by Rick Johnson
Helga watched the Lynx toss probably two dozen of the hard-dried weevils into her mouth as she talked. As she looked around, Helga could make out others of the Snake-takers also eating and drinking, taking advantage of the break to nourish and refresh themselves. They were clearly a lean and hardened lot, tough and seasoned by years of running the snake-taking routes through the mountains. Although she had always heard stories about the strenuous life and legendary stamina of such mountain traders, she had never really wondered what such active beasts ate to keep up their strength.
But now, observing the first Snake-takers she had ever seen, it was clear that Snake-takers were not fussy. Pouches holding every type of dried insect and bug were being passed from beast to beast, with the loud Crunch-Crack-Crunch of hard cockroach nuts being eaten making a faint staccato amidst the laughter and talk of the relaxing beasts. Here and there other beasts gnawed on huge crystallized knobs of pine pitch—which, to Helga, looked like they were chewing on the heel of a boot. Still other beasts were scoffing on great wads of pine branch tips, putting one sweet, woody shoot after another in their mouths and grinding them fiercely with their teeth, cheeks puffing out with gobs of pulverized material sucked on for nutrients. And, regardless of the favored snack, every beast drank from the lake—flattening on their bellies, sticking mouths in the water, and slurping deep draughts.
“Helga, meet Darnt,” Christer said, introducing the Lynx. “She’s the trader who deals with the Snake-takers in these parts—knows the mountains well and will see that the Snake-takers get you through safely to the coast. She says the mountains are crawling with Wrackshees now.”
“Yash, Christer! Wrackshees everywhere! No one moves except in great danger now. Even you may not get out alive if you return the way you came. Sn’akers say they must keep moving—stop only for brief rest—they must keep moving, travel light—no heavy food or water packs—only what they can carry. They must keep moving—travel by night only. The Sn’akers must go now. You must go with them! Wrackshees are just behind!”
“Me?” Christer exclaimed. “I can’t go with them—there is no way I could keep up with their pace. I would delay them too much—I’ll go my own way back.”
“Nash! There is no way back tonight!” Darnt replied. Then, she pointed toward the night sky, calling Christer’s attention to various constellations, talking rapidly all the while. “Yash there, Christer!” she said, pointing towards an area of the western sky. “Yash! Scrodder’s Tattoo! The Heart of Ink guides the Sn’akers through the Dismal Drain—that’s the only way passable and safe. There’s Wrackshees swarming down behind you across the ridges now. They nearly caught even me a while back, except that I was hunkered down behind a crag, and in the pitch black, wind blowing away from me, they missed me. Had they caught my scent, I’d be a slave now.”
“The Dismal Drain! You’re out or your mind, Darnt! I’ve known more beasts to go in there than to come back out,” Christer exclaimed. “The Drain’s a wasteland—solid, barren sandstone, and fierce wind blowing all the time—there’s no way to follow a track. Even if there were a bit of dust to follow a track, the wind erases it in minutes. I’ve heard of lots of beasts that go in there and never come out...they say the mirages in the daytime trick beasts—making them think they see a way out, but they really just wander and wander, day after day, following mirage after mirage, until they run out of water and die. I’d rather face the Wrackshees than just leave my bones to bleach out in the Drain.” Christer knew that the Drain—made of dazzling white sandstone polished to a mirror-like surface by the constant wind carrying fine particles of the eroding sand—was a death trap.
“Yash, Christer,” Darnt replied, “that’s why you must go with the Sn’akers—they follow the Heart of Ink—that’s the only way—and travel only by night. In the daytime, even if you ignore the mirages—which most beasts can’t—the sunlight dazzles so brightly off the white sandstone of the Drain that you can’t find directions anyway. Nash—travel only by night. The Sn’akers set their course on the Heart of Ink, the brightest star in Scrodder’s Tattoo, and keep moving by night and hiding by day. I’ve made arrangements for them to take you and Helga through to the coast—and that’s your only way out now. Take it or die a slave at Tilk Duraow!”
Pointing toward Scrodder’s Tattoo, Darnt continued, “There, you see it—the Heart of Ink is almost at the center of the Tattoo, but hangs almost by itself in the blackness around it.” Darnt paused briefly, then repeated, “Sn’akers find their way by the Heart of Ink. Hide and sleep during the day, travel only at night. That will take you across the Dismal Drain in safety. Tonight is the most dangerous portion of the trip—by morning you will be across the mountains and beyond the main Wrackshee areas, still dangerous but the worst will be over.”
“I reckon you’re about right, Darnt,” Christer replied with a smile, “but I don’t want to slow them down, and I can’t keep up the pace—especially in the dark.”
“Nash, Christer,” Darnt replied, “Sn’akers carry you and Helga in the pole-rolls. The Wrackshees have kept most honest beasts from traveling for now, so they’ve got enough empty space in the pole-packs for the two of you. Go with them to Port Newolf and you can find your way home from there.”
Darnt paused as the Sn’aker leader barked out a command, “Going! Now! Quick to the packs! Bring the pole-pack over here!”
In an instant the Snake-takers were on their feet and again lifting their packs into place—two large packs per snake-taker, one to the front, the other to the back, sturdy straps connecting the packs securely across the shoulders and around the waist. Snake-takers were renowned for strength and endurance and this band of mountain beasts was no exception to the rule: most were so tall and brawny that their huge packs appeared small against their bodies. The powerful arms and legs of Zanists and Pogwaggers pulsated with readiness—iron-spring muscles quivering for their leader’s command to go. Seemingly tireless when on a trading run, Zanists and Pogwaggers needed only ten hours to take their cargo sixty miles, including rest stops. Helga could easily see the intense coiled energy that would carry her and Christer quickly across the mountains to the coast.
Helga noticed that the Sn’akers had once been well clad—cotton pants reaching half way down the thigh, a cotton shirt, open in front except for loose lacing to keep it from flapping in the breeze, and triple-layer soft leather moccasins on their feet. But that had apparently been at the beginning of their trip, as now only bits and pieces of clothing were still in use. It took many partially-clad beasts to guess at the full-picture of what the troop normally wore before the exertion of their labor caused their clothes to begin to come off piece by piece. By the time they had been running for several hours, racing over the mountain paths, the Snake-takers needed hardly any clothes to keep them warm, even in the coolness of the mountain nights. Proud of their speed, and knowing no other kind of life than this, most Snake-takers, by the time they had run an hour or so, wore little more cloth covering them than was needed to signify a decent beast.
Three brawny young Pogwaggers, two Grizzly Bears and a Horse—perfectly matched in height and bulk—trotted over to where Darnt stood with Helga and Christer. Helga could see that the youthful Sn’akers were barely older than herself, but the harsh work of a Sn’aker runner had clearly taken its toll, leaving their faces looking worn and aged beyond their years.
Two long hollow poles ran across the shoulders of the three powerful Snake-takers. Sturdy reed mats slung on the poles—two before and two after the middle Pogwagger— formed teardrop-shaped sacks. Kneeling down, the Pogwaggers allowed the sacks to touch the ground, opening the sacks to their fullest extent.
“Climb in,” Darnt said, motioning for Helga and Christer to wriggle in at the open end of the sacks.
“But when the pack carriers get up, we won’t be able to move!” Helga exclaimed. “The pack will close tight around us and we’ll just have to lie there like a bound-up bundle until the Pogwaggers sto
p again and let us out! What kind of way to travel is that?” Helga was astonished at such treatment.
“Nash, my good beastie,” Darnt replied, “and what would you expect from traveling with a snake-trading run? They’ve got to move fast and careful in the dark—they can’t have passengers shifting around and getting themselves comfortable, it makes the packs wobble. That’s too hard on the runners—slows the runners and it’s dangerous on mountain trails. The runners got to control their cargo—not the other way around! That’s the way it is.” Darnt looked seriously at Helga, then continued, “You want to make yourself comfy, then you get yourself to the coast by yourself. You go with the Sn’akers, you go their way.”
Looking sorrowfully at Christer, Helga shrugged and knelt down to crawl into one of the pole-sacks. She was surprised to find it was already occupied. Looking at Darnt in confusion, she pointed to the sack next to the one she had first approached. “Snake-takers get two hours off to rest,” she explained. “There’s a few of the runners resting while the others are running. Sn’akers keep a couple of slots open for those who get injured or sick—or to let passengers on urgent business ride if we can. That would be you,” she chuckled. “Come on there, friend,” she continued, “wake up and get back to work!”
The Zanist who had been sleeping in the pole-sack got up and, shaking out his arms and legs, prepared to go back to work as a runner. “There ya are,” Darnt said, “climb on in there—one of you on each side. They will fill the front two pole-sacks with snakeskin bales to balance the load. Now get on in there and settle in for the ride.”
Sighing with resignation and casting one last longing gaze at the night sky, Helga crawled into the open pole-sack indicated by Darnt. Christer wriggled into another. Helga was hardly straightened out in her sack when the command to depart was given, “Going! Now! Quick on your stumps! Lively and forward!”
With an amazingly smooth lift, the Zanists and Pogwaggers leaped to their feet in unison and set off at a rapid trot. The evenness and synchronized harmony of their movement created only the slightest rocking motion to Helga’s sack. The gentle swaying and soft padding of the runners feet in their triple-layer soft leather moccasins soon soothed Helga into a deep sleep.
Sn’aker Turncoats
“SCHNOOCT...SNUZZYT...SNORKETOOO...” Helga didn’t know how long she had been sleeping, when the strange whistle awakened her. “SNORKETOOO... SCHZUNCT...” The whistle seemed very loud, almost in her ear, but being encased tightly in the pole-roll, she could not see the source of the noise.
“SZZCHOONCT...SNUZZZYT...SNORCKTOO...” A distant responding whistle, in a slightly different key! Signals of some sort! This realization had no sooner come to Helga, then….ZZZZ-AAAASHH! A sudden flash of brilliant light so intense that Helga’s eyes blinked against it, even within her pole-sack! ZZZZ-AAAASHH! Another flash of intense light!
“AAAIEEEE! AVIAFIAS!” Immediately after the first flash of light, chaos broke loose in the Sn’aker party. “AVIAFIAS! AVIAFIAS! RUN!” The confused, terrified cries came from all directions. Helga could hear the snake-carriers dropping their cargo poles and running helter-skelter. She knew of Aviafias—Vultures assigned to aerial security around Maev Astuté, the immense castle of the High One, ruler of the Hedgelands across the mountains. But she’d never heard of Aviafias anywhere but around Maev Astuté. What did it mean?
As pandemonium and confusion dispersed the main group of Sn’akers, Helga realized that the runners carrying her pole-roll suddenly swerved in a new direction and picked up their pace to a furious run. Why were her runners not panicking and running for cover? Something was wrong—what was going on? The answer came quickly.
“YAR-AHHH! STOP THEM! ZARASHT! AFTER THEM!” The confusion among the Sn’akers had turned into angry shouts and cursing. Although she still could not see what was going on, apparently the main Sn’aker party had now understood the reason for the Aviafia’s arrival. Whatever was happening, the runners bearing her pole-sack were now racing along at maximum speed, with other Sn’akers in hot pursuit. “YAR-AHHHH! THE EDGE! STOP! STOP! DON’T JUMP!” Helga’s rising panic, fed by the frantic shouts of the Sn’akers, told her that she was now being carried toward the edge of some precipice, like some helpless piece of cargo.
Throwing her weight side-to-side, Helga tried desperately to knock her runners off balance. Her pole-sack began to sway back and forth wildly, gaining momentum. She could feel Christer doing the same in his sack. The powerful Pogwaggers slowed their pace as they struggled to deal with the now violently swinging sacks. Throwing every ounce of strength into the effort, Helga and Christer tried mightily to slow the runners enough to allow the other pursuing Sn’akers to catch up. With a final push, Helga felt the balance shift as the runners were knocked off their feet. Too late, Helga realized that all this accomplished was to send the entire group of runners and passengers flying out over the edge of the precipice. Making a long, wide arc, they sailed out of sight.
Amidst the chaotic tumble over the edge of the precipice, the runners let go of the poles and Helga fell free from the sack that had carried her. Tumbling wildly, Helga, Christer and their Pogwagger carriers dropped rapidly. Frantically glancing about, Helga sized up her situation. Brilliant flares still brighly illuminated in the night—apparently dropped by the Aviafias and now swinging slowly to earth on parachutes. Helga could see a river shimmering with a faint silver glow far below and coming up fast toward her. She fought to control her panic. Not trusting the depth of the water and wanting to protect herself against possible rocks, she pulled herself tightly into a ball, pulling her knees tight to her chest with one arm and protecting her tucked head with the other.
Moments later—KER-SPLOOSH—Helga hit the water with a perfect ‘cannonball dive’ and sank several feet below the surface of the river. As soon as she bobbed back to the surface, she quickly surveyed her surroundings. Surprised to note that the water was not freezing cold, she was calmed by the realization that the current was flowing at a slow, almost lazy rate. The Pogwaggers who had been carrying her had landed about 30 feet away. Although uncertain about why the runners had put her in this situation, she sensed that she could not trust them and her instinct told her to flee. She turned quickly away from them, intending to swim away, but stopped short instead.
Not far away she saw Christer bobbing in the water. What did it mean? Why had the Pogwaggers apparently run over the edge with their pole-packs? She did not have long to wonder. In the fading illumination from the flares far above, she could make out a large willow-bark boat, escorted by more than a dozen woven-reed kayaks, heading directly toward them from shore. Helga did not have to be told who these new arrivals were—the stench was unmistakable. Wrackshees! Fierce-faced, stinking with a gut-wrenching stench, and heavily-armed with dozens of small razor-sharp throwing lances carried in bandoliers slung over their shoulders, there was no mistaking who was coming for a visit. Two Aviafias also stood on the deck of the boat.
Helga knew there was no escape. Bowing her head toward the oncoming Wrackshees in an obvious sign of surrender and submission, Helga paddled slowly toward Christer.
“What do you think’s going on?” Christer whispered, when Helga reached him.
“Sn’aker turncoats, it seems,” Helga replied grimly. “Looks like they’re giving the Wrackshees a couple of slaves and some bales of very valuable snakeskins—not a bad haul, without the Wrackshees having to raise a finger.”
“So you think we were sold out, eh?” Christer said.
“Sure looks that way to me,” Helga replied. “This was planned—whistled signals, the Aviafias dropping flares to confuse the Sn’akers and provide light for the runners to carry us over the edge, then quickly back to darkness to cover the escape…yes, this was well-planned.”
Their conversation ended as the first of the Wrackshee kayaks arrived and surrounded them, throwing lances drawn and at the ready should the captives try to resist or escape. Neither had the least thought of tryi
ng anything so foolhardy. Offering no resistance, Helga and Christer allowed themselves to be lifted onto the willow-bark boat, where they were made to sit with their backs to the gunwales while their arms were threaded through a series of iron rings and then their bodies chained securely—a slaving boat!
Soon, however, Helga and Christer’s feelings of discouragement were replaced by surprise and shock. One by one, the turncoat Sn’akers were being lifted onto the boat and tied to the gunwales exactly the same fashion as were Helga and Christer! The Sn’aker turncoats apparently were captives also!
An uproar at the rear of the boat caught Helga’s attention. A burly Grizzly Pogwagger was being dragged from the river by means of several stout ropes that had been tossed around her. A crowd of Wrackshees on the boat, together with several more in kayaks, were trying to contain the angry beast and pull her aboard the boat. The powerful Pogwagger struggled wildly against the pull of the ropes.
“GIT YAA PAWS OFF’N ME, YAA SCUM-N-BARFERS! YAA STINKIN’ MUDBRAINS! TIE ME UP IF’N YAA THINKS YA GOT ME, BUT GIT YAA PAWS AWAY FROM ME!”
She was not, however, in spite of her spirited audacity, able to break free. A Wrackshee, standing at the railing, raised his arm and, tossing yet another rope, landed it around the neck of the Pogwagger. With her arms already entangled by numerous ropes, the Pogwagger could not stop the new rope from being drawn tightly around her neck.
“Pull hard, pull it hard!” the Wrackshee holding the rope called to several companions. “Silence, stop the struggle, beast, or we will pull until you are dead!” Seeing no slackening in the Grizzly’s struggles, he again roared the command: “Pull hard, pull it hard!”
“AIEEKEEE! GHASPTT!” The Grizzly Pogwagger gasped and spluttered as the rope tightened around her neck. Her frantic struggles gradually subsided as she wheezed for breath. Realizing she would be strangled and drown to no good purpose if she continued battling, the Pogwagger quieted into submission.