Tabo, the Crusher

The totem rubbed the back mercilessly, and this did not allow Tabo to enjoy the beauty of the surrounding savannah. To a casual observer from the outside, it might seem that a large and strong gnoll is striding across the hot, cracked earth as cheerfully as before, but those who knew Tabo closely would notice …

However, close to Tabo, nicknamed the Crusher, no one knew. A huge lubber, whose body was pierced in different places with small bones, even by the standards of the gnolls was considered creepy. Tabo’s high, shrill voice didn’t add to his charm either. Every time the Crusher opened his mouth, those around him plugged their ears with their paws and tried to get away. Therefore, only Tabo himself knew about the subtle mental organization of Tabo. Although the tribesmen would certainly be surprised to know that the overweight gnoll composes poetry, sitting on the banks of a dried-up river.

And now Tabo was sullenly striding forward, with his whole appearance inspiring awe and respect in those around him, but in his head he still could not form a rhyme for the word “baobab”. Screeching and hooting, Savannah Riders rode past on their faithful warthogs, and the longed-for image that had almost formed in the Crusher’s head was blown to dust in the wind. Tabo snarled menacingly at the Riders and shook his war staff. The bloody lion campaign that the shaman-chief Ndidi sent the tribe to began to tire. And Ndidi himself, according to the Crusher’s opinion, was desperately lacking a sense of style. But it was time to cheer up yourself and increase the endurance of others.

Tabo halted and with a perfect movement removed the totem from his back. With a swing he drove it into the ground and began to make clumsy movements around the wooden idol, accompanying them with a jerky howl. The gnoll himself at such moments imagined that he was dancing, fluttering around the totem like a light antelope. The tribesmen saw Tabo’s actions differently, but the clumsy dance of the Crusher somehow gave them strength and helped them to go further across the hot savannah. It was as if the ancestral spirits themselves or the half-forgotten gods of the land of Kush were looking at them from the eyes carved in the tree and urging them to action.

Tabo the Crusher took the last step, took the totem out of the parched earth with a powerful yank, put it back on his back, and strode forward again. He was about to begin to add new lines in his head, but suddenly a dozen figures emerged from the unsteady haze. Lions! Tabo bared his teeth, gripped his skull-topped staff more comfortably, howled deafeningly, and charged. The battle was for the Crusher the stage of the theater and the canvas of the artist at the same time. He painted the epic canvas of battle with broad strokes, staged the greatest production in history. And even though it looked like a furious battle from the outside, in which the howling gnoll crushed the skulls of enemies, tore out their throats with their teeth and broke their ridges, Tabo himself at that time was at the peak of creative ecstasy.

At the end of the battle, Tabo found the largest pool of lion’s blood and stuck a totem in its middle. The spirits loved this, even the carved smile of the idol seemed to become wider. Crusher sat down on the edge of the puddle, thoughtfully dipped his finger in the scarlet liquid, and began to draw patterns on the ground.