Gershalt

The morning forest is still, in that small moment between the last night prowlers going to rest and the next shift taking over. No birdsong yet. Even the rivulet is muted, joining in this minute of calm.

A door scrapes open, lonely in the silence. It is soon followed by a long clearing of throat,

“Hgrmph!”

Some spitting, “Phht!”

And a song suddenly fills the air.

It is described here as a song, though in reality it is more of a cross between yodeling and a heated argument. Words can be made out, though they will not be transcribed here in fear of heavy censoring.

The essence of this lyrical outburst seems to be directed at someone’s mother, describing her in unbecoming situations and detailing her anatomy in unflattering rhyme.

After a few bars, from across the chasm rises a similar chant. In choruses and cannons, several voices mingle, portraying someone’s progenitor as a member of a certain profession.

In Gershalt this is all part of a long-standing tradition, whose roots go back to a forgotten dispute generations ago. There are rules now, and standards, respected by all (except for Klent but he’s not allowed to participate anymore). It has become something of a movement, spreading to neighboring villages. There has been talk of inter-village competitions, using amplifying cones. One cannot wait.