Helga- Out of Hedgelands

by Rick Johnson

  Christer gradually calmed down and his laughter settled into irregular, low guffaws as some new image leaped to mind amidst the rocks. Helga, however, was startled by what she saw in the formations. It seemed to her that she and her mother, Helbara, were back on that ill-fated river, years before, with Wrackshees closing in. There was her mother going off to meet the Wrackshees—protecting Helga who was hidden in a hollow tree—how could it be that these rocks were so realistic? It was as if she were there exactly as it was.

  “HA-HA-HA!” Christer’s laughter snapped Helga back to the present. “What is the matter with you!” she yelled. “How can you laugh at time like this?”

  “Why not,” Christer replied with a grin. “Why spend the last days of my life weeping and wailing, rather than laughing and singing? We are bound off to be worked to death—why not laugh in the happy memories of the old days that come to mind? And…,” he paused and looked at Helga, “isn’t it good for me to laugh and rejoice now, being in the company of the prettiest Wood Cow I ever laid eyes on?”

  Helga blushed at this unexpected turn of the conversation. “You are an absolute loonie, Christer! A nut-case!” Helga laughed, recovering herself. “Now what good does that comment do you? I don’t have the slightest interest in returning the compliment.”

  “Oh, a saucy and cheeky sort, to boot!” Christer said, smiling.

  “Not at all,” Helga replied, “I just don’t compliment beasts acting like complete idiots.”

  “Then we are a pair,” Christer chuckled, “because it’s clear you don’t have a particle of good sense.”

  “Well, I never heard the equal to that!” Helga laughed, despite herself.

  “Now don’t get me wrong,” Christer said with another chuckle, “I don’t claim to be your equal—why the world would be a fearsome place if there were two of us like you!”

  “If you want to see me being fearsome,” Helga growled with a smile, “you just keep up your being a silly humbug—when we are in desperate trouble and getting worse by the minute—look over there!” She pointed through the hazy light. A dock was coming into sight in the half-light.

  The quay appeared to be deserted, but as the skimmer approached, a cry from a sentinel—“Ranks and swords! Troops forward!”—sounded ominous. Although a glimmer of daylight—could it actually be daylight, Helga wondered?—seemed to filter down from some unseen opening to the outside, it was difficult to distinguish the entire outline of the quay and its surroundings, due to the dim light and the almost malignant air that caused her eyes to water.

  Helga struggled not to gag as her lungs filled with pestiferous odors. To breathe the vapors swirling around the skimmer as it came into dock seemed to carry feelings of melancholy and loneliness deep inside a beast. Through the swirling vapor, the sounds of heavily-booted running feet and further charges and commands seemed sad and forsaken. Christer noticed the effect also and immediately his jesting ceased.

  A drawbridge clanged down to the skimmer and a running troop of heavily-armed Skull Buzzards rushed up the drawbridge and took up stations in two columns lining the drawbridge, razor-sharp swords drawn and at the ready.

  Join the Crew of the Daring Dream

  “Stand up and get moving!” Stench commanded roughly, pushing Helga and the other captives toward the quay.

  A stoutly-built, but flabby Wolf stepped out of the shadows, taking his place at the end of the dock, where the rows of Skull Buzzards ended. The Wolf’s florid face shone with oily perspiration as he leaned on his thin cane. Tapping his hightop boot on the dock, he waited impatiently for the captives to unload.

  “Hallo, there, now! Step it up! Pipe the Butter, Fetor!” the Wolf called angrily. “The Butter Dock is packed jowl to elbow and most of them are near moldy and rotten! We’ve been a-waitin’ days for this load! We gotta get moving!”

  A second Wolf, one-eyed, completely bald on top of his head, and so short and stubby that he hardly reached the waist of the other, stepped forward. Despite his pint-size, Helga could see that he had a king-size attitude as he walked down the line of Skull Buzzards. An evil smirk played across his crooked mouth as he licked drool from his lips and spat it on the polished boots of the Skull Buzzard Commander as he passed by. Reaching the line of captives, he raised a flute to his lips and began playing a marching tune. As the group of captives followed the piper between the Skull Buzzards, the Buzzards swatted each captive on the backside with the flat of their swords, keeping time with the music.

  For their part, Stench and Reek smiled at the successful unloading of yet another cargo of butter for the High One. “Ah, ’tis such a shame about Bro-Butt, ain’t it Reek?” Stench said with feigned sorrow.

  “Aye and Alas, Stench—a mighty terrible pity, ’tis, and that’s the truth. Why, no more butter slidin’ through that tunnel ever again, I’d reckon. Looks like we’re outta business on that way a doin’ things. Yep, ’tis a most terrible, awful shame. Boo-Hoo and Hoo-Boo.” Reek pulled an exaggerated face and let out a small sniff as if he were crying.”

  “Now don’t you go bawlin’ like some little tyke, Reek,” Stench chuckled. “Why, now that we’re done sobbin’ over Bro-Butt, and we’ve got all this gold in our pockets, I think we ought to just step on upstairs into Port Newolf and look around for some new pickin’s. I’m thinkin’ we might want to buy up some fine trallés and run a caravan out into the Norder Wolf Estates. I hear those wealthy Norders will pay outrageously for a top trallé—one good run with trallés, and we could be sittin’ pretty for a long time.”

  Reek’s head bobbed in agreement and the two set about securing their skimmer to the quay. “Tie ’er up tight there, Reek. We’ll go up to the Port and buy us a few slaves and a load of trallés, then come down here and get the skimmer. With the Landrollers, we’ll ride right along in style while the slaves pull us along and carry the trallés. Yes, sir, it will be a fine new business for us.”

  Having secured the skimmer, Reek and Stench walked up a long ramp running upward to the left of the quay. In a few minutes, they walked out into the bright sunlight of Port Newolf. Stopping briefly at the Skull Buzzard checkpoint, they then stepped out into the thriving port to seek their new line of work.

  Helga and the other captives, however, were conducted down a long, broad train of stone steps leading away from the quay in the opposite direction, Fetor in front, piping away, and lines of Skull Buzzards to each side, swatting away with their swords. Despite the sting of the swords slapping her on the rear, Helga had to admit that the melody of the flute, while played poorly, was at least helped musically by the strong backbeat of the sword swats.

  In just a few steps, the troop descended into a dingy, stinking chamber. Two massive iron doors, at least seven inches thick, stood open to admit them, with Skull Buzzard guards to each side. Helga gasped at what she saw: dozens of beasts standing nearly knee deep in water, each chained to rusty iron rings attached to the ceiling! Sea-beasts crowded together, packed on top of one another, pressed into the dismal, flooded, suffocating stench of unwashed bodies and molding clothes—Helga nearly screamed at the sight! Not a single breath of fresh air moved in the dreary chamber. Only beasts with hearts of steel could possibly endure in such a place.

  “Welcome to the Butter Dock, Slime-bags,” Fetor announced. “Step right in and join the crew of the Daring Dream—they’ve been awaiting your arrival.” Fetor laughed, then continued, “But don’t get too comfortable because you won’t be here long. As soon as we get these lazy scum ready to go, we’ll be heading for Tilk Duraow.”

  “You know of Tilk Duraow, I suppose?” Fetor asked with sly sarcasm. “Perhaps its considerable fame has reached your ears? Ah, yes, that great, magnificent, wide open, yawning abyss—that miraculous, glorious bottomless pit, from which come the precious stones to build Maev Astuté! How could your heart not burn to cut those stones?” A malignant smile played across Fetor’s odd crooked mouth, dripping with a constant flow of drool.

  “Just imagin
e with me the immense iron buckets forever passing up and down on their rattling, clanking chains! The creaking and groaning of gears and pulleys! Ah, the music of it! And think of the armies of beasts like yourselves—working on those vertical walls of stone, nearly a thousand feet from base to top—reduced to the appearance of ants crawling upon the massive walls. Some crawl across those wondrous walls on spider-web like ropes; others on ladders lashed together many dozens of feet in length, warped by the distance—Oh! What a joy! And especially for those lucky beasties clinging to the blasting baskets! Hear them hammering, ‘Tap-Tap-Tap,’ as they drive an iron bolt into the solid rock to make a cavity for blasting powder! Then, who sets the powder and lights it? Why the beastie on the basket!!! Quickly now, light it, and, Heave Ho, get them out of the way! Maybe! HA-HA-HA-HO!”

  Fetor paused, slowly wiping drool off his chin, brow furrowed, as if remembering something. “Ah, yes, I almost forgot—everyone gets to enjoy the blessings of Tilk Duraow. The female Wood Cow has been chosen to be a Tilk Duraow runner—so she won’t be going with you.” The Wolf turned to the Skull Buzzards and said, “You two take the Wood Cow to Norder Crossings—but watch her closely, I can see she’s a pack of trouble if you take your eyes off her—Heh-Heh-Heh—which is exactly why she’ll make a good runner.”

  “I am not willing to allow her to go!” Christer exploded. “I demand to go in her place!”

  “Willing, you say?” Fetor said, bemused. “The question is whether I am willing, my dear fellow, and, sad to say for your hopes, I am not willing to accept your offer of service.”

  “You are nothing but a bald, musically untalented tyrant,” Christer remonstrated.

  “It will be wiser not to criticize my music,” Fetor warned with a sarcastic tone. “Beasts with their feet in the chains I own do not have a very good record of correcting my playing—or in opposing me in any other way. I suggest you just settle down and enjoy the walk to Tilk Duraow.”

  “And if I should refuse that kind offer?” Christer asked.

  “In that case, I’m afraid I might have to prevail on your young female friend here to help me make you more reasonable,” the Wolf replied.

  The icy note of warning in Fetor’s response was not lost on Christer. Glancing helplessly at Helga, he said, “Believe me, Fetor, I will do as you say, but only that I may one day hope to see you splattered across the rocks of your precious Tilk Duraow. Mark my words.”

  A Dragonwacker’s Work

  Rain at Norder Crossings was never normal. At Norder Crossings it rains like a dam has broken and the lake dumps on the unfortunate beasts below. But this time the rains were especially bad. Rivers were so swollen that caravans could not cross. Bridges were destroyed. Roads washed away. The very important monitor train to the Hedgelands was so long delayed that many merchants and traders were facing ruin. When at last the sun shone after weeks of rain, every merchant in town was in the market square at dawn, pushing and haggling for all he was worth. Everyone was making up for lost time; each moment precious.

  Ankle-deep water still filled the streets in some places. Colonel Snart, Monopole of the caravan, slogged along, making final checks of the monitors being loaded.

  “That knot won’t get any tighter if you pull on it another week,” he fumed as a weary Wolf fumbled to secure the ropes holding packs in place on a monitor’s back. “Give it to me! I’ll pull it tight—you get over there and help Raskin load those barrels on the wagon. You pull your weight you bumbling idiot, or you’ll be carrying packs just like the monitors.” The tired, cold Wolf bowed to the Monopole and backed away with head bowed.

  “We pull out in an hour!” Colonel Snart yelled after the Wolf, loudly enough to be heard all along the line of beasts working feverishly to load the monitor train. “Any more delays and we’ll miss the last of the Trading Days—if that happens, more than a few of you will be breaking rock at Tilk Duraow!”

  The impact of the threat was immediate. All along the line beasts increased the speed of their frantic efforts to ready the monitor train for departure. No beast wanted to be sentenced to the slave-works at the Granite Hulks of Tilk Duraow. There, slaves broke and cut rock that was used to build the great castle of Maev Astuté. It was dangerous, often deadly, work. A troublesome beast could easily find himself swinging in a rickety basket at a dizzying height above the ground sawing huge pieces of granite loose. Without warning, chunks could break away and knock the unfortunate beast to the rocks far below. It was an unpleasant business.

  Slurrp! Slosht! “Ahhhh, that’s better.” Coming from behind him, the sound caught the Monopole’s attention. A young Wolf sat on the open tailgate of a wagon pouring water out of his boots and wringing water out of his soaked trouser legs. Seemingly unaware that anything was amiss in what he was doing, the good-humored Wolf hummed a song as he tried to dry himself.

  Oh the rains are wet and me boots overflow—

  A-me-a-my-hum-me-de-me

  Me field’s awash and I’m growin’ gills—

  Alas, me potatoes are drownin’

  A-me-a-my-hum-de-me-de-me—

  KA-CHUNK! Colonel Snart whacked the Wolf across the head with the blunt end of his pike.

  “Get on with it!” the Monopole screamed at the poor, confused Wolf. “Load the packs, you empty-brained sluggard!”

  “Now, I’ll be beggin’ your pardon, lord,” the Wolf replied. “I’m not bound to your cargo, nor likin’ the thanks you gave me for my business. I’m a farmer, not your personal puncher-beast. I bought my goods from Mr. Peets, as I assume you’d be glad I did as he pays your wages. So, I’ll be pleased if you’d leave off with beatin’ on me head!”

  “Get your sluggard bottom off of my wagons, if you’re not a caravan beast,” Colonel Snart responded coldly. “That will be my thanks for your business—you’d best be thanking your own good luck that I did not split your skull. Mr. Peets’ affairs are Mr. Peets’ affairs—and as there’s no other place to buy what you need, I’m sure you’ll be keeping your complaints to yourself. Now, move your sluggard bottom off of my wagon.”

  Despite the angry words and ill-treatment, the good-natured Wolf smiled as he pulled on his boots. Shouldering his pack, the Wolf farmer picked up his walking staff and moved away from the monitor train. Pausing just before he turned a corner and went out of sight, he called back, “At the end, you know, we all end up at Tilk Duraow. See you there.” Then, he was gone.

  The Wolf’s curious comment left puzzled looks on the faces of every beast that heard it, except for Colonel Snart. The color drained from the Monopole’s face and he leaned on his pike, breathing heavily. Sudden dizziness had come over him and he struggled to stay upright, gasping for breath. Looking strangely pale and shaken he wobbled off, muttering. “Wheesh...gashp...wheesh...not Tilk Duraow for me...you’re a lying beast...wheesh...”

  Colonel Snart staggered a few steps beside the caravan before stumbling heavily against a huge monitor being loaded by one of the Dragonwackers. Grabbing frantically to keep from falling, the Monopole caught hold of the heavy rope lashings, stopping his fall. The Wolf had hardly touched the monitor’s pack-harness when the beast lunged violently to the side, toward the Colonel, hissing ferociously and snapping its massive jaws.

  “AYYYYAWWWWH!” Colonel Snart yelled in startled surprise as the lizard’s jaws—filled with two-inch, razor-sharp teeth—snapped shut, catching the edge of the Colonel’s coat-sleeve tightly within them. With a turn of his powerful head, the monitor jerked the Monopole toward it, making the next snap of the jaws certain to bloody Colonel Snart himself. The monitor’s horrid-smelling breath—said to be the worst odor anywhere—shot out in huge putrid gusts. Pulled off balance by the monitor’s jerk, Colonel Snart’s face dropped directly into the stream of loathsome breath. Gagging at the vile stench, the Monopole’s stomach churned and he felt as if he would pass out—the usual next step for a beast falling prey to a monitor attack.

  The Dragonwacker reacted instantly to the danger.
Leaping on top of the monitor’s wide head, he began jumping up and down, pounding the lizard on the head with his heavy boots. “Torff ta Mit! Salamy! Torff ta Mit!” the Dragonwacker yelled, giving commands to the monitor.

  Slowly the giant lizard calmed down and, after a few more jumps on its head, the fearsome creature released its bite on the Monopole’s coat. Slick, gooey-looking drool glistened in heavy globs on the Colonel’s clothing where the monitor’s bite had ripped away much of the arm of his coat.

  “Den’t ya tetch the druul,” the Dragonwacker warned. “It’s wers’na bite of th’a dragen hir’silf! Here ser, drep’it ceat in th’a buckit. Thi’n I’ll be burn’it fer ya.”

  The Colonel heeded the warning, carefully removing his coat and handing it over to be burned. Every beast he had ever known that had been bitten by a monitor had died. Monitor bites were not poisonous, but as their stinking breath suggested, their filthy mouths were filled with all manner of loathsome bacteria. A “fortunate” beast that survived a monitor bite and escaped soon saw his fur falling out and the skin rolling up all around the wound. The deep slashing bite wounds always became badly infected. It was rare for a beast with a monitor bite to survive more than a day or two.

  “Luuk here, Mastir, ya git car’liss like that again—rip-snap-gulp, and ya’re a mimery. Ya’s b’in ri’und ta dragins ling eni’ugh ta kniw ta dangir. What’s git inta ya’s skull? Ta dragin’s billy din’t hild ta niceties i’ rank. Ya’s just pewirful lucky that ta meni’ters have just had tar’s li’ading mi’al—ya kniw that mak’s thim sli’ipy and sluggish fir a few hours. But din’t be fuuled—ya disturb tar’ napping, like ya did, and th’a doin’t like it ine bit. Ya act like a thickwit again and ya wen’t bi sa lucky—mark my werds!”