The Sewerkeeper's Apprentice
by Tanner Abernathy

Prologue: The Apprentice Convention
 

Always the last kid alone at the apprentice convention, third year in a row. Every other tween prophecy-age snot-nosed kid stood with their reluctant, grumpy, wise master. The ranger picked some orphan who raised themself in the forest. The sorcerer walked out with a kid who floated in on a gosh-dang storm cloud. The eye-lined necromancer's kid practically killed for the position. After them, the potion master picked a twiggy kid who corrected a famous potions textbook. The steam-engineer picked a kid with a top hat and goggles (typical). Joke's on me, all the weird kids got picked first.

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          I shoved Pop's clip-on tie deep into my pocket and collapsed melodramatically against the side of a vending machine. Pop's words came to mind, "We'll try one more year, this one has a good feeling to it. Who knows, maybe the druid needs a new kid. Druid's apprentice, nice ring to it, eh?"

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          Soon enough, the conference cleared out and booths were taken down; I was more than ready to begin the day-long journey home. The gym floor was swept, zambonied, and the administration repeatedly thanked the stragglers for attending, the way they do when they really mean to say 'go home'. He'd had sent me here for one last try at an apprenticeship. I would go back to the stable and say, "Well, Pop, it seems like everyone else knew where they were meant to be except me. Say, does the stable need shoveling? Should I just climb in the dung pile and stay there for the rest of my life?" He would say with surprising sternness, "That's not the way your mother raised you." Although with Mom being dead so long, it seems more of an excuse for his not raising me or teaching me anything besides pushing aside animal crap. When would that ever matter?

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          I was shuffling my crap-stained feet through the doors, the smell of free popcorn and cheap plastic pens finally dissipated in the smoky air. A shaggy man in blue coveralls, as large as a good-sized ogre, sat sniffling by the exit. Being in no hurry to drag my feet through fifteen miles of mud home, I sat down with him and started sniffling too. He was really bumming me out, big wrinkly forehead down by his big knobby knees, and a nose wetter than a lake in the rain.
 

          "Couldn't get an apprenticeship, eh? Well, me either, big stinkin' whoop." So we sat there: me in my shitbrown shoes, the big guy with his big red hair and beard.
 

          The forehead spoke, "Actually, me came to find apprentice. All kid too cool or part of some ancient prophecy or odder."
 

          I shouldn't have been surprised at how he talked, but I never was the stereotyping type. "Let a man's words guide your opinion of him, or else you'd think we were no better than the manure," Pop would say. When he lifted his head, I saw his maw. Two tusks curled from the corners of his mouth, his eyebrows were set so far over his shapeless nose that they looked like an insect's feelers.
 

          "You be my apprentice? Me teach you good and you don't have to go away sad. You even smell like me," the ogre said. I'd probably been too busy brooding near the necromancer's booth to even notice his setup by the bathrooms ('lay the bait for what you want to catch', he'd later tell me).
 

          I thought about telling him I only began sniffling because I thought it was a good point of conversation, but I rolled my eyes, bit my tongue, said a prayer to some god, and contemplated my options. I could either tell this ogre-man that it sucks to suck and shuffle home to Pop, climb in the crap-pile (probably to die), be tilled into some farmer's field next sowing season. Or I could swear myself to this inarticulate forehead, not sure of his trade and write a book about it years later. I imagine, from the ogres who typically go stomping (I have never seen an ogre walk) through our little village, that their trades are either as bounty-hunters, or plus-sized models (I'll admit, I have a thing for the lady ogres). Since this ogre-man here at the convention and not in the centerfold of Ogres Weekly, I assumed the former, and probably not a very good one. I decided that it might not be so bad wandering the country apprehending ruffians, ne'er-do-wells, and do-bad-ers in general.
 

          "Ok. Let's make a deal. I'll be your apprentice, and you can come with me to tell my father how successful I'd be as a bounty hunter. I'll even title a section in my journal, 'Bounty Hunter's Apprentice'. Sound good, big guy?"
 

          Suddenly, the two black pebbles the ogre-man used for eyes got very wet-looking, like an old dog's eyes. He began rocking back and forth, making hiccupy noises with his throat.
 

          Assuming these to be tears of happiness and humility, I said, "Whoa there, pal, don't thank me quite yet. I know I saved you from humiliation, you know, being the only master to leave here alone, but let's get to know one another first, as a bounty hunter, you probably have a cool tough name, like Bonetooth, or Knife-neck, or Hellkiller. And hey, after my first arrest, I'll take on some tough name, like Hammerfinger or Whale-Tale…"

Whatever noises the pile of red hair was making got louder, and I began looking around to see if anyone was staring… pitiful, no wonder this sap hadn't gotten an apprentice.
 

          "You think… you think… me bounty hunter? Ho Ho Ho! You think Pinchloaf a big bad bounty hunter?" The not-bounty-hunter began rolling on the ground like a greased potato.
 

          Perhaps here I realized my mistake. Firstly, the odd convulsions were something of a laugh. Secondly, being part ogre, Pinchloaf probably wasn't the shiniest hoof on the ox, and surely did not contain the thief-catching agility and strength of a full-fledged ogre, being a halfer, some god only knows what he does for a living.
 

          "Okay… okay… I was joking anyway," I didn't mean to sound too disappointed, so I stared at my crap-stained shoes and did a fake laugh, "ho ho ho, whatever. So what do you do?"
 

          "You no smell it? Pinchloaf is sewerkeeper! And sewerkeeper need apprentice too! Me think that apprentice is you!"
 

Tanner Abernathy is a teacher at Decatur High School. He writes stories and poems and tries to help his students do the same.