by Rick Johnson
“You claim not to know about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still,” King Stuppy said quietly in Burwell’s ear. “So be it. I believe you, Dog. But perhaps you only forget. King Stuppy is a generous and fair ruler. He will give you a chance to remember anything you might have forgotten. You insulted the Cougars, which is punished by death. But if you soon remember anything you have forgotten about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, you will be spared. I sentence you to ‘Ride the Log.’ You will not die instantly, so you will have time to remember. If you remember, I will free you. If you do not, you die. Guards! Bind him to the log!”
King Stuppy was furious. Here was yet another fool telling of the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, but who, when confronted with the majesty of King Stuppy’s questioning, turned into a mere blubbering idiot. He was nearly crazy with his desire to find this mysterious Mountain. Each year he sent out explorers to search for the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, but it had never been found.
The mythical mountain was said to have castles of light with golden walls, and limitless sparkling gems. It was said to be so dazzling that those who beheld it could not speak of it. But King Stuppy knew better. He knew that those who had seen this marvelous place were greedy for its fabulous riches and did not want others to share in the wealth. So King Stuppy would find it himself. And when he found it, he would take all the riches.
The problem was, he could not find it. Each year a traveler would drop a hint, or tell a story, that seemed to give a lead to the location of the Mountain. Each year, he sent out explorers in a different direction. The searchers never returned. Sometimes, a straggler would stumble back to King Stuppy, arriving half-starved and in rags, having lost his mind wandering in the wilds for months with little food or water. The straggler, if he could speak coherently about his experiences, always reported the same thing: the King’s explorers had perished, not by attack from enemies, but by becoming so completely lost, in such remote wilds, that they simply starved or died of thirst.
King Stuppy was not deterred by these unpromising results. None of his subjects knew the fate of his exploring parties. So far as anyone in the Drownlands knew, King Stuppy was sending criminals into exile. For anyone in King Stuppy’s realm that transgressed against his rule, there were only two possible punishments: either become one of the King’s adventurers, or Ride the Log. Except for those poor creatures specifically sentenced to Ride the Log, most who angered King Stuppy chose to go exploring. The king promised them freedom and a share in the riches if they found the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still and brought proof back to him.
That King Stuppy had no intention to honor his promises did not matter. He was a patient Cougar. He would keep sending out explorers. If they did not return, it did not matter—it disposed of troublemakers. If, however, they did return one day with proof of the location of the Mountain...Well, then he would have a special reward for those brave beasts who had brought him his fondest wish. They would Ride the Log. Only King Stuppy would know that secret.
Helga surveyed the menacing ring of King Stuppy’s thugs. It did not look good for Burwell. In her injured condition, she could not use her Yeow-Yeow skills. Physically, she could not fight her way through King Stuppy’s guards. Yet she could not bear the thought of a poor, innocent Bayou Dog being made to Ride the Log. She must do something.
Unhappy creatures condemned to Ride the Log were tied to logs and set adrift in the Drownlands. Floating with the currents and unable to help or protect themselves, the poor condemned creatures died slowly, or sometimes were quickly picked apart by hungry insects and fish. It was not a pretty way to die. Piteous pleas for mercy and help were said to echo through the Drownlands when such a punishment occurred. Fear of riding King Stuppy’s logs made few creatures wish to oppose him.
Helga could not allow it to happen. The punishment was brutal and against all justice. The poor Bayou Dog had done nothing terrible as far as Helga could see. And he might know something that would help her find her father. She must save him. The ring of cutlasses surrounding her was threatening, but not advancing. The guards wanted only to stop Helga from interfering with the King, not capture her. The ways of the Wood Cows were unknown in the Drownlands. They were so rare that everything about Helga was seen as interesting and exotic. She could use this curiosity about Wood Cow ways to her advantage.
Lifting up the flicker-pole she used as a walking stick, Helga began to work it with skillful, fluid movements. As the unusual staff began to produce it’s melodic humming, her guards, at first, looked on in amusement and interest. They had never seen such a sight! Helga’s beautifully fluid movements as she furiously worked the pole, were astonishing. She observed the amazed, unsuspecting stares of her guards with mingled amusement and hope.
Gradually at first, then in torrents of wingbeats, the sky filled with every type of bird residing in the Drownlands! Large and small, noisy Jays and reserved Robins, rough-talking Hawks and genteel Eagles—all came in to find roosts at the Trading Post. Dozen after dozen they dropped from the sky, covering every available inch of roosting space—on buildings, fences, hats, heads, shoulders, arms—anywhere they could lock their feet.
As the birds began to rain in from the sky, panic seized the crowd and chaos ensued. Helga, well aware of what was to happen, took advantage of the turmoil and panic to grab Burwell and Bwellina, who had also tried to come to Burwell’s aid, and led them to safety. Ola jumped in his canoe and helped the others board. The small canoe rode very low in the water under the heavy load of passengers, but Ola pointed out, laughing, that “overloaded boats is the Drownlands tradition!”
Ola shoved off hurriedly, and he and Burwell paddled furiously away from King Stuppy’s Trading Post. All were grateful to be leaving. Burwell wheezed with joy of a different sort.
As they paddled away into the backways of the Drownlands, Helga asked Burwell many questions. “Have you actually seen a Wood Cow? Where? When? What did he look like? Did you talk with him?” The questions burst from Helga like a torrent. Unfortunately, she learned that most of what Burwell had said were his fibbing embellishments of a story he had heard from the station-master at the Drownlands Cutoff.
Helga was disappointed, but not discouraged. Consulting with Ola and her new friends, she decided that she must go to the Cutoff station. She would find out if a Wood Cow had actually been there. As she shared this decision, she looked at the faces of her friends. Gazing at each, one by one, she asked the question without speaking it: Did they wish to go with her?
Ola was the first to speak: “Misst Helgy, tha’is friend of yorn is forever yorn friend and loyalist. But tha’is friend of yorn bein’ a Gateless Wolf, and he can’t but help bein’ a wanderer. Just as I found you in need of a friend, other travelers bein’ in need. I must remain in the wilds. But the enigma is that if we part, we will surely be close forever.”
Burwell and Bwellina, on the other hand, urgently pleaded to go with Helga. The thought of being left in the Drownlands without either Helga or Ola caused Burwell to burst into pathetic cries. “Oh, woe or mercy, woe or mercy, that’s my choices! If I stay in the Drownlands, King Stuppy will hunt me, and he’ll hunt me until he brings me to woe! Helga the Merciful is my only hope! Oh, please, Helga, have mercy on a poor, poor Bayou Dog! I don’t want to Ride the Log! Yep! Yep! Yep!”
While not ignoring the real danger Burwell would be in if he stayed in the Drownlands, Helga burst out laughing at his dramatic pleading. “Oh, Burwell, you know I couldn’t leave you and Bwellina here...I don’t have a clue how to get to the Drownlands Cutoff. You know the way, I presume?” Helga furrowed her eyebrows, giving Burwell a very solemn look. “Without your help I would be a lost creature that Ola would have to come rescue!” Helga laughed.
“Well, yes, Helga, I have been to the Drownlands Cutoff station...Oh, about three dozen times. Bwellina and I have been going that route every year for more than thirty years.”
Ola was not joining in t
he joking talk. He appeared to be in deep reflection. Helga knew it was best to leave him alone when he was in such a mood. She gave Burwell a quieting look, and they paddled on silently, going in no particular direction, but staying to the concealed, lost bayous away from the main routes. Ola used a paddle as a rudder, moving it slightly from time to time as if with his swaying, meditative mood. Where were they going? Helga, Burwell and Bwellina had no idea. Helga guessed that Ola was simply doing his best to keep them away from King Stuppy’s search parties.
At last, they floated into a lake, well protected by trees and thick reeds on all sides. Once on the lake, Ola lay his rudder paddle down, and let the canoe drift aimlessly. Helga and Burwell waited to hear his plans. Instead, he began playing his flute. Helga, although puzzled, was grateful for the break in the solemn mood.
The Wolf played for quite some time as the canoe drifted gradually toward the far shore of the lake. As night began to fall, the Locusts began their evening chirruping, seeming almost to harmonize with Ola’s music. Stars came out as the sky darkened—billions and billions of stars, dazzling across the night sky.
Finally, as the canoe bumped against the shoreline of the lake, Ola put away his instrument. He pointed to a large tree with wide spreading branches slightly down the shore. “We’ll be stoppin’ there tonight,” he said. “There’s a traveler’s lean-to on the back side.” Taking up their paddles once more, they pushed down to the tree Ola had indicated.
“We can camp here in safety,” Ola announced. “I’ve been asking the Locusts to watch out for King Stuppy’s boats. I learned to play my flute by listenin’ to the Locusts and following their tune. I learned to be talkin’ with them. They’ll be lettin’ us know if they see anything.”
Guiding the canoe to the bank, Helga and Burwell were grateful to stretch their cramped muscles. As soon as the canoe touched the bank, Ola leaped up and grabbed a low-hanging branch of the tree. Pulling himself up on the branch, he called to the others, “Don’t step out on the bank, friends, it bein’ quicksand. I’ll droop yor down a rope and pull yorn up. Then we’ll walk along the branch and climb down on the back side, where the ground bein’ firm.”
A vine rope was lowered and Bwellina tied it around her waist. Then hanging on tight, Ola hauled her up in the tree. Burwell and Helga followed. Ola showed them the way to follow a well-worn path across some low branches. He helped Helga, still a bit unsteady on her injured legs, to navigate the route safely. The branch reached a solid hillock at the rear of the tree that rose above the lower, wet ground. The creatures did not even have to jump to step off the branch where it reached the hillock. A rough shelter was built there.
“Tha’is will be ‘Welcome to Ola’s Retreat,’” Ola smiled. “Tha’is will do for tonight. We’ll eat catfish, soon as I catch some. Tomorrow, I’ll show yor the way toward the Bone Forest, and then I’ll be leavin’ yor.”
“The Bone Forest!” Helga exclaimed. “But we need to go to the station at Drownlands Cutoff, Ola,” she continued urgently. “There’s a chance the station-master may know something about Papa...I’ve got to do it...I miss him terribly...” Helga felt confused and somewhat angry with Ola. Why didn’t he understand? Burwell also protested.
“Friends, friends,” Ola smiled. “If yor go to the Drownlands Cutoff, yor will all be Riding the Log. King Stuppy will be watching that route with his spies. There’s not a chance you could get there safely. It’s likely that he might even send some Cougar raiders to ransack the station. Yor cannot go to the Drownlands Cutoff.”
“OK, Ola,” Helga replied. “I see your point, but why go to the Bone Forest? How can that possibly help?”
“Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola said, “yorn not be understandin’ this soon. I don’t even understand it myself yet. Boot, from what we know, the Bone Forest may hold some meanin’ for yorn search, and it may help yor elude any pursuers King Stuppy sends after yor.”
“Ola! Are you sure? I thought no one could live in the Bone Forest?” Helga was deeply puzzled, and with a hint of impatience, she added, “From all we have heard, the Bone Forest is a horrible wasteland, with no food, no water, and nothing but burning sun and dust! I lost Papa on a surging river, which, if anything, may come out somewhere around the Drownlands, but certainly not in a desert.” She grimaced in dismay. “I think you’re nuts to even suggest such a ridiculous idea.”
“Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola nodded, “I ain’t been there myself—and don’t know much aboot it. Boot, it bein’ better than meetin’ up with King Stuppy for sure, and what other leads do yorn have? Sometimes the place we’re lookin’ for isn’t a place.” At this curious statement, Helga gazed into Ola’s face searching for his meaning. She saw only the usual happiness of her friend. If there was any other intent in his speech, it was only to give her an enigma to consider.
Helga’s head was spinning. The Bone Forest! A dry, desert wasteland, rumored to be filled with the bones of creatures that had died there. A horrible place to be avoided at all costs. Now Ola thought she should go there. As they made camp for the night, Helga had much to think about...
Ola worked quickly, but without haste, as was normal for him. Pulling out a coil of fishing line he carried in his pack, he soon pulled several catfish from the lake. Cleaning them, he pressed them with wild blackberry juice, wrapped them in wild onions and grass, and roasted them between two Y-shaped sticks over a small fire Helga had made. Soon, they had a modest but very pleasing meal.
Helga loved fish and ate greedily. Then, after eating she sat for a long time, thinking. The deep darkness of the Drownlands wilderness made the sky seem especially brilliant with stars. Billions of points of light glistened overhead. Each one seemed more dazzling than the rest. Which one was brightest? One surely must be brighter than the others. Wasn’t that the way the world was? She wondered.
“Countin’ the stars, Misst Helgy?” Ola asked, sitting down beside her.
“No, just wondering if there’s one that is the most brilliant of all. Pretty silly question, eh?” Helga replied, grinning sheepishly.
“Niean, Misst Helgy,” her friend responded, “don’t yor worry aboot that. If there bein’ not the brightest, there bein’ not the dimmest. We’d all bein’ lost without seekin’ the brighter stars to follow. Niean, there’s always bein’ a star that’s the brighter. Yor just got to find it.”
“Ola, I know what you’re saying. I know that me deciding what to do now, which way to go, is like trying to find the brightest star in a sky full of brilliant stars. But how will I find it, Ola?” Helga asked. “There are so many stars. How is it possible? I sit here first thinking one thing, then thinking another. I feel so confused.”
“Well, Misst Helgy, there bein’ a star that’s sayin’ right to yor, I’m the brightest. Listen to that place inside yor that nobody can see. The brightest star is there, where no one can see it.” Ola gave Helga another of his gentle grins as he watched her puzzle over yet another enigma.
“G’night, Misst Helgy,” Ola said as he turned to retire, “don’t let the enigmas keep you up.”
Helga, feeling full and safe, dozed off, still pondering her questions.
Toward the Bone Forest
“Pssst! Helga, are you asleep?” Burwell was kneeling beside her, as Helga groggily opened her eyes. “I’m sorry to be bothering you,” Burwell apologized, “but I can’t stop thinking about what Ola said. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“What do you want to say, Burwell? I’m listening,” Helga replied. Helga could see that her friend was troubled.
“I don’t know what to think, Helga. It looks like craziness to head off to the Bone Forest. We’ll die for sure. We can’t go to the Drownlands Cutoff. We’ll die for sure. We can’t stay in the Drownlands. We’ll die for sure. I don’t like our choices...” He grew silent.
Helga said nothing. She shared Burwell’s concerns, but she also trusted Ola’s judgment. He knew the wilds better than anyone—but she also respected Burwell’s opinion
s. Although he was, in some ways, a silly and undisciplined fellow, Helga could see that underneath his silliness, he had a sincere kindness toward all. She also knew that a Bayou Dog did not survive in the Drownlands without a quick wit, courage and perseverance. Burwell was more than many might think. And Bwellina was like a rock, unwavering, unafraid, and unflappable. Her soft snoring was a perfect indication of how worry affected her.
“What should we do, Burwell?” Helga asked.
“I think we should try for the Cutoff station,” Burwell replied. “We probably have at least a little head start on King Stuppy’s thugs. We have a chance if we go that way. Going to the Bone Forest is suicide. You have as good a chance finding a trace of Breister at the Cutoff as in the Bone Forest—and perhaps we might have a chance to live. The Cutoff is the gateway into the Rounds of Deep Springs. If we can make it there we will be safe. You will have a life there. But in the Bone Forest, what will you have? Yep! Yep! Yep!”
Helga was silent for a time. Burwell had some excellent points. Yet her answer was not delayed long, and it was firm.
“Burwell, I appreciate your good-spirited desire to help me. I know you worry about me. I treasure that—and I love the thought of going to the Rounds again. I grew up there. I would truly love it there. But I want a chance to regain my Papa. Somehow, I think Ola is right. The place I am seeking is not a place. My heart tells me that both my affection for the Rounds and my hate for the Bone Forest may blind me to the true path.” Burwell understood her meaning.
“So, we are going to the Bone Forest.” Burwell observed. It was not a question, but a statement of conviction.