by Rick Johnson
While on his first mission as a Climbing Lynx, Bad Bone was encamped high in the mountains when his cook fire exploded. The inexperienced Lynx had chosen porous, water-soaked rocks as a bed for his fire. Water in the rocks, turning rapidly into steam, could not escape, and the stones exploded. Shards of stone and pieces of iron pot flew everywhere, hitting Bad Bone in several places. A Borf raiding party attracted by the explosion found him lying unconscious, seriously injured.
From times long past, Lynx had served the High Ones in positions of highest trust and on missions of utmost importance. The Borf, on the other hand, hated the High Ones and all that served them. The Borf were not a cruel folk—far from it. Fierce toward the High Ones and sworn enemies of the slave trade they carried on, the Borf were friendly and compassionate toward all others. They carried the badly injured Lynx to their camp and nursed him back to health. During the several weeks of his recovery, Bad Bone was accepted as a member of the clan.
As he approached the Borf raiders now, his sign of greeting, the ear notching, and his friendly attitude were enough to assure the party of his good intentions. Dropping the nets they held at the ready, they embraced Bad Bone in welcome.
From the many freshly-killed lizards and snakes tied to the poles they carried, Bad Bone recognized that this was a small hunting party. Knowing that the main Borf encampment must be nearby, he asked to accompany them to their camp. The Borf readily included him in their party and they set off, the oldest female leading the way. After a half-day’s hike further down the river, a larger party of about sixty Borf appeared from all directions, surrounding Bad Bone and those conducting him. Accompanied by friendly clan beasts, and familiar with the customary show of over-powering force, Bad Bone gave the sign of greeting and advanced toward the Coyote he assumed to be the leader. Reaching him, he turned his head once again to show his ear notch. Joyfully, the Borf chieftain stepped close and pressed his own notched ear against Bad Bone’s—affirming friendship with one accepted as a brother.
After this show of acceptance, the Coyote—Borjent by name—motioned to several Squirrels. “Tell the folk that our old ‘Friend from the Biting Fire’ has returned. Roast the lizards! Prepare a feast!” The Borf went off at a dead run to inform the others to prepare for their arrival. Soon the entire party also set out for the main encampment.
When they reached the camp, Bad Bone was ushered into a makeshift brush hut and seated on green boughs and tanned snake skins. Renewing his acquaintance with many Borf he knew from his earlier visit, he laughed until his jaws hurt. Many small Borf crowded around, eager to see the beast who had been ‘bitten’ by the fire and had iron in his knees. Bad Bone entertained the wee ones with stories of many of his other adventures as a Climbing Lynx.
As the sun approached its setting, a meal was offered. Bad Bone enjoyed gnawing the meat of several spiny-horned lizards, roasted on skewers, with wild carrots and onions. Cakes of wild berries, meal and cherries followed. Cold water washed down what he pronounced “a hearty meal worthy of the many years I have waited for it!”
When the meal was over, Bad Bone strolled down to the river with Borjent. He learned that Borjent was the son of Borswen, the Coyote chieftain Bad Bone had grown close to during his first visit with the Borf. “My father died a year ago, “ Borjent related. “A royal caravan was taking a large number of trallés to deal with a slave trader by the name of Milky Joe. The High One buys slaves to build his castle—paying for them in trallés.” He paused, eyes flashing with fearsome anger as he gazed across the river. “The Borf hate the slaving. When we can, we raid the caravans and steal the trallés, then we use them to buy the slaves ourselves and set them free.” He paused and a hint of a grin passed over his face. “When our raiders attack a trallé caravan,” he continued, “we hit them with such surprise that the attack is over before they can resist.”
Demonstrating the throwing of nets with arm motions, the Borf leader explained how royal caravans were plundered. “After the guards are trapped in nets, other nets, especially for the purpose, are rolled out and the trallés loaded on them. Then, the trallés are quickly carried off by runners bearing the nets. My father loved running with the trallé carriers—but he was not as strong as he once was, and his heart failed him on that caravan raid.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bad Bone responded. “He was a great leader and a dear friend.”
“He gave his life for the cause of justice,” Borjent replied. “That is how I remember him—and why I now run with the trallé carriers myself. Every slave we buy with our plunder is one less beast doomed to the High One’s hellish project.”
“Why do you sell trallés?” Bad Bone asked.
“You know we are a simple folk,” Borjent replied. What need do we have for trallés? Only the wealthy want them. They are useless to us. So long as we have lizards to roast—and there are many—greens and wild rice to gather, and berries to pick, our folk are happy. If our needs are met, why not use our bravery to help others? Why stand by while beasts are enslaved to build a worthless tomb for a tyrant? Our raiders are brave, we can free some doomed beasts...On the frontier of law and disorder the High One’s nice rules don’t apply. There’s some wild and unsavory places—dubious bazaars where slavers sell to anyone who pays the going rate in trallés.” Borjent paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And the raiding is sport for us! What better fun than ruining the High One’s cursed trade?”
Bad Bone’s mind was reeling. So much came into focus. So many things understood in a flash—The Hedgies carrying up their ‘sacred stones’ but not actually building Maev Astuté...The sacred climb reserved for Hedgies, but the actual building work being beneath their station...With so many workers needed to build the Crowning Glory, where did they come from? Now Bad Bone knew the answer.
He was silent for a time. At last he inquired if Borjent knew a safe place to cross the river. From Bad Bone’s viewpoint, the river was still too dangerous to cross safely. The Borf homelands were in the mountains on the other side of the river, however, so they must know how to cross.
“A half-day’s march further downstream, it joins another river—the Sar Jeeves—twice as large,” Borjent replied. “Where the rivers merge, they cross a level plateau known to us as the ‘Confusion of Hopes.’ The Bor Jeeves splinters into many smaller streams that twist and meander as they flow into the larger river. The Bor Jeeves stops being an impassable torrent, and becomes a multitude of small, gently flowing streams. For the traveler, the long dangerous river appears to be tamed. At the beginning, the countless streams all look promising, as if they will take you somewhere if you follow them in a boat. Most of them, however, flow into bramble thickets and rock-choked channels that cannot be floated in a boat. But, if you ignore the hope of riding in a boat, the confusion of streams can be crossed. That is the way to our homelands.” Drawing many wavy lines on the ground to represent the rivers coming together, he piled large stones on one side to show the steep mountains where the Borf lived. Drawing a straight line across the wavy ones into the pile of stones, he concluded, “In those mountains, beyond the junction of the rivers—we live in plenty, safety, and peace. You are welcome among us.” The Coyote chieftain pointed toward the horizon where his clan lived.
Bad Bone made no reply, but only gazed into the distance where Borjent pointed. “Come with us,” Borjent urged. “You can be one of us. Our folk love you. We could use someone with your climbing skills in our raids. You would have no more worries about the High One...instead, you would be a worry for him!”
Bad Bone again was silent. His thoughts were busy, and his heart full. The offer was tempting. He liked the Borf and he relished the idea of avenging the wrongs the High One had done to Helga and her friends.
“Why does the High One not pursue you?” he asked at last. “If you raid him continually and steal his trallés, why does he not send Royal Patrol Buzzards to destroy you? He has enough, I should think...” Bad Bone was genuinely puzzled about detail
s of Borjent’s story. “The Borf lands are still within the Forever End,” he continued. “You are subjects of the High One, are you not? Surely the High One does not allow rebels and bandits such as you to go unpunished?” Fear of capture played no part in Bad Bone’s questioning, but if he was to join the Borf, he wanted to know how things were.
Borjent laughed heartily as he heard the questions. Looking at his inquisitive friend, he gave his face a very stern expression and moved his lips as if talking forcefully—but actually said nothing. Bad Bone, feeling even more confused, gave Borjent a perplexed look. Borject repeated the stern expression and forceful, but soundless, movement of his lips.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Bad Bone clearly did not understand what Borjent was trying to tell him. With tears of merriment shining in his eyes, the Borf leader clasped Bad Bone’s shoulders in affectionate embrace. “Dear friend,” he said, “do not be surprised that I laugh at your questions.” Pausing briefly to stifle his chuckles, the Coyote continued, “Beyond the Confusion of Hopes the commands of the High One are not heard. That is the meaning of my stern looks and soundless shouting.” He once again chuckled. “The High One makes many words, but there are places that they are not heard.” The Coyote once again looked sternly at Bad Bone and soundlessly shouted at him. Then, smiling at his friend, he said, “The Borf do not hear the High One’s noise.”
“But, what about the Forever End?” Bad Bone asked. “What about the Crowning Glory and the sacred climb? What about the Royal Patrols? What about the Hedge Blades? Surely the High One does not just ignore your attacks and leave you to yourselves?”
“The Hedge is only as strong as the High One’s words!” Borjent replied. “In the mountains where my folk live, no Royal Patrol has ever been seen! The Hedge was never completely planted—there is no Hedge beyond the Borf homelands! The High One claims many lands where his words are mere noise.” Borjent shouted again in silence to emphasize his point. Then he chuckled and embraced Bad Bone once again. “The High One’s words are heard in many places, and his Patrols back up his words where it is easy to do so. But, where his words are not heard, and it is not easy for his cutthroat Buzzards to make folk hear his words—in those places, we hear only our own words. The Borf speak for ourselves.”
Bad Bone remembered one of his missions into a wild, barely-settled region of the Hedgelands. He had seen stretches of the Forever End in disrepair. Obviously untended, but still a formidable barrier, he had not imagined that the Hedge might end altogether in some of the far away clan homelands. “A life beyond the reach of the High One?” Bad Bone tried to imagine such a thing.
“My life, I am a Borf!” the fugitive Lynx exclaimed. “When do we leave?” he added, feeling a tingling sense of new-found freedom.
Beyond the High One’s Reach
In the days following his decision to join the Borf, Bad Bone whole-heartedly fell into the life of the nomadic clan. For eight days, festivities of welcome for the new clan member continued. The food of the wandering folk was simple, but plentiful—huge pots of sweet, sticky rice, eaten in paw-sized balls, and the usual roasted lizards. There were nightly dances accompanied by dozens of small lizard skin drums, tuned to different pitches; turtle-shell tambourines; and snake rattle shakers. The adults sang raucous songs and played instruments as they watched the young beasts dance on their front paws and perform acrobatic stunts. Bad Bone commented that he had “never seen creatures with such wonderful strength in their arms” as he watched them dance for hours without stopping. When the nightly festivities ended, the camp fell into a silent, satisfied sleep.
In addition to feasts and frolics, however, Bad Bone’s welcome also included introduction to camp life—rising early to set water boiling in the cook pots, curing snake skins in the sun to make clothing, and caring for the wee beasts with songs and games. Finding safety from his pursuers, Bad Bone also found an acceptance for which he had long yearned. “If brotherhood is more than a word,” he thought, “this must be what it is like.”
When the Borf broke camp, they journeyed through a narrow opening, called Tramandrivot—the ‘Axe Mark’ in Kinshy—in an otherwise impassable razorback ridge.
“This trail is murder to climb,” Bad Bone complained, as he struggled over the small stones covering the trail almost like a bed of rollers. “If you use this trail so often, why don’t you take time to clear it and make it easier to travel?” he asked Borjent.
“We don’t dare touch the stones,” Borjent replied. “The trail is maintained like this by the Munk clans that live on the ridge. “You don’t see them, but they are watching us even now.” Seeing Bad Bone grow instantly more alert, Borjent touched his arm with a friendly, comforting paw. “Not to worry, my friend,” he advised. “The Munk are friendly to us, and do a service by keeping the trail covered with these small stones,” Borjent continued between labored breaths as he climbed. “Wait a bit and I’ll tell you more when we reach the top.” Bad Bone was quite happy to wait—the climb took all of his breath.
Reaching the summit, the trekkers stopped to rest. No one spoke for some time, as everyone regained strength. Ragged breathing gradually subsided, and the characteristic Borf laughing and joking returned. Borjent pointed back down the trail. “The stones on the trail protect all the creatures on the far side of the ridge from intruders,” he said. “Tramandrivot is the only way for a large group to cross the ridge. Munk Sentinels are on constant watch and repair the stone bed in the trail as needed. The treacherous path deters most beasts of ill-will from attempting the climb, and slows others down long enough to sound the alarm. When an alarm is sounded, the Munk roll massive stones down on the trail from the heights. That thwarts any other foolish attackers.” Smiling, Borjent waved to the heights above his head. “You won’t see the Munks, but they are there,” he explained. Soon after, a small round pebble sailed down from above, bouncing off of the rocks with a soft Clink-Clink-Clink. “Munk Sentinels returning the greeting,” Borjent explained, grinning.
Gazing up at the rocky pinnacles that soared around the sides of Tramandrivot, Bad Bone saw no hint of the hidden Munk Sentinels. “I begin to see how it might, indeed, be possible for clans of folk to live beyond the reach of the High One’s rule,” he commented. “Very interesting,” he continued, “very interesting, indeed.”
“You begin to see,” Borjent replied, “but you do not yet fully understand.” Beckoning for the Lynx to follow him, the Borf chieftain walked a number of steps toward where the trail apparently descended the far side of the ridge. Leading Bad Bone around the side of a rock wall, he extended his arm to indicate what lay beyond the summit. The long, steep climb up the slippery trail led to a breath-taking vista at the top of the ridge.
On the far side of the steeply pitched ridge, mountains glistened with lush forests, hidden here and there by wisps of moist clouds. Bad Bone had never seen such forests as these. Luxuriant forest unrolled down the slopes into a long mist-shrouded valley that stretched as far the eye could see. Off in the distance, just peeking above the endless clouds covering the valley, he could make out the continuation of mountains.
“The Confusion of Hopes lies below,” Borjent said. “Within that misty valley is the pathway to our home.”
“But, the valley is buried in clouds,” Bad Bone exclaimed. “How could a beast ever find his way through such a dense forest drenched in fog?”
“Ah,” replied Borjent, “now you understand the Confusion of Hopes. Most beasts enter the valley and assume that the only way through is to follow the stream courses.” He shook his head sadly, then continued. “Hope after hope rises in the heart of a beast trying to find a way through that valley by boat...but it leads to nothing but confusion. The only way through is to climb across the valley in the canopy of the trees!”
“Go across the valley in the trees!” Bad Bone replied in astonishment.
The Borf leader held up his arm to call a halt to the march. “I’ll explain more later,” he replied.
“Now, the folk are tired.” He swung his pack to the ground and laid it against a tree. Then he called to the Borf following him, “We stop here for food and rest.” The Squirrels and Coyotes happily dropped their packs, laid down the pole and net sleds that some pulled, and fell on the ground to rest.
A while later, Bad Bone sat chewing dried snake meat and sticky wads of rice from the satchel he carried. He watched a rain cloud sweep over the mountainside below them. Borjent walked up and dropped to the ground beside him. “The rain is a good thing for us,” he smiled. “It makes the trees grow to massive size. Some of the cedars are over a thousand years old. What we see of the forest from here is one of the best roadways imaginable for Borfs. The gigantic trees form a dense canopy—a network of huge limbs and mossy vines. Where the limbs and vines fail us, our folk have strung net pathways from tree to tree—think only of the ground, and you will never escape from the Confusion of Hopes,” he observed. “But consider the canopy, and all the directions are open to you. A strong Climbing Lynx like you will find it wee beast’s play.”
“I don’t like water,” Bad Bone remarked glumly, “but it looks like a tremendous adventure!” he concluded with a smile.
“The rains come off of the Great Sea, which is just beyond that last line of low peaks you see at the horizon,” Borjent replied. “The clouds drop most of their rain as they rise up over this high ridge, so one side is very wet, and the other much drier.”
“Wee-heww...” Bad Bone whistled as his eyes took in the sharp contrast between the two sides of the mountain ridge.
“The ridge is a sort of demarcation line,” the Coyote continued. “Along the Misty Coast of the Great Sea, rain clouds develop every afternoon and move inland. Rain pours down on the wet side of the ridge all night long. But on the other side, it rains only a little—you never suspect such a contrast until you reach the summit.”