Helga- Out of Hedgelands

by Rick Johnson

  Soon she was being hauled over the boat’s railing, then dumped on the deck, gasping for air. Her coarse dark brown fur showed faint red streaks of blood where ropes had torn her hide during her struggle for freedom. Huge black eyes stared angrily at everyone on the boat, and her head, shaved close in Pogwagger style, circled endlessly back and forth, looking for a path of escape. The young Grizzly Pogwagger, yelling loudly at her captors as she was hustled over to the gunwale and tied, fell into sullen silence after she had been lashed beside Helga. As soon as she was tied to the gunwale, the Pogwagger resumed her struggle for freedom. But pulling against her bonds only succeeded in bringing a furious clanking from the cruel irons she now wore.

  Helga eyed the Pogwagger with interest. Observing the rippling muscles of her new neighbor, she mused at how the team of powerful Sn’akers had been subdued against their wills, just as she and Christer had been. Curiosity gnawed at her. It was not lack of strength or capacity to elude capture that had made them all Wrackshee captives—there had been no real threat to the Sn’akers up on the trail. The Aviafias were not attacking the Sn’akers and there was no Wrackshee attack force. The reason they were captives was solely that, for some reason, the Pogwagger and her teammates had cooperated with the plan that now had landed them all in irons. Why had they helped the Wrackshees? And why were they also now captives? It made no sense.

  Helga looked at the Pogwagger beside her. “Why did you do it?” she asked quietly.

  There was no answer. Leaning her head back on the gunwale, the big Grizzly simply closed her eyes as if to go to sleep. Soon the Wrackshees had loaded and secured all their prisoners and stowed the bales of snakeskins aboard their boat.

  As the Wrackshee boat and kayaks got underway and moved downstream, the flurry of action temporarily distracted Helga. Her fierce curiosity about the strange occurrences involving herself and the Pogwaggers, however, did not subside. Soon she laid her head, relaxed like, back against the gunwale, and remarked to the Pogwagger beside her, “Well, well, now didn’t we both find out a bit more about the world—for now we do, and later we don’t. And, even when we do as we expected to do, sometimes it turns out we were a little too far to the left, or a little too close on the right. Yes, sir, even when we lay out good plans, life is pretty uncertain and, often, we end up nowhere close to where we set out to be.”

  The Pogwagger gave Helga a brief, fierce glance, then folded her arms and gazed straight ahead, saying nothing. Although thoroughly silent, the Pogwagger fidgeted restlessly, seemingly bursting with energy she was consciously seeking to control. The Pogwagger’s manner suggested that Helga’s earlier comment had unsettled her.

  Helga’s fascination with the strange circumstances she shared with the Pogwagger, and her curiosity about the Pogwagger’s own story, made her pursue her earlier comment.

  “What a heap of trouble, danger, and disappointment we’d miss in life if everything went according to plan,” Helga chuckled, not exactly to the Pogwagger, but to no one else either. “Yes, there’s plenty of times I was lucky that the plan I’d made didn’t pan out the way I’d hoped—oh yes, sometimes it would’ve been better if I’d just stopped a bit short of what I’d planned, or thought it over a bit more before I started. Yes, indeed-deed, sometimes there’s a demon in the details of the fine plans we make.”

  “POGS—YOU VARMIT-FACED WOOD COW! YOU’D THINK A ROUNDIE LIKE YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND! POGS!” Roaring out the statement loud enough to wake beasts sleeping miles away, the Grizzly strained so hard against her bonds that Helga thought she’d tear a limb off trying to free herself.

  “Whoa, now, there friend,” Helga chuckled, “I didn’t mean to make you ill in your mind! I was just trying to see if you’d talk to me about what just happened to us.”

  “TALK TO YOU!” the Pogwagger exploded. “TALK TO A ROUNDIE—A DIRTY, LOW-DOWN POG-BOG FARMER? NO, I WILL NOT TALK TO YOU—I DISPISE YOU UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY. I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU!”

  A period of silence followed this, which Helga, taken somewhat aback by the unexpected outburst, made no effort to break immediately. After a few minutes, the Pogwagger’s agitation gradually decreased. When Helga judged that the Grizzly’s breathing was normal once more, she ventured another comment. “I ought to apologize for causing you anger,” Helga said, “yet, somehow I feel that I’m about to learn something from you, which I need to know.”

  Pausing to judge the effect of what she had said, and observing no indication that she was arousing the Pogwagger again, Helga continued. “I was unaware that you harbored ill feelings toward me when I spoke a while ago—but you have shown me that I have somehow harmed you. I would very much like to learn how that is.”

  “Pogs,” the Grizzly replied slowly, as if considering how many words to use. “You Roundies ruined the Pog-Bogs and have driven all us Pogwaggers to famine and want. You want a reason I hate and despise you—well, there you have it. If I were free I would hope to slit your gut from chin to toe. I should have done it when I had a chance, but I thought seeing you sold into slavery would be better.”

  This explanation sent Helga’s mind reeling. Pogs? Those little annoying frogs whose croaking in the Pog-Bogs kept everyone sleepless during the spring? Pogs? She was sitting here with a well-muscled Grizzly hoping to kill her, because of tiny frogs? How hard the Roundies had worked to drain the Pog-Bogs to open up more space for cornfields, potato patches, and carrot beds. And how soundly the Roundies slept, now that the Pogs were gone. The world was, indeed, a strange and uncertain place.

  “But, I’ve never seen a Pogwagger anywhere near the Rounds. I don’t even know anything about Pogwaggers—why, you’re about the first Pogwagger I ever saw. All I know is that you Pogwaggers live somewhere in the Drownlands,” Helga said. “What do Pogs in the Rounds have to do with you Pogwaggers living somewhere, far away, that I have no idea about?”

  “Our clans have lived in Open Wets of the Drownlands for generations,” the Grizzly replied, calming down somewhat, but still viewing Helga with disgust. “Our folk used to live by catching Waggers—a big lizard that feeds on full-grown Pogs. There’s two kinds of Pogs you have in the Rounds: female Pogs that come back to the Pog-Bogs to lay their eggs and die, and the young, newly-hatched Pogs—what we call Pog-Willies—the ones just a few weeks old. When Pog-Willies reach a certain size, they leave the Pog-Bogs and migrate to the Open Wets of the Drownlands. There, the Waggers feed on them, and our folk catch the Waggers—we eat them and use their skin, claws, and teeth for lots of things.” The Grizzly paused and gave Helga an especially harsh look. “That is, that’s the way it used to be—when there were still Waggers around.”

  “What do you mean, when there were still Waggers around,” Helga asked.

  “When you Roundies drained the Pog-Bogs, that was the end of the Pogs,” the Grizzly said in a cold, even voice. “And when the Pogs stopped coming to the Open Wets, the Waggers died off as well—no Pogs, no Waggers; no Waggers, and we Pogwaggers go hungry.” The Grizzly stopped and looked sadly away, as if visiting another place in her mind.

  “When I was a small beast,” she continued, “I lived in a bag-house—that’s a lizard skin tent—with my parents, my grandmother, my brothers and sisters, and, usually about 20 Waggers. Yep, we kept the Waggers in cages at one end of the tent and we lived at the other. Waggers are extremely hard to capture. Sometimes you’re having a good day and catch several—and that might be all you’ll be able to catch for weeks, so you want to keep them! Grandmother always kept a swamp grass fire burning in the middle of our bag-house. She would cook up a thick porridge of swamp cabbage, Wagger meat, and wild pumpkins in a large cauldron, and let it simmer all day. I swear, just the smell of that soup would drive me nearly crazy—it smelled so good!”

  The Pogwagger seemed to be in a reverie, transported in her mind to those days of her youth. After a time, she turned and look Helga dead in the eye, “But all of that is gone now—all gone now, vanished forever,” she said icily. �
��The Pogwaggers are scattered to the winds now—everyone scrabbling for some way to live. Our whole way of life is gone—destroyed—everything we had depended on the Waggers. Now we eke out a living as we can, or sit and sadly watch everything we knew fall apart. The young mostly leave and do anything they find to do, or get tempted into—like me and this scheme to steal some snakeskins and take some slaves to sell. But, as you said, that was a plan that should have stopped a bit shorter than it did.”

  A Prime Lot of Butter

  Helga and the Grizzly fell into silence as the Wrackshee flotilla continued its way downstream under the starry sky. Gradually, the gentle rocking of the boat lulled them to sleep. Neither one stirred from their peaceful sleep until they were jolted awake by the Wrackshee leader loudly giving commands. “Snuck’s Ear just around the next bend! Prepare to dock! Get the varmints ready for sale!”

  Blinking in the bright light of morning, Helga was unable to see what was happening on the river because of the gunwales. However, as the Wrackshee flotilla rounded the river’s bend, she could see that they were approaching a rocky wall with a huge chunk of rock sticking out in the unmistakable shape of a gigantic ear! Whisps of smoke curled around the ear, adding to the weird sight.

  Helga gazed at the strange ear as the boats approached it. Drawing closer, she could see that, directly beneath the ear, a large cave opened to the river. Soon, the Wrackshee boats turned toward the cave and floated inside! Helga was surprised to find that the interior of the cave was smoky—a pall of smoke drifted slowly across the upper part of the cave, flowing toward the mouth of the cave. There the smoke escaped and snaked upward around the rocky ear outside.

  Helga was astonished to see what was obviously a trading post rising along one side of vast cave. Step-like terraces, carved out over eons as the curving flow of the river’s current carved out the cave and cut steadily deeper into the rock, provided a secure, albeit unlikely, foothold for habitation and commerce. The lively activity of the dimly-lit settlement was apparent even from where Helga sat chained to the gunwale.

  The Wrackshee boats moved toward shore, and soon Helga felt her boat bump against a landing pier. Instantly, Wrackshees were standing around her and the other captives, unlocking their chains. As Helga stood and stretched her cramped legs, she could see that other boats, canoes, and kayaks were scattered here and there along the bank, many tied up at the many gangways hanging out from merchant shops built to the very edge of the river. Rudely built and dirty, the entire place showed every sign of neglect and decay. The small metal gangways, although crowded with beasts going about their business, appeared so rusted and broken, as to be nearly beyond use.

  “Jump and form in line, you lazy varmints, or you’ll feel the bite o’ my lash! Get up, you! Over there—get in line. Get moving!” The tip of the Wrackshee’s whip cracked just beside Helga’s ear as she moved slowly into line. Wrackshees chained one prisoner’s right ankle to the left ankle of the beast behind, then back to the next one’s right ankle, then to the next one’s left, all the way down the line, making movement slow and difficult.

  Pushed roughly forward, cracks of the whip biting at their backs, the captives stumbled clumsily off the boat and stepped onto a rocky outcrop that served as the landing pier. Despite a slight cool cave breeze toward the cave entrance, smoke from dozens of lamps and hearths hung closely about the settlement, giving the air a damply burnt taste in Helga’s mouth as she breathed.

  Wrackshee guards, standing with throwing lances at the ready, motioned the captives toward the doorway a few steps down from the pier. On the door hung a signboard: Snuck Rasts and Brother, Grog and Butter.

  CRACK! “Keep moving, you Slime-Pots! Move!” CRACK! The lash cut into the Grizzly Pogwagger’s shoulder and she reared her head to protest. CRACK-SHMACK! Two more lashes cut her protest short.

  The captives stepped through the doorway into a sort of dingy groghouse with a counter and a few grimy tables. “HIZZZZ!” A huge ancient monitor lizard, dozing in front of a hearth, raised its head, and struggling to its feet, hissed at the captives. Its long gray tongue pushed out in weak spurts. Deeply-wrinkled, wizened skin hung in huge folds almost to the floor. “HIZZZZZ! HIZZZZ!” The old dragon opened its mouth in an attempt to show its fearsome array of teeth, but only succeeded in showing it was nearly toothless. “HIZZZZZ!”

  “Down, Pearl! Get Back! Lay down, you old wheezer!” a stocky, disheveled Boar commanded from behind the grog counter. “Here, take this and shut your trap!” said the Boar, reaching into a large jar of pickled mice sitting on the counter. He neatly flicked two pickled mice across the room smack into the monitor’s open gob. SNAP-SCHUMPT! The dragon caught the mice and swallowed them in a single gulp. Then, slowly blinking its large deep blue eyes at its master, its hissing subsided as it settled back down by the hearth.

  “There ya go, ya worthless critters! Ol’ Pearl won’t never harm ya—though she’s taken off a few legs and swallowed a few wee ones whole in her better days.” Patting the jar of pickled mice, the Boar continued, “Yessir, Pearl loves these little treats here and that’s about all she’s up to these days—now when she was in her prime, ya didn’t want to sit none to too close to her with yer boots off. Why, one time, she just snipped off one old Coyote’s toes who wiggled them a little too much by the fire. Not her fault ya understand—fool Coyote just tormentin’ her like that.” The scattered pikers and scalawags swilling grog at the tables guffawed, and seeing this pleasant diversion was at an end, went back to their gambling and talk.

  “Now then,” the Boar said jocularly, picking flecks of food from his huge yellowed tusks with a long skinning knife, “looks like you’ve got a bit of butter to sell, eh?” Coming out from behind the counter, he slowly walked past the line of captives, poking each one here and there with the point of his knife to test the firmness of muscle. “Yep, looks like some mighty fine butter—they’ll bring a lot on the trallé market at Port Newolf. Just step out back and speak with Snuck and his brother, why they’ll fix ya right up and y’ll be on yer way.”

  The Wrackshee guards motioned for Helga and the others to move through a door the Boar had opened at the rear of the groghouse. Stepping through the door, Helga and the others entered a dimly-lit warehouse with a low ceiling. Most of the room was stacked with crates, hogsheads, casks, and bundles of snakeskins. The room had an over-powering stench and Helga wished she could hold her breath. The naturally putrid smell of the Wrackshee guards now was mingled with a stale odor of sweating, unwashed beasts that hung in the air, although no other beasts were apparent beyond Helga her small group of fellow captives. Several long-decomposing barrels of spiced lizard guts leaked their contents into rancid puddles, adding their own gag-inducing stink. And, clinging to it all, the constant, oppressive stale smokiness.

  Coming in at the front of the line of captives, Helga noticed that a lone figure dominated this most unpromising scene. Beneath an oil lamp hanging on the wall, stood a lone, muscular Wolf—faintly green eyes glinting out of an immensely hairy face, red cap pulled tight on the head, coiled leather whip and short rapier tied at the belt—the characteristic features of a Norder Wolf slave trader!

  “Here ya go, Snuck, a prime lot of butter for ya,” the Wrackshee leader said, as the line of captives were herded toward the Wolf.

  “Yes, looks like a very good lot, indeed,” the Wolf replied.

  “Not a good bunch at all!” Helga said fiercely. “It’s a bunch that will sit on its haunches and not work a lick, nobody would want this pile of trouble, I assure you!” Helga yelled, straining against her bonds with all her strength.

  Ignoring Helga’s outburst, the Wrackshee continued, “A high-spirited, strong beast, as you can see. Exactly what is needed at Tilk Duraow.” Turning toward Christer, the Wrackshee said, “And this fine young beast has sound muscle and bone and a lively eye—shows real potential.”

  “Ain’t got no sense, no how,” Christer said stupidly, giving his most ignorant look to
the Wolf. “Don’t know a lick about nothin’,” Christer went on, “don’t even know how to tie boot laces—and that’s the truth, fer sure.”

  “And his leg only works right when he’s got Wigger’s Salve to rub on his bum leg,” Helga added, pointing to the leg Christer was now rubbing, as if it pained him. “And the last bottle of Wigger’s Salve I ever saw was years ago—No sir, no way he’s fit to cut stones—why he’s so weak, both in leg and brain, not to mention lazy and shiftless, why he’d be a danger to all the rest of your slaves!” Helga complained, giving Christer a look of profound disdain.

  CRAAAAKKKK! A Wrackshee guard sent his lash down like a lightning bolt across Helga’s back. She winced but, instead of submitting, Helga threw a frenzied attack against the bonds that held her, dragging the entire line of captives this way and that as she tried to break free. CRAKKK! CRAKKK! The lash feel on her again and again, but with no effect, until at last she stopped. Breathing heavily, Helga yelled, “You’ll never make a slave of me—NEVER—and you’ll never take these other beasts into your hell-hole at Tilk Duraow either so long as I draw breath! You’ll never sleep a sound night’s sleep again so long as I’m alive!”

  “Very nice speech, Wood Cow,” Snuck replied. “But, unfortunately, you are now, in fact, a slave and so are your friends. I’ll be staying right here, paying off your Wrackshee hosts, while my brother and his friends escort you to where you will join the other slaves. Then, why, there won’t hardly be time for you to blink and you’ll all be off for the slave works at Tilk Duraow—oh, except for you, that is.” Eyeing Helga slyly, the Norder Wolf continued, “Why, you’ve shown such strength and spirit—why, it was truly impressive the way you pulled things around! Just the kind of power and energy that they look for in Tilk Duraow runners! Yes, you’d be perfect for that!”