by Rick Johnson
Feeling certain that he would be given the most miserable space in the house, Emil nevertheless followed, too wet and cold to care where he slept. Carrying a sputtering candle, the innkeeper conducted him along a long, dark passageway. Opening a second door, the roaring storm blew in rain once again. Sniggering, the innkeeper pointed to a dilapidated barn, barely discernable through the driving rain.
“There you go Zanuck,” a nice room for you. “And you’ll find some company there—a Poolytuck is already settled down there for the night. Now get yourself out of my inn, the rain is soakin’ my boots and floodin’ the hallway! The barn will be fine place for a mud-brained idiot like yourself!”
Saying nothing, Emil waded hurriedly across the flooded, muddy ground to the barn. Pushing the door open softly he peered into the gloomy, musty-smelling building. A constant stream of drips pattered here and there from the badly leaking roof, leaving much of the floor covered in puddles.
“Ya-Chooo! Wheeez-Zooo!” The feeble sneeze revealed the location of a Moose reclining on a rough bed of burlap bags laid across some planks resting on a couple of barrels. The crude bed was set up in a corner of the barn where the roof did not leak.
Splashing across the wet, muddy floor to the small scrap of dry space, his eyes scanned the motionless body curled tightly under a scant covering of bags. In the dim light, he could make out the poor beast’s body shivering with cold, as his breath wheezed out a nearly continuous stream of faint sneezes.
Bone-weary and hungry, the miserable Wood Cow knew the sorry condition of his roommate had to be his first priority. Having nothing that was truly dry, Emil ripped a few dry boards off the wall of the barn. Using a bit of dry straw he found and the flint he always carried, he soon got a decent small fire going in the tiny dry corner of the barn. The old barn had a fine high roof that allowed the smoke to rise and be sucked out through the several broken windows and spaces left by missing timbers. The fire burned nicely and gradually the small corner of safety became warm.
At first, the Moose did not respond to Emil’s presence. For a long time, Emil crouched by the burning heap of wood, listening to the wailing wind and rain. Little by little, the warmth of the fire raised Emil’s spirits and seemed to steady his companion’s breathing. Finding dry boards here and there in the barn, Emil tore them down and broke them into splintered pieces for burning. Soon he had enough to assure a decent fire through the night. Then he took off his drenched outer clothing and hung it to dry near the fire.
He had just settled down in his underclothes before the fire, trying to warm some food and drink from his pack, when his long-silent companion spoke: “Well, look at me, sleeping like a piece o’ timber—but nothing wrong that a little warmth and a friendly snip of toast won’t cure! Not much wrong with my appetite, but my nose is still a bit out o’ sorts—Ya-chooo!”
Emil chuckled, feeling relief that the Moose was showing signs of improvement. To his delight, the elderly Moose suddenly sat up, grinning at him with a silly, toothless smile. In the light of the fire, the Moose’s slender form cast a slight shadow on the wall, seeming like a blowing cobweb in the flickering light. He was really just a sliver of a beast, Emil thought; the obvious vigor and strength of earlier years now gone. A ragged beard hung from his grizzled, wrinkled face, which was lit by two brightly gleaming, deeply-set eyes. His head was shaved to a stubble.
“Well,” the Moose began, “I’ll be as silly as I was born to be in a few hours. A pint of cupper and a snip of toast would put spine in my spirit. Any chance of that, my wibble?” Before Emil could reply, a violent fit of wheezing overtook the old Moose and he fell back on his bed. “Acht, it’s not more than it was,” he gasped, wheezing for breath. “I’ll need more than a pint of cupper and toast to make the climb.”
“Make the climb?” Emil asked incredulously. “You can’t be a climber—you climb to Maev Astuté? You’re in no shape to be going on that cursed climb! Just you drop your bag of guts and drool right back on that bed and let me warm up some food and drink for us.”
“A Poolytuck’s not got many choices when it comes to the climb, y’know,” the old Moose wheezed as Emil pulled a tin jug from his pack. “I’ve got to climb, die, or live like a dead beast. There’s few places to die in peace for an old Poolytuck with no family to fall back on—might’s as well freeze up solid on the stairs. At least that way’s no one says I’d be a cowardly beast, set only on comfort.”
“Comfort!” Emil grimaced. “Why you’re barely a breath of air and a treadbare sheet of fur. Yar! There’ll be no climbin’ for you, old spot! I won’t allow it. I’d rather freeze on the stairs myself. You’ll be a dead beast before you take ten steps up there on the mountain. Nar, you won’t be climbin’—I’ll see to that.”
Emil said nothing more for a time, although his thoughts whirled with fury. Twisting the wide cap off his water jug, he emptied the stale water out in a puddle on the floor. Then he walked over and held the jug under one of the streams of rain water coming through the roof. The patter of rain filling the jug soothed his nerves. “Yar,” he thought to himself, “that Moose won’t be climbin’ that cursed mountain—not so long as I’ve got breath.”
When the jug was half-full, Emil carried it back over by the fire. Reaching into his pack he pulled out the soggy remains of a barley loaf. A dripping mass of gummy flour was all that was left of what had once been a fine fresh loaf. Emil chuckled as he torn the soggy mess into bits and put them in the jug of water, then held the jug out over the fire with a pitchfolk he found leaning against the wall.
“There we go, old spot. We’ll just have our hot food and drink as a single batch—call it Innkeeper’s Best and I wager it’ll be no better or worse than the soup he serves to the regular guests!”
The old Moose laughed, and could not help sitting back up as he said with great ceremony, “Ah, yes, Mr. E, the bread could not be more ruined if we had drug it behind us in the rain. It’s a putrid mess, or rather has a certain look of moldy beauty that cannot but be a gift to the belly of any beast already close to death!” With a dramatic flourish, the Moose collapsed back on the bed howling: “He-He-Ho, Yabbo-Zee! I’m dead...No, I’m faint...No, I’m sick o’ the head and my liver’s black as pitch and my name is not a word to be spoken by a sane beast! He-He-He-Ho! Quick! Salt and proper peas for me!”
The wild words of the old Moose left Emil uncertain if his companion were acting or delirious.
The Moose suddenly fell silent and looked sternly at Emil. “So, is the gruel ready yet? Surely you’re not going to starve a poor old Poolytuck are you?”
Chuckling good-naturedly, Emil said, “Wait just a bit, you old faker. You’re not so thin as to die before it boils.”
Soon each one was taking swallows of the red-hot gruel, straight from the jug. The famished beasts literally bolted the steaming liquid down, grinning from ear to ear, tears streaming down their faces from smoke getting in their eyes as they huddled by the fire.
Later, the sound of the rain tapered off; the storm was passing at last. Emil and the Moose, who was known as LeftWit-70114, sat around swapping stories. Neither beast had mentioned the climb to Maev Astuté although the subject had not left Emil’s mind since he had heard that the Moose intended to make the climb.
Since Wood Cows refused to draw lottery numbers, Emil had no climbing date attached to his name. He liked that. It was a slight comfort to remain aloof from the Maev Astuté project, which he despised.
Maev Astuté was more than the ancestral home of the High Ones, the Hedgeland’s royal family. It was also a royal tomb. Each of the High Ones was buried in Maev Astuté. It was believed that by this means, they each would one day become gods. Construction of the fantastic castle never ended. Continuing generation after generation, the castle rose higher into the sky. The reign of each new High One saw Maev Astuté rise more sharply into the sky as a new level was added. Each level served as the home of the High One and his royal court. When he died he was buried in
a magnificent burial chamber on his level. The life work of each Hedgeland monarch was to build a new level, to serve as the home and tomb of the succeeding High One.
The great construction project had begun in the barely remembered times before even the Forever End was planted. Ancient traditions told of a day when the great castle spire would be “forever visible”—able to be seen anywhere in the Hedgelands. In that day, Maev Astuté would so dominate the skies that “the heavens themselves would be but vassals of the High Ones.” The line of High Ones would form an unbroken link between the earth and the very heavens themselves. On the day the great castle became “forever visible” the line of High Ones would be divinely reborn and they would return to rule the earth. For loyal Hedgies, the sight of Maev Astuté year-by-year rising into the sky was a promise of future glory. On clear days, the fantastic castle sparkled brilliantly in the sun, its highly-polished white marble a dazzling spark of light high above everything else. Inexorably it climbed higher and higher into the heavens.
While a few Hedgies might complain about the brutal conditions of the climb—as they went skulking in the shadows, muttering under their breath—everyone knew that complaining about the climb was at best bad manners, and at worst dangerous.
Wood Cows did not complain—they simply refused to go. The price of that refusal was to confirm the Wood Cows’ status as social outcasts, despised and cut off from every social benefit and every esteemed profession. In the eyes of most Hedgies, Wood Cows were Zanuck—“fly droppings” in Kinshy—and treated with contempt. In the Hedgie world, there was nothing lower and more contemptible than one who refused the sacred climb.
Just slightly above the Zanuck were the Poolytuck—“sitters” or “loafers”—beasts who did not oppose the climb but were too old or weak to undertake the ordeal. Being unable to climb to Maev Astuté was a great humiliation. Although allowed to choose a stand-in, only the weakest Poolytuck did so. Mockery and indignities of every sort were heaped upon the Poolytuck. Accepting this humiliating treatment was better, however, than the alternative that awaited any Poolytuck who dared complain about the taunts and unchallenged cheating of merchants against them. The fate of those Poolytuck was to be carried up the mountain by the Royal Patrol and heaved into a deep glacier crevasse.
“It’s a miserable night, and a black life, friend,” LeftWit-70114 wheezed as if a he had only a teaspoon of air to spare for an entire sentence. “Yet, tomorrow I begin the sacred climb.”
“Aye, it’s a night not favorable for any beast,” Emil agreed. “But tomorrow you’ll not be on the mountain,” he continued. “You’re hardly fit to lift a mug. Tomorrow, you’ll be walking in the sun toward O’Fallon’s Bluff, carrying my pack and coins back to my father and sister. I’ll be climbing the mountain in your place.” Emil’s tone, his look, his words—all expressed a resolute recklessness that would not be turned aside. “I will climb for you, as one of the stand-ins that even the cruelty of the High One allows for a Poolytuck. You will go to O’Fallon’s Bluff and finish my duty to my family. You can rest there until you recover your health.”
And so it was that Emil found himself on the sacred climb—and turned the entire Wood Cow way of life on its head...
Broken Across the Rocks
FoRoar-2036 gasped for breath, struggling to climb the steps in the biting cold. Every muscle in his body protested. He was too tired to go on. Every sense told him he was too weak to continue. Yet, still he went on, his breath shooting out in great white clouds. Gasps of moist breath, instantly shock-frozen into icy puffs, marked his progress. He clutched his sacred stone tightly to his chest. The heavy stone made it hard to keep his balance on the ice-covered stairway, worn to a slippery gloss by the constant pad of reed-boots passing over the ice.
“Can’t walk...any...further...AIEEEIYAHHH!...”
FoRoar-2036 hesitated in confusion, wondering in his semi-frozen stupor if the fearful scream was his own. Too late, he tried to grasp the cloak of the Hedgie walking in front of him. Clutching vainly after the flapping folds of his friend, he watched helplessly as SaRimm-2036 collapsed from cold and exhaustion, and pitched sideways off into the abyss. FoRoar-2036’s eyes filled with icy tears, but he kept walking. He had no choice. Barely inches separated one stair-climber from another in a line that stretched for miles in both directions. Step, step, step—the stair-climbers endlessly moved up the stairway toward the castle, Maev Astuté, each bearing his or her own sacred stone. To stop in such a line, on such a narrow and treacherous stair, with no guardrail or helper except one’s own courage, could mean that dozens might stumble and pitch off into the abyss. The line could not stop—no matter what.
“SaRimm-2036...my old friend, my dear brother...if I return home, I will tell of your sacrifice. It will not be forgotten. You will be remembered as a hero of the Crowning Glory.” FoRoar-2036 had seen many such falls during his climb to Maev Astuté. Never, however, had he lost a close friend. No matter how many pitched off into the abyss, the climb up the long, winding stairway went on without pause. Mechanically, like a great, living machine, the endless line of stair-climbers carried stones to be used in the construction of Maev Astuté. The great event in the life of every Hedgelands dweller, all were called upon to make the sacred climb on a designated day in their lives.
Chosen by lottery at birth, the date of the sacred climb became part of the name of each creature. FoRoar-2036 and SaRimm-2036 both had the same climbing date. They had begun the sacred climb 20 years, 3 days, and 6 hours after their birth. What was unusual, and considered a great blessing, was that the two creatures drew the exact same climbing date and also had exactly the same birth time.
Although FoRoar-2036 was high born—a Glazier Dog, while SaRimm-2036 was a commoner—a Mining Goat, they had always been close. Their shared destiny had bonded them like brothers since childhood. The sacred climb was the only place in Hedgelands society where high and low could mingle. Young and old, male and female, sick and strong, rich and poor, all were called upon to carry stones to build the great, unfinished castle. Regardless of season, the line of stair-climbers endlessly ascended the stairway to Maev Astuté.
Braving howling winds, risking avalanches that swept dozens off the stairs, and struggling through ice and deep snow, the sacred climb was an ordeal of a special order. Even in summer, much of the ascent occurred above the snow line on Star’s Door Peak. The ancient stairway wound its way across narrow footbridges swinging over deep chasms, cut steeply up its seemingly endless slopes, and crossed glaciers—hugging the mountain until it began to mount the castle spires of Maev Astuté. Carrying stones to build the castle was the most difficult and trying event in the life of every Hedgie.
Since being a wee pup, his parents had trained FoRoar-2036 to look forward to the climb as the most glorious event in his life. “In the climb,” they had told him, “you give yourself to the Crowning Glory of the Hedgelands—Maev Astuté—the greatest work of our folk, and symbol of our glory.” Glazier Dogs made the precision glass lenses for the High One’s telescopes and, thus, had a relatively high station in Hedgelands society. Yet, even so, FoRoar-2036 could attain no station grander than that of a Hedgie who helped to build Maev Astuté. Even the lowest classes were accorded respect for completing this duty.
The sacred climb held the promise of eternal glory. “You will be the one-hundredth of an unbroken line in our clan to make the sacred climb without a death on the stairs. This rare achievement will make you one of the great heroes. Your name will live forever in our histories. Our clan will gain a high place in the spirit world because of your deed.” FoRoar-2036 now repeated these words over and over, urgently. His numbness and exhaustion were only held back by this promise of bringing eternal honor to his clan. He must go on. Stamping crusted ice off his reed boots as best he could, he pulled his cloak tighter against the cold and shuffled on. SaRimm-2036 would be remembered for his sacrifice on behalf of the Crowning Glory, but FoRoar-2036 was determined to not only be r
emembered, but to gain eternal honor for his clan.
In Kinshy, the ancient tongue of the first High Ones, the castle was Maev Astuté, (Our Crown). The first High Ones began construction of the great castle. Many Hedgie commoners, however, called it Mae Vasuté, (My Steps in Agony). The play on words was more than an odd coincidence. Rising like a jagged needle from the summit of Star’s Door Peak, Maev Astuté had a shadowed place in Hedgeland lore, as its commoner name suggested.
The cornerstone at the very base of the castle, laid by the first High Ones when they began construction, was inscribed: “Here Begins Our Crowning Glory.” Crowds of school beasts learned to chant the phrase, and each year their chants rang in the air in celebration of Beginning Day. Almost everyone claimed to take pride in the great project. Some Hedgies yearned so much to see Maev Astuté completed, that they put their names in the lottery more than once and again made the trek up the staircase twisting thousands of feet from the base of Star’s Door Peak to the castle that crowned its summit.
Not all Hedgies felt affection for the project, however, as FoRoar-2036 was reminded by the grumbling comments of a creature in line behind him.
“Yar, you fat-faced bullies,” a Wood Cow named Emil muttered under his breath as two members of the High One’s Royal Patrol passed. Although the climbers were packed together in line, another narrow lane ran along beside the climbers. This lane was reserved exclusively for the High One’s Royal Patrols and others were forbidden to set foot in it. The Royal Patrols moved up and down the line, tossing those unable to continue off the edge. The harsh discipline was effective. The line kept moving.
The Royal Patrol stopped a few paces ahead. Emil shuddered as he looked over the Patrol. Skull Buzzards, recruited especially for their harsh and heartless manners, made up the elite Patrols. The fiendish Buzzards were not Hedgies. Not trusting Hedgies to guard him and enforce his will, the High One recruited Skull Buzzard mercenaries from distant Crags. Infamous for their cruelty to those in trouble, the High Ones found them perfect for service in the Royal Patrols.