Everyone knows puppet shows are the only worthy art. I have no need for your books, girl. Go down into the chambers and cook, or clean, if you must keep a presence at this place.”

   Sinead returned to Lebahar’s study to find the parchment all cleared out and replaced with marionettes. She curled up against the wall where his desk once was and began to cry, the puppets all seeming to stare at her.

   Resolving to not be subject to Sniverfeld’s derision, she left the keep and moved her meager possessions into Freya’s shack. She continued to teach reading and writing to anyone who was willing, including Freya, but without the coin to buy parchment, she could not continue to write. Instead, she helped Freya at the daily tasks of her business: gathering herbs from the forest, creating the correct mixes, preparing the little sachets. Unfortunately, Sinead was no good at it. She could not spot the difference between one leaf or another in the thick grove of pines, and she never had the right eye for measuring the mixtures of herbs.

   One day, Sinead and Freya woke up together, and Sinead put out a book for her partner to read. She could read, but she was slow and plodding at it, fumbling up the words. “How about we just get to work this morning,” Sinead said, getting out of bed and poorly hiding her frustration. Tension simmered between them throughout the day. In the evening, Freya sipped a tea Sinead had made and had to spit it out. “Why can’t you -” she began, yelling, than stopped herself. she sighed.

   “This isn’t like us,” Freya said, and Sinead nodded. They sat down next to one another. “I love you, but if you were to ask me to choose between you or my herbs, I cannot lie. I would choose my herbs. And I know my saying this does not hurt you, because in your heart you feel the same way about your letters.”

   Sinead thought for a moment. “Yes. To rebuke writing is to rebuke who I am.”

   “Exactly. See how we stand on edge with each other when we try to forget who we are? I love you for your words, my dearest scribe. I would rather know you have your parchment than lose each other to petty arguments like these.”

   “Are you suggesting I leave?”

   “Yes. Find some other keep which needs a scribe, and write there. Write to me, and someday I will save enough to live there with you. It will be like in those wondrous days last year.”

   “I - I think I see the wisdom in that.”

   It so happened that the very next day, the famous courier Gionor Gionror came into the town of Teroch Moor with messages from Norway for Sniverfeld. As he walked back down from the keep, Sinead stopped him in the street, recognizing his red suit.

   “Gionor Gionror!”

   “Oh! I see my reputation precedes me, yes it does. What can I do you for, miss?”

   “Good Courier, I know that you have been to many places throughout the Kingdom of Greater Norway. Do you know of any lord who has need for the duties of a scribe?”

   He brought his thin hand to his chin. “Hmm… a scribe. Yes, I recall one lord who had need of a scribe at his keep. He’s a bit of an unorthodox fellow, but I have heard he keeps good benefits for employment, and has a lot of parchment around.”

   “Well, I think we’re all unorthodox fellows of a sort. Take me to this lord, and you shall have all the coin left in my coffers.”

   “Oh! no need for payment, my lady. He’s not but a day’s ride away.”

   Sinead was overjoyed. A lord with extra parchment only a day’s ride away? It was a dream come true. She could keep her life’s passion and her love for Freya intact. With stars in her eyes, she saddled up with Gionor Gionror upon his donkey, and they rode up the foothills together.

   Sinead was puzzled when he got off the horse and stretched his legs at the mouth of a cave. “Well, hear you are, miss!”

   She raised an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that a lord of Norway lives here?”

   “OooOh!” Gionor Gionror gave an apologetic look. “My lady, you asked for any lord in need of a scribe. Not a lord *of Norway*.”

   The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and Sinead’s eyes went wide. “Then this would be…”

   a horrid cry echoed out from the cave, and a tentacle grabbed Sinead’s ankle.

   “Um, erm, you have a good day, lady Sinead!” He rode off into the mountains.

   “FREYA!” Sinead cried hopelessly as she was dragged into the mouth of the cave.

\*\*\*

   Sinead awoke into a world of black. The only things she could sense were the quiet drip of water and the feeling of rough, wet stone upon her back. She scrambled, trying to get up, but without a sense of where she was, she fell down and bruised herself.

   A horrible voice echoed across the cave: “Ah, hoo-hoo, who is this that has come to me, a new snack, new tasty? Morsel-morsel for me mouth??” Sinead scarcely recognized it as speech at first, only hearing it as a harsh, phlegmatic noise before her ears adjusted. The damp slapping sounds of tentacles slammed towards her.

   “Answer me-me tasty tasty! Is this new spleen, new spleen for me?!” She swiveled her head, trying to get a look at the beast, but in the pitch-dark her eyes were useless.

   “No, no!” Sinead cried, finding her voice. “I was sent by the courier Gionor Gionror to act as your new scribe. I’d be no good at that without a spleen.”

   “Hmm, ho-hummm, A new scribe I do need...come to me, and you shall see, all the things I do for spleen.”

   She was grabbed by the ankle again and dragged across the rock, bumping and scraping along the way. The Spleen-Eater deposited Sinead in a small cove where blue luminescent mushrooms grew. Sinead’s eyes adjusted to the new light, and she saw that there was a stack of parchment placed next to a writing desk.

   “Me needs letters for to get the spleen. You will writesy-wordsy that I says, and give it to the mailman man.” Sinead turned to face the monster. He was a mess of tentacles, a pile of noodles with a great jaw set with hundreds of gleaming teeth at its heart. Two milky-white eyes protruded from stalks out of the shamble. His face looked always upturned in a grin.

   “I think I understand. Is this all there is? Gionor Gionror spoke of...employment benefits?”

   “We offer dental. And a 401k.”

   “I see.”

   The Spleen-Eater elongated outward, an alien mimicry of turning to leave. “Today of letters I have no need. Morrow-morrow, we’ll start your sorrow.”

   Sinead curled up to the alcove wall, where she saw a skeleton propped up in a similar position. *I’ll die here*, she thought. *I’ll die here and everyone will forget I ever lived. No one even likes books anymore - my life’s work will mean nothing*. She stared up at the cave walls. They looked very tall in the low light of the mushrooms. She felt like she was going to cry.

   But somewhere deep in the well of her soul, she found a scrap of determination, and held fast to it. *I won’t let this beast destroy my will. I’ll find a way out of here, to kill this beast that’s ruined my life*.

   In the next days, Sinead settled into a new daily routine. She subsisted off cave creek water and mushrooms, and wrote down the insane ramblings of the Spleen-Eater. She learned that in the strange government of King Griffith, the Spleen-Eater constituted some sort of minor noble. He wrote to other monster nobles of the land, like Rattle-Me-Bones or Count Chocula. He would always say, in his own peculiar way, that his “conquest” was going smoothly and that the lands of Northern Gruganda would soon belong to Griffith’s kingdom. Sinead shuddered at the poor manners and odd grammar of the Spleen-Eater. In the first days, she would try to correct a sentence only for a tentacle to slap the pen out of her hand. “No, no, Scribesy! Spleens makes for me to smell your words. You write what me say only.” Her plans of sending out a missive for help were dashed then.

   Her only rays of hope came every two weeks, when Gionor Gionror came for the mail. For a brief moment then, Sinead got to walk to the mouth of the cave and feel the open air again, and see a human face. Gionor Gionror always looked morose, and always said in a whispered voice, “Oooh, miss, I am so very sorry that this is what I did ya for. I’m a right dunce sometoimes, yes I am.” Sinead could only nod and hand him the mail.

   Two months after her capture by the Spleen-Eater, Sinead was given permission to go up to the cave again, but there was no mail to send. Confused, but still expecting Gionor Gionror and happy to leave the oppressive cave, she ran up the path to the exit. She was stopped by an imposing figure. He was eight feet tall, wrapped in bandages, and bore an ornate mask with the likeness of a human face upon it.

   “Excuse me, sir, who are you who has come to the home of - of my liege?” Sinead choked out the words.

   “I AM THE STOMACH PRINCE IMHOTEP,” he announced, “AND I HAVE COME TO PALAVER WITH THE SNIVELING WORM KNOWN AS THE SPLEEN-EATER.”

   Upon hearing this, the Spleen-Eater came barreling up the cave, and made something like a bow to the prince. “My lord, my lord! Me so happy you come-to-come. I was… not expecting.” For the first time, Sinead thought she heard fear in the voice of the Spleen-Eater.

   “YOU HAVE BEEN COMMANDED BY HIS MAJESTY, KING GRIFFITH, TO CONQUER THIS LAND. YET YOU HAVE DONE NOTHING BUT GROW FAT ON SPLEENS. EXPLAIN THYSELF.”

   “Ooh, ooh, you are so very right, my glorious tummy-tummy princey. But you no-know that me have plan to take. Me make deal with man-man.”

   “YOU HAVE MADE A DEAL WITH A HUMAN?”

   “Yes, yes! We will take this place with no blood and many spleen!”

   “I AM DISGUSTED BY YOUR TACTICS.” He picked up the Spleen-Eater and threw him across the length of the cave. He slammed into the wall, cracking the stone. But the monster was unscathed. “Hee-hee! Do you no know?? Me-spleen-eating makes me invincibibibible! You can no hurt.” As he said the words, Sinead could still hear his fear.

   “HMPH. I SUPPOSE YOU ARE OF USE STILL. BUT WE SHALL RETURN.” In a flash of light, Stomach Prince Imhotep was gone.

   “Are you alright, sir?”

   “Hmm? Where are?” He asked. Sinead was puzzled. The Spleen-Eater usually had an uncanny ability to know where she was.

   “Right over here.” She said.

   “Oh!” The spleen eater cried. “My mom always used to say, Spleen-Eater, when you-you are afraid, it is like you smell nothing, like a human!!” Sinead raised her eyebrows at this, then tried to conceal her surprise.

   “You had a mother?”

   “Oh yes. Mama was the Bronchiole-Eater. I will tell-tell story of she.”

   The Spleen-Eater filled the night with idle chatter, but Sinead heard none of it. She feasted on the information she had gained, and before the night was out, the contours of a plan were forming in her mind.

   The next day, Sinead knelt before the spleen eater. “My liege, you have been so very generous to me, but I would ask of you one thing. There is a woman in my home town, one who I was courted for marriage before I came to your keep. If you would afford me the courtesy of writing to her, I would be well pleased.”

   “Hmm, hmm, gay rights, gay rights, I say! You may have-have this, every day.”

   *Thank you, Rick Grimes, thank you, Female Warrior!* She immediately set to writing her letter. She knew that the Spleen-Eater was smelling in on what she wrote, so she was quite careful:

   *My Love, I apologize for the delay in my writing. I have been so busy under the work of my new liege that I have scarce had a moment to write for myself. But know that all these months I have been thinking of you. I remember the first sip of tea you gave me: lemon ginger with poppyseed, hints of Piccolo root…*

   It was true that Sinead was no herbalist, but no one would ever mix up Alucard root, a delicious, peppermint-like aromatic, with Piccolo root, a deadly poison. She prayed that Freya, always the one who could spot the smallest flower in a forest, the most minute patterns in a weave, would see the code she was writing in.

   Over the next year, she wrote about all sorts of nonsense roots in her letters, and whispered short instructions to Gionor Gionror. She didn’t think her plan would work. But what else could she try?

The month of Ockh-Tobar came all too quickly, but Sinead had sent out all the instructions she needed. The time came for a task she had long dreaded: writing the list of thirty-three names. They flew off of the Spleen-Eater’s tongue, who was gyrating and giggling:

“Beavis O’Callahan, Mertock the Puppeteer, Freya Gardener…”

   She froze. The Spleen-Eater knew that Freya and Sinead were lovers, and yet he condemned her to death all the same? Sinead thought she reviled the Spleen-Eater as deeply as possible before, but now it had grown ten times that.

   “What’s wrong, dear? This is your most importantsy day! Freya Gardener, Gordon Grimes…”

   The list was sent out to Gionor Gionror that day, who assured her that all in town had heard of Sinead’s plan. She had not trusted even him with Freya’s critical part in the plan, so she could only hope that she had figured out her cipher.

   The night of the thirty-first of Ockh-Tobar had come. Sinead’s heart pounded in her chest. “Where are the spleens? They should have come by now… Oh! I hear something!” Sinead ran up the cave with the shambling beast, and as they came to the mouth, she beheld an incredible sight.

   The whole town had come to the mouth of the cave. They were dressed in elaborate feathers, horrific masks, and colored hides. To the Spleen-Eater’s dark-vision eyes, they must have looked for all the world like horrible monsters.

   “Eek-eek! Lords of Griffith! What is it you need??”

   *Yes!* Sinead took her chance to bolt away from the beast and run to the top of the hill. A beautiful sight awaited her there. It was Freya, looking just as beautiful as Sinead had remembered. They embraced and kissed hurriedly. Behind her, Freya held a wagon with a bulging sack inside.

   “Thirty-three hollowed-out cattle spleens, as you requested, my love. And filled with just the mix of herbs you requested.”

   “Oh, Freya, thank you so much! When this is over, I’m going to -”

   “What is the meaning of this?!”

   Duke Sniverfeld rode up to them, brandishing a sword atop his black horse. “I kept a delicate peace with that monster, rising to power with his aid, and tonight was the night he was going to make me a prince of Griffith’s Kingdom! I was going to make something incredible of this land, and now you do this foolishness?! I’ll put you both to the sword -”

   “Ooh, Mr. Duke Sir! You forgot your special delivery!”

   Gionor Gionror threw a package at Sniverfeld’s head. Just as it collided with his face, Gionor Gionror pressed a small button. The C4 plastic explosive detonated with a directly on Sniverfeld’s face, killing him instantly.

   “Ooh, wrong package. I was gonna give him one of those fake peanut cans that opens up and a bunch of springs pop out. I’m sorry.”

   Sinead smiled. “No, you did a great job, Gionor Gionror. I forgive you.” She took the cart of spleens and wheeled it down the hill and into the cave, where the Spleen-Eater was hiding.

   “Scribey! Do you have my spleens? Please! They are going to kill me-me! Without me spleens they can do it!!”

   “Of course, my liege,” handing over the sack. The Spleen-Eater opened it hungrily and devoured them all. “MMMMMM….wait… this is not right taste… NOT RIGHT SMELL! IT HURTS!”

   “That’s right, you damned blackguard. I learned of your two weaknesses - your fear of monsters stopping your smell, and your vulnerability on this very day - to trick you into eating tainted meat. Die Monster Die Monster!!”

   “Noooo!!!” The Spleen-Eater dissolved into dust like in undertale. Sinead ran out of the cave for the last time. “The Spleen-Eater is dead, and so too is the traitorous Duke!” The whole town, still dressed in their costumes, cried out in joy. They rode back to town and partied all the rest of the night. But Sinead did not join them. She went back with Freya to her cottage, and collapsed in her arms, exhausted.

   “I love you,” they both said at once, and laughed.

   “I think you were wrong,” Sinead said sleepily, “about our passions. We are best at our own studies, you were right about that, but see what we could do when we let them intertwine?”

   “That is very wise, my love. And I think I am ready to let a great many more things in our life intertwine.”

   With the Duke dead, many asked for Sinead to become duchess, but she had other plans. She and her new wife rode off for the Ringed City, where together they wrote a compendium of all the herbs of the Last Land, which is still used in medicine around the world. But Sinead and Freya’s greater legacy will forever be the Day of the Hollow Spleen, now simply called Halloween, which we reenact with our costumes and candy every year.