Zorgamazoo

by Robert Paul Weston

  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,<
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  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.”

  “Oh, reeeeaaally?” said Winnie.

  “And should I be impressed?

  You think I’m unhappy? You think I’m depressed?!

  That I lie around weeping all day and all night?

  Well, listen here, missy…You’re perfectly right!”

  Winnie went back to her bellowing moans,

  to her blubbers,

  her whimpers,

  her grumbles, and groans.

  “Please,” said Katrina, “Just cool it! Calm down!

  Your tears are so thick, I could practically drown!

  Just take a deep breath and try to relax.

  Then tell me what happened. I’m after the facts.

  The zorgles who live here—where did they go?

  Because I’ve got a hunch that maybe you know.

  Was it some sort of magic, or maybe a curse?

  Were they kidnapped by pirates…

  or burglars…

  or worse?”

  “The zorgles!” wept Winnie. “I remember them well.

  “My friends,” she said sadly. “Aw, gee, they were swell!

  Which is why it’s so awful, about the attack.

  They were eaten, Katrina. They’ll never come back!

  They ate every zorgle in Zorgamazoo!

  They ate everyone up—and my family, too!

  They had tentacles! Wings! They had terrible claws!

  And they’ll eat us up, too, with their slobbery jaws!”

  Before Winnie could finish, before she could try,

  she stopped…because something went crackle, nearby.

  “They’re back!” Winnie sniveled. “We’re done for!

  We’re doomed!

  We’ll be eaten, Katrina! Devoured! Consumed!”

  Then came a voice. It was husky and gruff.

  “I found you!” It wheezed, with a huff and a puff.

  To Winnie, Katrina seemed terribly brave,

  as she held up her hand in a casual wave.

  Katrina, of course, knew that nothing was wrong.

  “Hi, Morty,” she said. “What took you so long?”

  Morty said nothing. He had stopped where he was,

  when he spotted that whimpering tower of fuzz.

  “Uh, Katrina?” he whispered. “I think we should go.

  That thing’s not a zorgle—or didn’t you know?”

  Katrina just laughed. “Don’t be silly,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to fear, nothing to dread.

  Morty, meet Winnie. She’s a windigo beast.

  She’s the fiercest in all of the west—and the east.”

  “Uh, hi there,” said Morty. He gave her a wave.

  (He was trying his best to be stoic and brave).

  Winnie looked up. “You’re a zorgle,” she said.

  “But I thought you were eaten! I thought you were dead!”

  She came forward, to Morty, like a lumbering rug,

  and hoisted him up for a muscular hug.

  “Okay!” Morty gasped. “It’s true! I’m alive!

  But you squeeze any tighter, I doubt I’ll survive!”

  “You poor thing.” Winnie sniffled, “How awful for you.

  After all that has happened to Zorgamazoo!”

  Then she loosened her grip. She put Morty down

  and her face, once again, tumbled into a frown.

  She sniffed through her nose. She grimaced, and then,

  her eyes started going all teary again.

  “Okay!” cried Katrina. “Enough is enough!

  I’m sick of this miserable whimpering stuff!”

  She was glaring at Winnie, right dead in the eye.

  “Just tell us what happened! And try not to cry.”

  So Winnie was brave. She began to recall,

  in every detail, no matter how small,

  all that had happened and all that she knew,

  of

  Chapter 10

  a terrible tale

  Winnie, you see, was rather a mess. In telling her tale, as maybe you’d guess, she sniffled a lot—and you should understand, she was wiping that snot on the back of her hand.

  So I’ll spare you the boogers, all runny and warm,

  and I’ll give you her story in summary form:

  The windigo usually travel in packs.

  They’re especially careful to cover their tracks.

  They live in the roughest, most mountainous lands,

  and scavenge the cliffs, with their family clans.

  That’s how Winnie was. She was rather the same.

  She lived with the clan of her family name,

  together in thick and together in thin,

  with her uncles and cousins, her kith and her kin.

  Winifred Windigo Thistle McPaw,

  or “Winnie,” of course, as you already saw,

  lived on the ridge of a forested peak,

  near the banks of a lazy, meandering creek.

  The creek overflowed to the valley below,

  and perhaps you might guess where the water would go.

  It flowed over rocks, with its watery blue,

  to a pond in the middle of Zorgamazoo!

  So after a morning of hiking around,

  traversing the cliffs and the mountainous ground,

  the windigo clan would visit their friends,

  at the pond where the waterfall finally ends.

  You see, countryside zorgles and windigo folk,

  go together as well as a laugh and a joke;

  and whenever together, in Zorgamazoo,

  do you know what the zorgles and windigo do?

  Well, let me say this: In all of my days,

  and in all of my study of windigo ways,

  the fact that I find to be oddest of all

  is that windigo love to play Zorgally Ball!

  Even Winnie herself (when she wasn’t depressed),

  was a batter who batted as well as the best;

  and that’s what she did on the terrible day

  when the countryside zorgles were stolen away.

  Winnie�
�s own team, the “Growlers” by name,

  came down from the cliffs for a sociable game.

  When Winnie arrived, she was limber and spry,

  with a spring in her step and a gleam in her eye.

  She arrived with her Uncle, and Auntie as well,

  on a day when the weather was perfectly swell.

  The zorgles were waiting. The meadow was groomed;

  the uniforms pressed, the equipment perfumed;

  the goggles were polished, the bases were buffed,

  while up in the bleachers, the cushions were fluffed.

  Every helmet was buckled up under a chin,

  and at last it was time for the game to begin.

  The competition was stiff, the athletics intense.

  There were several hits that went over the fence.