Zuk and Zob - A Fable For Our Time

ZUK and ZOB - A Fable For Our Time - by James Fox

At the dawn of time, an enterprising caveman, known as Swarthy Zob, lived at the far end of the cave village. Although not yet aged beyond 25 winters, Swarthy Zob might have thought himself an “entrepreneur,” and his old friend, Not-tall Zuk, a “mentor.”  But, as neither word yet existed, Zob had not articulated this belief.          

Zob was a simple fur trader who would barter tree-limb clubs and flint-pointed spears for fur pelts, which he worked up into garments for the cave people. After he had added the Zob-Fob, an antler-tip toggle, as a cape fastener, his business increased exponentially. Shaking his curly dark-brown locks in bemusement, Zob would often reflect on the fact that he was again trading his finished garments for the very clubs and spears he'd exchanged earlier in the year. His gray-bearded and balding, old friend, Zuk liked to expound on this phenomenon, which he called “a balanced budget,” but Zob usually just smiled and shrugged and kept on scraping hides, for he wasn't much into politics or civics lessons.          

Early one morning in the late spring, the brutish Neb, absent-mindedly scratchy his hairy chest, schlepped into Zob’s cave. Neb was accompanied by his ever-present entourage of gnats and flies. Zob steeled his features so as to not grimace over Neb's reeking stench, nor scowl as several flies alighted on the cave walls, intent upon staying for good. Neb had stopped by to announce that the cave people had decided to appoint a king. But this was not news to Zob. He had already heard this rumor spread by Blueberry Smudge and her brother, Portly Tub, who were both hoping that a festive feast would be involved.          

Now, according to Neb, it was not rumor, but fact. He predicted that the powerful caveman, Mog, would be the most obvious and inevitable choice for king. With an evil leer, Neb growled, “Of course I shall handle all of the details for the king's coronation.” Zob was wary, for he didn't get along very well with Neb. In fact, Zob would have said there was “antipathy” between them, had the word existed at the time.

Neb swiveled his head side to side, gawking about Zob’s cave. Turning back to Zob, Neb raised his shaggy unibrow and smiled slyly as he laid down a single flint point, saying, “Now, Swarthy Zob, I have promised Mog that, as king, he shall wear the finest pelts that you have in your possession.”

Zob looked at the flint point with distain. He picked it up and after dusting it off on his Tawny Saber Cat tunic, tried to hand it back. “Neb, this is a single flint. You know I require a minimum deposit.”

Neb’s eyes flared as he snapped back, “But that’s a Royal flint point. It's from the Royal Treasury! So, that's enough to handle your usual fee. In full!” Feigning a friendly smile, Neb announced, “And, Zob, just so you know, the king must have this new regalia by noon tomorrow!”

As Neb stepped to the door of the cave, chuckling, Zob's heart was heavy with worry. Then his blood ran cold as Neb stopped and turned back, slowly. “By the way,” sneered Neb, “I have arranged to be appointed Chief High Executioner as soon as Mog is crowned king. So, my dear Zob, I would suggest that you do not disappoint him!” 

With an evil guffaw, Neb, scratching his hairy chest, turned and stepped out into the daylight. Still chuckling and in a cloud of gyrating gnats, Neb sauntered off down the trail to the village.
         
In a panic, Zob rushed about the cave. Summer was approaching and he had tanned and traded away almost every pelt that he had. Just what could he do, he wondered, to save his life? Just then, a shadow fell across the cave door, a very short shadow, and Zob looked up to see his old friend Not-tall Zuk enter.          

With more than a bit of agitation, Zob explained that he was in quite a predicament, (which he mispronounced as "quite a pickle”), but Zuk didn't seem very worried. “Calm down, my old friend,” said Zuk, “calm down and tell me just what furs you do have left.”          

Zob tried to keep his voice steady as he tallied aloud the pitiful inventory that remained. “Over there,” Zob jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, “I have several weasel pelts from Asia. And up there,” he waggled his finger toward his trash ledge, “I only have some winter weasel skins. So, you see? I am doomed. Doomed!”          

Patting Zob's shoulder, Zub rasped out, “Wait. Hold on now. There’s no need to panic. We just need a plan!” Zuk began to stroke his beard as he stood deep in thought. At last, his face brightened.

Wide eyed with excitement Zuk chuckled, "Okay, Zob, I’ve got it! Do you remember the exquisite tunic that you crafted, with matching leggings, for Stylish Minx's wedding trousseau? You created that entire ensemble just from scraps of leopard skins. Recall her groom, that cave artist and esoteric poet, Umber Blot, raved about them for months. So, Zob, now just make the finest cloak that you can from all of these weasel furs!  Tomorrow I shall be right at your side when you present the cloak to our new king, Powerful Mog.”          

Zob was curious, but still worried, as Zuk was rather short and not known to be much of a fighter. Should the gift be perceived as an insult, Zuk could hardly help stave off Brutish Neb and his clan of clubsmen. Zob stopped chewing nervously on his dirty thumbnail to ask, “How can you help me?”          

Zuk smiled as he said, “Why, with my stentorian voice!” Zob didn't recognize the word, and he repeated, “Stentorian?” Zuk laughed, “Yes, it means I bellow like a Wooly Mammoth. That's why I was hoping for a senate rather than a king. But, go with the flow, my friend, just go with the flow.” Zob shrugged, for he rarely followed politics and he couldn't see how a speech would save his life. But Zob trusted his old friend, and so he set to work on the few bedraggled weasel pelts that he had left.          

By mid-morning the following day, the shadow of the village day-pole had just begun to climb its shaft, when the cave people gathered around with their gifts for the coronation of their new king. Exactly at noon, The Village Quartet Band began to play the Processional Fanfare with their drum, wooden flute, Bison horn and gourd rattles.

Powerful Mog, accompanied by Brutish Neb and his scowling clan of clubsmen, proceeded along the path toward the day-pole. Mog smiled and nodded regally as he and his procession accepted the woven twig baskets of fruits, berries, fried lizards, and shiny shells, presented by his fawning subjects.          

At the far end of the path, Swarthy Zob waited nervously with his old friend, amazed at how calm Not-tall Zuk seemed to be, considering the two of them were within a minute of getting their brains clubbed in. Just as Mog reached the day-pole, Zuk grasped the shoulder strap of his tunic with one hand and raised his other hand, forefinger extended in an orator's pose. Zuk loudly cleared his throat and in stentorian tones spoke to the people. It was then that Zob realized Zuk was more than an old friend, more than a short, balding, caveman with a loud voice, more than a gray-bearded wise man; Zuk was a Spin Doctor Extraordinaire!          

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Zuk bellowed, “in a few minutes Neb and his Royal Guard of clubsmen shall have first choice of the ladies with whom to dance in a joyous celebration promenade for our new king, Mog, the Magnificent! ” The clubsmen's scowls faded as they set down their clubs and the gift baskets, and began to look around seeking the fairest, or at least cleanest, of cave women about.

Zuk harrumphed for attention, then continued bellowing, “But first we must honor our king by presenting him with his royal cloak.” Zuk elbowed Zob, who nervously unfolded the weasel pelts that he had worked on all night.          

As Zob stepped forward to present the cloak to the king, Zuk raised his arms in salutation as he bellowed, “Ladies and  Gentlemen, please bow, as King Mog is wrapped in this royal cloak crafted from the finest dark fur of, um, uh… Far East Sable!  And trimmed with the exotic white fur of, uh… Ermine!  Most assuredly a cloak fit for a king!”          

Sable? Ermine? Zob could hardly believe his ears as the cave people began to “Ooo” and “Ahh” over the weasel pelts that he'd worked up into Mog's new cloak. Then a wry smile flitted across his lips as, deep in his heart, Zob realized that not only had his old friend saved his life, but from that day forward, kings and queens, and haughty women of wealth, would wear weasel and think that they were really something quite extraordinaire.

-originally edited and published in Bards & Sages Quarterly -January 2012