The Beaver King, Cautionary Tales of Medieval Dysfunction

Lord Brentin and Zeb Warthog met in primary school.

That fact is uncontested, though the reason for their closeness is less clear. Brentin collected people easily in those years, and Zeb, already excessive in body and habit, was difficult to dislodge once attached.

As this account is sung by This Minstrelle, it relies on Baylor the Brave’s memory. He did not become close with Zeb Warthog until later, after schooling had ended and the boys were no longer boys. Young adulthood, when friendships were no longer assigned by classrooms or schedules, but by tolerance.

His most unflattering trait, next to his smell and size was that Zeb believed he knew everything. This belief was not supported by education. He was, in fact, profoundly uneducated, though he would never have described himself that way. Zeb mistook confidence for knowledge and repetition for mastery. He enjoyed mechanical work and took pride in using his hands, but lacked the common sense required to do it well. He approached problems enthusiastically, disassembled too much, and reassembled things incorrectly while insisting the fault lay elsewhere.

Physically, Zeb was difficult to ignore. He was of average height, but very obese. His belly was heavy and forward, his arms thick, flesh pressed into itself in soft layers. His wrists and elbows bore deep pale fold-lines. His face remained round and babyish well into adulthood, multiple chins resting where a jawline never formed.

Thick black-rimmed glasses magnified eyes that rarely held conviction. His hair was perpetually greasy, pushed out from beneath a soft, ill-fitting cap. He wore gray shirts stretched taut across his middle, stained not by labor but by neglect. He smelled faintly of grease even when he had eaten nothing, and wherever he stood too long, the dirt darkened beneath him.

Oddly, for his size, Zeb could move unexpectedly fast. Not gracefully and not for long, but suddenly. His first motion often surprised people. He was strong, undeniably so, but there was no endurance behind it. He winded quickly. Breath left him faster than sense. Whatever advantage speed or strength offered him vanished almost immediately.

Despite his bulk, Zeb was usually quiet. Reserved, even. He did not dominate conversation. He listened more than he spoke, though listening rarely resulted in understanding. His silence was not thoughtfulness so much as absence, present, but not fully engaged.

He ate constantly. Not meals, but accumulations. Strange combinations layered without regard for taste or balance. Meats upon meats, vegetables added indiscriminately, sauces piled until structure failed. His diet was aggressively unhealthy, both in volume and composition. Baylor once watched him make the Allfold—an enormous wrap, barely contained, stuffed with everything available. Chicken. Beef. Pork. Mushrooms. Greens from the garden. Anything that could be lifted was included. It was wrapped in thick, unleavened pita bread, folded again and again until structure became suggestion rather than guarantee.

Zeb timed himself while he ate it. Not as a novelty, he timed himself every time. This was a point of pride.

Zeb happily drove the wagon while others drank. This was not restraint or responsibility. It was simply assumed that he did not drink because he ate until there was no room left. When he did drink, his choice drew ridicule, a sweet, malted iced tea more commonly favored by the ladies of Solipsia. The boys mocked him freely. Zeb accepted this without protest, sipping contentedly and insisting it was superior.

Zeb bathed once a week. This might have gone unnoticed had he not worked with heavy, oily equipment similar to Baylor’s. By the end of each week, he smelled as though the work had soaked into him permanently. Dirt and grime covered everything he touched. The space absorbed his habits and could not recover from them.

Despite all of this, Zeb found love before his schooling was finished. Her name was Macklynn. She was a sweet girl, kind, gentle in manner, and of equal width and weight to Zeb. They moved through the world at the same pace, unembarrassed by one another. Where Zeb was careless, Macklynn was forgiving. Where he was oblivious, she was attentive.

There are some truths that resist satire. You know it must be real love when the love outweighs the stench.

Despite having jobs, neither Zeb nor Macklynn truly left home. They lived with their respective parents well into adulthood, even after marriage. There was always a reason to delay independence. A room already available. A cost better avoided. It would be a long while before they shared a household of their own. Longer still before children came. Life unfolded slowly for them, without urgency.

This is where the emotion enters. Baylor the Bound and This Minstrelle both believe that Zeb Warthog played a meaningful role in a chain of events that led directly to Baylor’s departure from Beaverton and the moment known as the Turning.

Baylor believed Zeb looked up to him. Zeb chose the same line of work. Baylor found his first job. Baylor showed up again and again for his friends, no matter the personal cost, and Zeb was very happy to be a priority. That was until This Minstrelle entered Baylor’s life.

Jealousy followed quickly. Not only from Zeb, but from others in Baylor’s orbit who did not tolerate displacement well. Together, they worked, quietly and persistently to undermine the new relationship.

Zeb did not lead that effort, but he stood with it. As usual, Lord Brentin stood at the helm of that ship, and Zeb Warthog stood on its deck—present, compliant, unwilling to step away.

It has been years since Baylor the Brave last spoke to Zeb. He has no intention of doing so again. There are people Baylor misses after the Turning. Zeb Warthog is not one of them.

Zeb’s story does not end here. He appears again and again in This Minstrelle’s personal accounts leading up to The Turning, never at the center, never absent, always close enough to matter