by Rick Johnson
“My only family is my art,” Toshty replied. “I used to have family, but some are in the WooPeace and others are at the Bottoms. They all act like the others don’t exist. I don’t need a family like that.”
“But Toshty,” Annie continued, “art is not a family. Even if it makes you feel good, I think a family is creatures loving one another and caring for each other.”
Toshty looked kindly at Annie. “You’re right, Annie,” Toshty replied. “A family is an unbroken circle of friends.” He covered the Cougar’s paw with his wing. “We aren’t exactly an unbroken circle, but we are friends, and that’s a place to start.” Annie squeezed his wingtip and they grinned at each other. Breister, seeing this, reached across from where he was sitting and said, “I join myself to this circle, and now there are three.”
The friends smiled broadly at one another. “Family is an unbroken circle of friends,” Toshty said softly. “So even folks without family can be family!” Tears filled his eyes. “Even a crazy old Owl, with mixed up relations who hate each other can have a family...Thank you, friends. That is a wonderful thought.”
Stupid Frog Shallows
As the running wagon began its journey to the Drownlands Cutoff, Breister reflected that this very running wagon had played a role in bringing Helga back to O’Fallon’s Bluff three years before. After seven years apart, they had been reunited. Replaying in his mind the story Helga had told so often, gave Breister hope that perhaps once again this running wagon might play a role in reuniting him with his daughter...
~ ~ ~
It was a lovely April morning when Helga began her year of service on the running wagon team that powered the Drownlands Cutoff Weekly. The Weekly was named for the first stop on its route, although in the course of a week the running wagon also made stops at more than a dozen other stations in the most remote parts of the Rounds, before coming back to its home station to start the circuit again.
Although worn and battered, the Weekly was clean and sturdy. Even if a little scruffy, the Weekly retained much of its original elegance of style, including an ornate set of running-lamps.
As the last baggage was loaded, the runners took their positions at the crossbars along the wagon tongue and prepared to pull the Weekly away from the station. The runners were eager to depart: shaking limbs and bouncing up and down to loosen tight muscles, rubbing chalk dust on the crossbars to make them easier to grasp, and slapping each other on the back in encouragement. A tall and lanky Coyote, with rings in her ears and long curling hair ending in a luxurious braid, wore the brilliantly colored headband of running-wagon steward. Responsible for the final check, she gave an encouraging look to each of her fellow runners. Seeing an empty spot at the eighth position, the Coyote gave a groan of frustration and made for the door of the station.
Just as she reached the station entrance, a frantic Jackrabbit burst suddenly out of the doorway, nearly slamming the door into the steward’s face. Without stopping, the previously missing runner scrambled clumsily into position at the wagon. His comical haste attracted the notice of the travelers who chuckled heartily as they peered through the passenger compartment windows.
“Now, my trammies,” the Coyote cried, “all together, as if Nate Te’Sharn actually wished the Weekly to run out on time, as much as he wished to sleep.”
“I don’t care two coppers for the time,” replied the Jackrabbit. “A body can’t rest in the rough bunks here...and the Dock Squirrels rattling trunks and boxes and cursing a blue streak all night long...How’s a body to rest?”
“Once we get rolling, you’ll forget being tired,” the Coyote replied. “Soon the warm sun will be in your face and you’ll be hearing ‘The Cutoff in Four’ before you know it...then, you’ll be having lunch and not fret your tired bones, I’ll wager,” the steward said good-naturedly. She could not feel harshly toward the tardy Jackrabbit. She knew that runners could be bleary-eyed and half-rested despite the day off between legs of the running-wagon circuit. As the Weekly pulled away from the station, it gradually picked up speed and, at first, rolled along with so little effort by the runners that it seemed to be powered only by the beat of the runners’ feet.
But the easy progress did not last long beyond the Cutoff Station. The verdant lushness of the Drownlands wilderness is flanked by a seemingly endless wasteland of hard rock and dust running far to the south. The Smothercap Steps—foothills leading to the Smothercap highlands beyond— bald granite hills piled one on top of the other mile after mile. The single winding road through this desolate and harsh country gave the wagon runners exhausting work for more than twenty miles until the road once again broke free from the wilds.
“Yi-hep-ayyy! May-ni-ayyy-hep!”—the wagon runners strained against the crossbars as they labored along the rough, bumpy track. Heads bent forward in exertion, the runners stumbled over ruts and stones, as if they might fall and be trampled by the other runners. Nevertheless, the runners continued doggedly on.
The last long hill before the Cutoff Station slowed the runners as they struggled for breath. Then, reaching the long, flat ridge the steward called out: “The Cutoff in Four!” The traditional call, shouted out as the wagon passed the Four-Mile marker before the next station, sent a surge of joy through the runners. They would soon have a rest. Finding renewed energy, the runners put full strength to their task and the wagon surged forward. Raising their heads, smiling broadly, runners laughed and joked as they strained toward the station.
Standing at the station as the running wagon pulled up, was a stout, stubby Beaver dressed in a station-master’s uniform. Smackie, the Cutoff station-master, was an old friend of Helga’s. Smackie often came over to tell jokes at celebrations at the Rounds and, during those visits, always stayed with Elbin and Sareth. The station-master was renowed for his unending store of jokes and the fact that his huge teeth made a humorous smacking sound against his lip when he spoke.
But, as the running wagon pulled up at the station, Helga noticed that the station-master’s usually good-natured expression was absent. In fact, she had no sooner stepped away from the crossbar, then Smackie suddenly threw his arms around her neck and burst into tears!
“What is it Smackie?” Helga asked. “Not heard any good jokes lately?”
“Oh! (schmack) Woes and torments! I’ve got (schmack) trembling (schmack) and vibrations (schmack) in my brain!” the station-master sobbed. “I am (schmack) ashamed of carrying (schmack) on like this. I beg your (schmack) pardon.”
“There, there, Smackie,” Helga replied, trying to console her unhappy friend.
“The,” Smackie continued, “(schmack) strange...” Sobs again carried him away and he did not finish his sentence.
“What is strange?” Helga asked.
“The stranger (schmack) arrived at the Cutoff station (schmack) yesterday—a young Lynx (schmack)—you know (schmack) we never see Lynx ’round here (schmack)! Anyways, the Lynx (schmack) pestered and pestered (schmack) me to tell him how (schmack) get to the Norder Estates. He said he was (schmack) on some high-faluttin’ mission (schmack) from the High One (schmack) and he got himself lost (schmack) on the Ocean of Dreams (schmack). Instead of ending up in (schmack) the Norder Estates, he ended up in the Rounds (schmack). He was wantin’ terrible (schmack) bad to get to the Norder Estates (schmack)—said the High One (schmack) would beat him up (schmack) awful (schmack) if he failed.”
“What did you tell him?” Helga asked.
“Why, I told him the (schmack) truth,” Smackie replied. “I told him straight away (schmack) that there was no way (schmack) to the Norder Estates except (schmack) across the Borf lands, and (schmack) no right-thinkin’ beast would (schmack) ever do that.”
Smackie broke out in sobs again. “Oh! Woes and torments! (schmack) Woes and torments! (schmack) Woes and torments! (schmack) Why, that silly-headed beast (schmack) kept right on pesterin’ me (schmack) and pesterin’ me non-stop! He wouldn’t (schmack) let me think (schmack) or eat or sleep (schmack). J
ust pesterin’ and pesterin’ (schmack) sayin’ he came to the Cutoff (schmack) thinkin’ he could get to the (schmack) Estates from here. Why (schmack) he like to drove me (schmack) crazy with his pesterin’ (schmack). Oh! Woes and torments! (schmack) Woes and torments!”
“What’s with the ‘woes and torments,’ Smackie? Why so glum?”
“Oh! Woes and torments! (schmack) Smackie sobbed again. “I’ve sent him (schmack) to his death! The Borf (schmack) will roast him and eat him (schmack)! He wouldn’t listen (schmack) to me and went off to the (schmack) Borf lands! He wouldn’t have (schmack) gone there if I (schmack) hadn’t told him about it! Oh! (schmack) Woes and torments!”
“Come on, Smackie,” Helga urged, “don’t take it so hard. Why, how do you know the Borf will roast him? They might be friendly beasts—never met one myself and don’t know much about them.”
“Oh! They’ll roast him (schmack) sure enough!” Smackie wailed. “Them Borf are a (schmack) fearsome tribe. Every beast (schmack) knows that! Why, my own Mamzy (schmack) used to tell me that (schmack) if I did not behave, the Borf (schmack) would come down Fool’s Gap (schmack) and take me away (schmack) to roast on a spit! That scared the bewilickers out of me! And I (schmack) sent that Lynx onto the (schmack) roastin’ spit, I did! Oh! (schmack) Woes and torments! I’ve never hurt a (schmack) beast in my life (schmack) before this! And now, I just sent (schmack) an innocent beast to the (schmack) roastin’ spit!”
“Now just hold on there, Smackie,” Helga exclaimed. “How long’s that Lynx been gone?”
“Just a few minutes (schmack) before the Weekly pulled in (schmack),” the troubled station-master replied mournfully. “That’s why you (schmack) found me so sad! I (schmack) tried so hard (schmack) to warn him, but (schmack) he just wouldn’t listen (schmack). I’ve never harmed (schmack) a beast in my (schmack) life! Oh! Woes and torments! (schmack)
“Well, he can’t have gotten far,” Helga replied, “which way did he go?”
“He asked me (schmack) where the road went (schmack) from here and (schmack) I told him (schmack) it went to Fool’s Gap (schmack) and that they (schmack) call it Fool’s Gap (schmack) because there’s a (schmack) passage through the Smothercap (schmack) there, but only (schmack) a fool would (schmack) go there. Oh! Woes and torments! (schmack) That poor, poor beast (schmack)!”
“Now, Smackie,” Helga smiled, “just calm yourself. I’d wager the running wagon will catch up with him before he reaches Fool’s Gap. When we catch up to him—maybe I can talk some sense into him.”
“Helga! Oh! (schmack)” Smackie exclaimed. “If you could (schmack) do that, it (schmack) would be wonderful (schmack)! That poor beast (schmack) knows nothing (schmack) of the dangers (schmack)! My Mamzy always (schmack) said that (schmack) Fool’s Gap was nothing but (schmack) wilds and more wilds (schmack) and wilds evermore (schmack)! The Drownlands is a (schmack) pleasantry compared (schmack) to the wilds between (schmack) here and the Borf lands! (schmack) Why, there’s nothing (schmack)—not a wall or fence (schmack)—to welcome a beast (schmack) past the Fool’s Gap Station (schmack)! Nothing! (schmack) Nothing! (schmack) Nothing but deserted (schmack) barren wilds to (schmack) get yourself thoroughly (schmack) lost—until the Borf (schmack) catch you!”
“Now, Smackie,” Helga said with a comforting smile, “the running wagon will catch up to the Lynx and I’ll talk sense to him! Why, you’ll no more than have imagined how many times he has met a dreadful fate, than he will be back eating Snapped Catfish and drinking Plenty Punch-Aroo with you. You don’t know how determined I can be when I’ve made up my mind. My parents didn’t bring me into this world to sit back on my haunches when a fellow beast is in trouble. I’m going to send that Lynx back to you if I can. So don’t worry, I’ll do everything I can!”
Light began to return to Smackie’s sorrowful face as he realized Helga was unshakeable in her resolve. “O.K., Helga,” Smackie said with a shrug, “because I know you (schmack), it gives me hope (schmack). I’ll try not (schmack) to worry.”
“Ay’t, ay’t, Smackie!” the running steward added, joining the conversation. “The runners will help Helga also. When we catch up with the Lynx, if Helga is not able to talk some sense into the Lynx, why the runners will just—shall we say—add our strength to her arguments! As soon as the passengers and baggage are unloaded and the runners are rested, we’ll go after the Lynx. Our runners will catch up to him soon enough.”
“So the Lynx is probably planning to follow Fool’s Gap through the Smothercap,” Helga said, pointing toward a massive range of hills in the distance. Every Roundie knew that the only sure way out of the Rounds was through the Drownlands Cutoff Station and across the Drownlands. Maps were labled “Impassable Wilds” beyond the Fool’s Gap Station in the direction of the Smothercap. The wagon road turned north at the Fool’s Gap Station and left the Smothercap Steps behind. Fool’s Gap was a barren wasteland inhabited only by biting sand flies and other such pests and vermin. But somewhere, Fool’s Gap cut through the Smothercap, and the Borf lands lay beyond that. No Roundie would ever go there—no, never.
“Not to worry, Smackie,” Helga said a while later, as the running wagon prepared to depart. “We’ll catch up to the Lynx and send him back to you—even if it takes all of us!”
“I’m sure (schmack) you will, Helga,” Smackie said, his old jovial look returning. “But, please (schmack) be careful (schmack)—the early bird catches (schmack) the worm, but the second mouse (schmack) gets the cheese (schmack). Just please be (schmack) careful.”
So it was that good-byes were said and the running wagon set off for the Fool’s Gap Station. The section of road between the Cutoff Station and Fool’s Gap Station became wilder with every mile. The Smothercap Steps in that area were a rugged wilds, untraveled beyond the road except by wind, a wilderness where the traveler should stay on the road or soon become lost.
After traveling for about two hours, the running steward called out, “Stupid Frog Shallows! Rest break!”
The running wagon coasted to a stop beside a swiftly flowing stream. The river had cut a main channel through bare soft rock some distance from the shore. Harder rock near the road had better resisted the river and formed a wide shallows perfect for wading or swimming.
Normally, when the running wagon stopped at Stupid Frog Shallows, as soon as the wagon stopped the runners bolted for the shallows to cool off and relax. On this occasion, however, as the wagon approached the river, something else captured the runners’ attention. A Lynx was standing knee deep in the water!
Hearing the wagon approach, the Lynx turned and called out: “Yo-Ho! Who’s that? What goes there?”
“Some friends!” Helga called back.
“Friends!” the Lynx replied. “I could very much use some friends just now!”
“My name is Helga and we are runners on the Drownlands Cutoff Weekley wagon bound for Fool’s Gap. Who are you and how can we help?”
“Aye’t! Aye’t!” the rest of the runners shouted.
“I am a Climbing Lynx in the service of the High One, Lord of all the Hedgelands. My important mission to the Norder Estates has come to trouble. As ashamed as I am to admit it, through misfortune I have lost my way. With the High One impatient and his mission weighing heavily on me, I desperately need to get back on track. The kind station-master at the Drownlands directed me to Fool’s Gap saying that offered a passage back into the Hedgelands. Although that will much delay me, at least I can again find my way.”
“Tallo, Lynx!” Helga replied. “We have hurried along, hoping to catch up with you. Fool’s Gap is impassable and dangerous. You cannot go that way. Rest a bit here at Stupid Frog Shallows, then go with us on our route. We will find a better way for you to—”
Before Helga could complete her sentence, the Lynx exclaimed, “Stupid Frog Shallows! Did you say this place is called Stupid Frog Shallows?”
“Why, yes,” Helga said with surprise. “Do you know this place?”
“No,” t
he Lynx replied, “but my great-grandfather’s nickname was Stupid Frog—surely he must be connected with this place! The name ‘Stupid Frog’ is not in wide use, I imagine. There must be a connection.”
“How did your great-grandfather get his nickname,” Helga asked with astonishment.
“Family lore says that, as a young Lynx he was traveling in the wilderness. It was the season when there were many frogs in the water and my great-grandfather began eating every frog he could catch. His companions could not believe that he was eating something as disgusting as wild, uncooked frogs, and they kept yelling at him, ‘Don’t eat the stupid frogs! Don’t eat the stupid frogs!’ And, well, the nickname stuck.”
“You don’t know what your great-grandfather was doing here, do you?” Helga asked. “It’s very unusual to see a Lynx in the Rounds. In fact, I don’t think a Lynx has been seen in the Rounds in a long time.” The rest of the runners agreed that they’d never before seen or heard of a Lynx in the Rounds.
“I don’t know what brought my great-grandfather here. It would be interesting to know that, especially now that I know that this must be the place where he was.”
“This place is called Stupid Frog Shallows because in olden days there were many frogs here,” the running steward said. “It’s never been clear to me why the ‘Stupid’ was in the name, but the ‘Frog’ comes from the fact there used to be lots of frogs here. Maybe now we know where the ‘Stupid’ came from.”
“If ‘Stupid Frog Shallows’ comes from your great-grandfather,” Helga mused, “something must have happened that got his name associated with this place—maybe he came here many times?”
“Who knows,” the Lynx replied. “I have no idea. Interesting to ponder, though.”
“Yes, interesting to ponder,” Helga agreed.