by Rick Johnson
“Well, I still don’t like to get wet,” Bad Bone laughed.
“And you won’t,” Borjent said. “We will cross the Confusion of Hopes in a few hours—the route is easy for us. We will be on the high ground again, and heading into our homelands, before the rains begin. We will camp here tonight and set out just after dawn tomorrow.”
Bad Bone smiled broadly. “I’ll be up early and see to the cook fires,” he said, showing his pleasure at the plan.
“Well, not so fast, my friend,” Borjent laughed. “I’ve got a task for you before you cross the Confusion of Hopes and go to our home.” He paused and rolled out a reed mat in front of them. “When you lived among us while you healed, we accepted you, but did not fully trust you. You were a Lynx in service to the High One and we dared not show you everything about our life. But now, as a new member of the clan, there is something that you must see.” He pointed to the mat, which was actually a rude map. “Two day’s trek from here, some distance into the forests on the dry side of the ridge, lies a caravan way-station, Mis’tashe. Caravans travel back and forth between Port Newolf, on the Great Sea, and the Hedgelands, carrying slaves and trallés. They halt at Mis’tashe to take on food and water.” He could see from his friend’s intent gaze that Bad Bone was listening with great interest.
“The Borf never attack the caravans in that region. The terrain is too difficult and there is no easy escape with captured trallés—there are more favorable places to launch our raids,” he continued. “The caravan masters know they are safe at the way-station, so they do not mount heavy guards.” He pointed at the map with a stick, tracing a route. “A skilled climber like you can approach the caravan rest stop from this direction. I want you to lead a small scouting party and see what a trallé caravan looks like—you will need this understanding to help us later in our raids. Are you ready for such a mission?”
“Fitted with iron in my knees, and fire in my eyes, brother!” Bad Bone declared.
“I ask you to take Bormarojey and Bormaso,” Borjent directed, naming two seasoned Borf Squirrels that Bad Bone knew well. “You will put the ‘dead beast’s eye’ on the caravan,” he instructed. “No one pays attention to the gaze of a dead beast,” he explained, seeing Bad Bone’s quizzical look. “You are to scout the caravan with such stealth that you are noticed as much as the gaze of a dead beast.” Giving thorough instructions with the assistance of the map, Borjent directed that the scouting party leave immediately. “You will rejoin us at our home camp in not more than five days,” he concluded. The beasts going with you are well-used to the route. You will do well.” So saying, he left the Lynx to reflect on all he had learned and prepare himself for his mission.
Finishing his simple repast, Bad Bone went to gather the other members of his scouting party. He found the two Squirrels sitting at the bottom of a tiny waterfall spilling out of a crevice in the rock above them. Holding gourd cups under the falls, they used gulps of cold water to wash down the dry snake meat they were eating.
Calling to Bormarojey and Bormaso, he told them of their mission. Silently, a general smile moved across their faces. They were pleased to go with Bad Bone on the proposed journey. Bormaso spoke what was in the heart of both Borf Squirrels: “That a Lynx goes with Borf to cast the dead beast’s eye on one of the High One’s caravans is something new under the sun. The High One’s sleep will be disturbed before he hears the last of this.”
Casting the Dead Beast’s Eye
Scuttling forward on their bellies, Bad Bone and his companions peeked out from the protecting cover of pine trees and ferns. Not far away, crowds of unsavory looking beasts—mostly Wolves and Cougars, with a sprinkling of Mink—loitered around three sturdy, but well-worn log buildings. Food was being served on tin plates handed out through the large window of a cabin used as a canteen. Smithy beasts labored to repair broken wagon fittings and applied grease to wheels. Here and there, Skull Buzzards kept watch over lines of trallés roped together, while handlers led the high-domed tortoises, 2 or 3 at a time, to the livery barn for water and to get their feet checked. Several Royal Patrol officers sat around a table on the porch of a two-story log inn, talking with a richly-dressed Wolf, near whom knelt four Mink servants.
Rows of peddlers’ tents jammed a narrow alley between the inn and the livery. Bad Bone’s attention was drawn particularly to a middle-aged female Wood Cow, who sat under a tree near the livery, carving wagon wheel spokes. Her bearing and manner were familiar—“she’s a Wood Cow from the Hedgelands, or I have no sense in my head,” he thought. Looking more closely, he could see that the Wood Cow’s long white shaggy hair, falling down across her neck and shoulders, almost hid an iron collar encircling her neck. Through the shadows, his eyes could make out a chain attached to the collar. “Helga’s mother! She’s a prisoner!” Bad Bone breathed softly.
“A slave, you mean,” Bormarojey whispered. “She’s well-known to us—a legend, actually—name of Helbara. She caused some trouble for the High One many years ago, and she and her family were sold as slaves. When the Buzzards came to take them, she fought like a thousand demons to protect her family. In the end, they all escaped except her. The High One ordered her to be kept as his personal household slave—to humiliate her. But she sang such mournful songs and called so loudly on the Ancient Ones day and night, that no one in the royal household could sleep. He sent her to this remote caravan way-station, hoping that would be the end of her trouble-making.”
Bormarojey paused as some Skull Buzzards looked a little too attentively toward their hiding place. They soon turned away, however, and showed no further sign of suspicion, so he continued his story. “This is a perfect place for her,” he said, grinning at Bad Bone. “The High One has forgotten her, thinking that this distant exile was the end of her...Which suits our purposes fine!” he added with a slight chuckle.
“How does that poor beast being in slavery suit any good purpose?” Bad Bone asked.
“See the hat that Helbara is wearing?” Bormarojey asked. “You see the brim is rolled on one side? Rolled brim in front, the caravan is bound for Shell Kral; rolled brim at the back, it’s going to Hedgelands via Port Newolf; and if the hat is hanging on a peg, it’s going to Hedgelands via the Norder Passage. The reason we come here to scout is to learn which caravans we will raid later on!”
“She helps you to raid the royal caravans?” Bad Bone exclaimed, struggling to keep a low voice, despite his astonishment. “Don’t they get suspicious when their caravans constantly get robbed?”
“Here’s the deal,” his Squirrel companion replied. “We don’t raid all the caravans. There’s no pattern to our attacks. Even Helbara doesn’t know when we come to ‘cast the dead beast’s gaze’ on the way-station. She puts up her signals and never knows which ones we see—but she hears about the raids from the furious traders.” Bormarojey grinned widely. “The High One does not suspect that the slave he humiliated and banished now guides Borf raiders to plunder his trallés!”
The scouting party counted the trallés in the caravan—60—and was about to withdraw when trallé handlers removed several of the giant tortoises from the line. Leading them to the far side of the open ground in front of the livery, they put bridles in their mouths and laid colorful blankets across the crown of their shells.
The Mink servants picked up the chair in which the finely-clothed Wolf sat and carried him to a shady spot beneath a tree where he could observe the tortoises being lined up side-by-side.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Bad Bone whispered.
“They’re going to have an exhibition race with the trallés so that fancy fellow can judge their quality,” Bormarojey answered. “He’s probably a merchant that deals in racing trallés. He wants to see what he’s buying.”
“I thought giant tortoises were more used to pulling a plow than racing,” Bad Bone said.
“These are specially chosen for racing,” his companion replied. “Rich folk are crazy about them—it’s an
exotic sport for those who can afford such things.”
It took a while to get the race underway. At first, for amusement, the Royal Patrol commander ordered some of his troops to serve as impromptu jockeys. The Skull Buzzards looked ridiculous trying to mount the trallés and had no experience in racing. They did not know how to get the tortoises to move.
“They’ll do these ‘clown races’ for a while,” Bormarojey said. “Later, they’ll put experienced trallé handlers on some of the finer mounts to show what they can really do as racers. Often when there are trallé racing meets, they put clowns and other beasts in costumes on the tortoises and run them around town before the serious races start.”
After a slow start, the trallés took off at top speed and several of the Buzzards fell off. Roaring in laughter, the Wolf called out, “More! More!” and for some time the silly races were run over and over again. With the attention of most of the beasts at the station fixed on the racing, the Borf scouting party silently withdrew.
Lost Hiker’s Delusion
Bad Bone was puzzled. Something about the surrounding landscape seemed more familiar than it ought to be. The Borf party was returning over the same route they had traveled the day before and nothing had struck him as familiar on their earlier passage. He had never visited this region of the Hedgelands before. Why did what he was seeing now seem so very familiar?
As they trekked along on their return to Tramandrivot, Bad Bone’s mind worked on this puzzle. Then, gradually the answer came to him. “Ah, yes,” he thought ruefully, “the lost hiker’s delusion.” As an experienced mountain climber, well-schooled in the ways of the wilderness, he knew that his puzzlement resulted from the same problem that often caused inexperienced hikers to become lost. “The perspective is different coming and going,” he thought. “Many a poor hiker has learned how very different the same mountains and trees look when approached from the opposite direction.” This was the answer to his puzzlement. “What looked strange and new when we approached from the north, now looks familiar as we return from the south!” Yet, some of his puzzlement remained. “But why does it look familiar from this direction, when I’ve never walked this way before?”
He could not shake the mystery. Again and again he tried out possible solutions in his mind. Nothing seemed to answer the question. Then, when the party paused to rest and take food near a beautiful lake, he asked a question. “Does this area live in any of the legends you have heard?”
Bormaso, lying on his back under a tree, lazily pointed at a peak to the right of where they were stopped with the salted lizard tail he was gnawing. “That peak looks like a javelin point from this direction,” he observed. “The grandmothers always tell us that the javelin point flies fast to where it is going. They say that in the ancient times the folk rode the javelin point to sail like the wind through the mountains...”
“...riding the great river that flows down from Javelin Point—standing up in boats that never touched the water,” Bad Bone broke in, finishing the sentence.
Bormaso grinned. “Yes. I see you know the legend also.”
“My grandmother told me the story as a wee beast,” Bad Bone replied simply. “I never paid much attention to it, but the image of beasts standing up in boats that never touch the water always seemed strange and wonderful—I’ve never forgotten it.” He paused, gazing off at the peak that had become the focus of his thoughts. “And the javelin point shape of that peak is so unmistakable from the stories I heard countless times, that it looked familiar to me. I guess the legend had more effect on me than I realized,” he chuckled.
The three friends lounged silently for a time, then Bad Bone spoke up. “Do you think perhaps there is such a river? I mean, one that makes the beasts fly through the mountains like it says in the old story?”
“I have sailed on it,” Bormaso said quietly. “The river definitely exists.”
“What?” Bad Bone exclaimed. “The legend is true?”
“Wait, wait!” Bormaso replied. “Not so fast. To say that the river exists is not to say the legend is true. There definitely is a mighty river that flows down off of Javelin Point. I have sailed on it—and a fearsome ride it is. Rapids such as would frighten most beasts to death...Unclimbable cliffs...Skull Buzzards...It’s a terrible, terrible place.”
“But you rode the river,” Bad Bone said. “Where does it go?”
“That I cannot say,” the Borf Squirrel replied. “As a young beast, I was captured by a Lynx slave trader during a raid and sold.” Bad Bone’s face showed pained surprise. Bormaso looked with kindness at him. “You surely know that some of the Lynx are slave catchers and traders, yes?”
Bad Bone looked away and did not answer. Bormaso, sensing that Bad Bone wanted a moment to himself, took a swig from the water pouch. He was wiping his mouth when his Lynx friend said, “My family has always served the High One, but we are Climbing Lynx, not slavers. I have served the High One honorably, but have never been cruel to any beast. I regret what other Lynx do, but they are not my folk.”
Bormaso put a comforting paw on Bad Bone’s arm. “I do not accuse you of being a slaver,” he replied. “You are now a Borf brother and we have no reason to think ill of each other. I see it as a great sign from The All that a Lynx is now my Borf brother. Welcome, brother,” he concluded, hugging Bad Bone around the shoulder.
The three scouts sat quietly together for a few moments, then Bormaso continued: “While being transported to the Hedgelands along the Norder Passage, our boat capsized and I escaped with several other slaves. Thus, I did not ride the river its full course, and it was a long time ago. I don’t know where the river goes. I only know it must be the one mentioned in the legends.”
“What do you know of the Norder Passage?” Bad Bone asked.
“There is an underground route that crosses from the Estates of the Norder Wolves to the Hedgelands. A portion of the passage follows an underground river—it’s mostly used by slavers.”
“Do honorable beasts travel that way?” Bad Bone asked softly.
“Not that I would know of,” Bormaso answered. “There are actually several branches of the river and all except the Norder Passage are impassable. Even the Norder Passage is treacherous, but it can be traveled. The other branches of the stream are deadly. Because the Norder Passage is the only useable river, and it only goes to the Norder Wolf Estates, not many honorable beasts feel a calling to go that way.”
Bormaso could see that his friend was suffering. “What’s the matter, Bad Bone?” he asked.
“The legends about Javelin Point and the great river and the Norder Passage...” he began.
“What about them?” the Squirrel asked.
“The elders in my family tell of a Lynx of the bygone days,” Bad Bone said, staring toward Javelin Point. “He was said to have gone to the Norder Estates traveling on an underground river—but we never really believed it. It seemed too fantastic!”
“He knew of the Norder Passage,” Bormaso repeated thoughtfully.
“Apparently—does that surprise you?” the Lynx asked.
“The legend of Javelin Point and the mighty river are told by many folk,” he replied. “But the Norder Passage is only known to slavers and trallé traders,” Bormaso said. “If your ancestor knew about it, he knew more about that sort of trade than a simple Climbing Lynx would know.”
So many thoughts swirled in Bad Bone’s mind as he listened to Bormaso. A long obscured story was awakening within him. Listening to Bormaso jolted his mind. He recalled with wonder his experience at Stupid Frog Shallows a few years back. He learned that the Shallows—in the desolate wastes between the Borf lands and the Rounds—were rumored in bygone days to be a hideout for slavers. His own great-grandfather was connected with the Shallows in some way. Was Stupid Frog Shallows on the river of the ancient legends? In the misty past—was his great-grandfather a slaver?
“You think he was a slave trader?” Bad Bone asked quietly.
Bormaso smiled a
t his friend. “We never know what new faces we will find if we look deeply into our history,” he said. “In a clan as old as the Borf, we’ve had our share of rascals and liars,” he laughed. “The Lynx surely have some black-hearted scoundrels—but what you see when you look in the mirror is what is most important. There may be the tale of a slaver within you, but there are many other tales there also. Borf are a practical folk—we are interested in who you are now and what you will be. Why take a long-dead slaver, who may or may not exist, into the clan, when you have shown us that you are a fine honorable Lynx ready to come on your own without him? We will take you for who you are and what you will be. Let the past die if it is no help to us—that is our way.”
With this assurance to his heart, Bad Bone rose and gave his friends the Borf welcome greeting. “I welcome my Borf brothers into my own story. What else may be there, I cannot say, and may never know. But as you have embraced me as a brother, I, in turn, embrace you.”
The three friends embraced heartily and, joking merrily, prepared to set out once again on their trek toward the Borf homelands. “Fill your water pouches, brothers,” Bormarojey said. “This is the last lake we will see. We’re into some wild and barren land now. There will be no beasts to be seen, and we will find but little water, until we reach Tramandrivot.”
Little did the three friends realize, however, that a Wolf, descending a nearby hillside, quietly observed all that was done.
Night Above the River
Shifting her pack from her back, Helga crouched on a narrow ledge breathing heavily. Leaning back, she lodged her body against an outcropping to keep from sliding backward. Her arms ached like never before, and her body was scraped raw where her clothes had been torn from rubbing against the rock. Alert despite her fatigue, Helga rested only briefly. “I can’t waste time,” she thought. “I don’t want to be on this rock wall when darkness falls.” Observing the position of the sun, however, Helga realized that she probably could not reach the top before dark.