The Lost Country

by Brian Bakos

  “I have things to do at the castle,” I say. “There’s no time for this foolishness.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Do I detect relief in the lad’s voice – a bit of contempt, perhaps?

  I am turning Gypsy around when I catch sight of my left glove. A message in my own writing is scrawled on the back: ATOP THE PASS.

  Confusion elbows aside my fear. I sit for some moments, trying to unravel the mystery. The boy infuriates me with his silence. Sure, I told him to shut up, but why doesn’t he say something? My stomach rumbles with hunger.

  I sure am thirsty, too. I should have brought a canteen. Isn’t that a stream over there? Down the trail, toward the pass.

  The pass!

  Truth bursts through like a lightning bolt. A warped mirror inside my mind abruptly shatters as if struck by an armored fist. Joyous power surges through me. I ram my feet into the stirrups and turn down the lane at a canter.

  “Follow me!”

  5: Ascent

  The land is oddly deserted. No flock nor herd grazes the open areas, despite the sweet aroma of clover. Startled honeybees buzz my ears. The terrain rises steadily, and I slow Gypsy to a walk.

  We dismount by the brook. The water is the best I’ve ever had – like drinking liquid air. Clyde produces fruit, bread and cheese from his saddle bags. This simple meal tastes like a feast.

  It occurs to me that I may have placed myself in an insecure position. I am in a remote area, unarmed, and with a foreign lad I have just met. Nobody knows I’m out here.

  How do I know that Clyde can be trusted?

  I don’t know, not for absolutely sure. But there is something about the lad’s stolid face that inspires confidence. He looks to be as reliable as Jonathan is – and Jonathan trusts him. That must mean that I can, too. Anyway, it’s a bit late now for second thoughts.

  After lunch, I walk toward the pass and study its layout. It is nothing spectacular. How could I have let this ignorant pile of rock frighten me? A road, somewhat crumbled and overgrown, zig zags upwards.

  “Might a horse make the ascent?” I ask.

  “The road is good enough,” Clyde says, “though narrow near the summit.”

  “I shall ride, then.”

  “Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but I believe the trip would be safer on foot.”

  I fix him with my most disdainful glower. Does he think I’ll mount the slope on foot like a commoner?

  “Bring the chestnut mare for me,” I say.

  “As Your Lordship wishes.”

  Again, Clyde’s tone is not quite as respectful as I am accustomed to hearing.

  ***

  Several minutes later, I am scaling the pass astride the nimble little mare. I would have preferred Gypsy, but do not wish to tire her overmuch. The stable boy walks behind, no longer bothering me with his idle chatter.

  I lean forward, balancing myself against the incline, and feel the mare’s hard, laboring muscles. I breathe in gulps of mountain air and feel myself expand into the greatest of all adventurers.

  I halt at the half way point. Below me, Sopronia lies in all its glory. Our capital city reposes behind its walls, Lake Hevesh sparkling before it like a sapphire. Around the city are vast fields, gold with ripening grain. Villages nestle among forested, rolling hills.

  No wonder people think Sopronia is the whole world! I look back down the trail for Clyde.

  “Hurry up!” My voice echoes off the rocks.

  No answer.

  I start to feel very uneasy. Wind whips about the rocks, and the bright day seems to darken.

  “Clyde!”

  “Coming, Your Lordship.”

  A stooped figure trudges around a curve.

  “Changed your mind about riding?” I say.

  Clyde wipes sweat from his forehead and smoothes back his curly hair. Again I am struck by his starved appearance. What ordeals has he suffered? I haven’t even thought to ask him.

  “We’ll rest a while,” I say.

  “As Your Lordship wishes,” Clyde says.

  ***

  When we get moving again, the ascent becomes steeper and much more difficult. The road abruptly narrows. One moment two horsemen could have ridden side by side along it, the next there is scarcely room for one. The edge is ragged, as if a section has sheered off.

  The air is strangely calm without a trace of clean mountain breeze. Heat bouncing off the bare rock bores into me. Big, ugly insects buzz into the air, angry at being routed from their sunning spots. The mountain side becomes a sheer wall. My horse doesn’t like this one bit, neither do I.

  “Take it easy,” I pat her neck. “Everything is fine.”

  If only there was enough room to dismount! I glance back at Clyde.

  “A bit tricky here,” I say.

  I’d been stupid not to listen to him!

  The road widens again fifteen yards ahead, but the distance seems more like a mile. The drop off to the right draws my eyes like a magnet. Death waits down there, and I force myself to look away.

  Think about Sopronia, I tell myself.

  Yes, Sopronia, my kingdom, where the people will praise my exploits throughout the generations. Where every child will grow up on the legend of Rupert the Great – no, Rupert the Magnificent – and his daring journey of discovery.

  Calm returns to me as I relish thoughts of my fame. My chest expands like those of the strong men who perform on carnival days.

  Then one of the insects lands on my neck. I feel a sharp jab.

  “Ow!” I slap at the horrid thing.

  My horse bolts. I yank the reins too hard, and everything unravels. The mare’s hoof dislodges a rock, and she starts to lose her footing. My heart stops dead.

  “Hang on!” Clyde shouts.

  The edge gives way, and the horse’s hind quarters go with it. I feel my stomach dropping out. The mare lets out a fearsome scream. Or is it me screaming? An absurd thought barges into my mind: How will I look at the state funeral, all smashed up like strawberry tart filling?

  With a last desperate heave, the horse lurches back onto solid ground and gains the wider road. I tumble out of the saddle.

  6: Windy Gap

  Feeling slowly returns to my battered body. A rock jabbing into my back tells me that Rupert the Magnificent is still alive. Clyde kneels nearby; his broad face is creased with worry.

  “Is Your Lordship all right?” he inquires.

  “Of course.” My voice sounds distant somehow. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Clyde helps me wobble up amid the tattered remains of my dignity. Every bone feels shaken and bruised, but they all seem unbroken. Clyde has already regained control of the horse and taken her inside a cave gouged from the cliff face.

  “It’s a regular little stable in there,” he says. “Very cozy.”

  If he had said more, if he had berated my foolishness, I think I would have died on the spot from shame. But he holds his peace. Gratitude surges in my heart for the alien lad.

  We complete the ascent on foot, with talk mercifully absent. I almost welcome the pain circulating through my body, as it takes my mind off my humiliation.

  ***

  A gusty wind assaults us as we reach the top, blowing so fiercely that I quite forget to act Imperial for my grand entrance. My hat flies off like a kite and my cloak very nearly follows. I wrap it around myself and turn away from the blast.

  Looking back from whence we came, I can almost see clear to our western border where other mountains hulk in the icy mist. These giants try to pull my mind to that far horizon, and I have to yank it back hard. I twist around into the wind.

  Before me stretches a flat expanse of perhaps 75 yards. The road continues straight across it, then drops out of sight. In the middle of the pass stands an ancient gate and beside it, an abandoned stone barracks.

  I have reached the frontier of Sopronia!

  The wind howls like a living thing, deep and mournful. Underlying thi
s roar is a high pitched noise screeching around every stone. I can almost hear voices within it.

  “Henceforth this place shall be known as Windy Gap Pass,” I shout against the uproar.

  “An astute choice, my lord,” Clyde says.

  The barracks leers at us as we approach, its empty windows and doorway gaping.

  WHOOO!

  A dreadful sound howls through the building.

  The gate lies collapsed like a slaughtered animal. I move past it, the wind stinging tears from my eyes. As I near the far edge of the pass, the ground drops away and all I can see is gray and endless sky. As if in a dream, I creep the last few yards to the rim and peer out to see ...

  7: Foray

  Low hills rolling off into the haze – no towns, nor farms, nor people, just dreary scrub land. Disappointment stabs me like a dagger. Did I nearly lose my life just to see this cold, uninviting view?

  The slope before me is much lower and less steep than on the Sopronian side. The road down it is a faint ribbon moving through the loose stones.

  Clyde gestures toward the near foothills.

  “My kin folk graze our flock through here,” he says.

  “Might we descend for a quick look?” I ask.

  Clyde shakes his head violently.

  “No! We could run into bandits.”

  I see no bandits. What is there to steal in that barren territory? Why should Rupert the Magnificent be deterred?

  Clyde must be right, though. I am developing respect for his good sense. Even his dark skin and barbaric speech bother me less now. I gaze over the forbidding Eastlands for what I think will be the last time. I prepare to turn away.

  Then Fate takes a hand. A powerful wind swirl strikes my back and pushes me forward a step. The edge crumbles, and I am on my way down.

  Faster and faster my feet pound the slope; I cannot stop. A mini avalanche of loose stones heralds my passage. The wind whips my face, stinging my eyes. My cloak billows behind me like the wings of some giant bird. Somehow I manage to keep from tumbling over.

  “Whoooo Wheeee!” I cry from sheer joy. “Freeee! Freeee!”

  The world opens up in all its vast potential as I hurtle downwards. I am free from all restriction, liberated from the suffocating role of crown prince. I’m the person I am meant to be. Anything is possible!

  I don’t know how long this mad rush lasts – half running, half sliding – but finally the ground levels out and my legs get ahead of me. I run several strides, miraculously keeping on my feet before coming to a breathless halt.

  My heart seems ready to burst, my ears ring, yet I had never felt more alive. The damp, chilly air invigorates me like a tonic. My skin rejoices to be liberated from the broiling Sopronian sun. True greatness is my lot!

  Misty haze limits visibility ahead, but the view up Windy Gap is clear. The mountain pass glowers, huge and forbidding above me. No wonder people on this side call it ‘Demon’s Maw.’

  But then I catch sight of a great, dark bird circling in the leaden sky – an eagle or some kind of vulture – and my pleasure begins to fade. I venture an un-princely remark:

  “Ugh!”

  The perspective seems off, an optical illusion created by the mountain. For, although the bird is far up the slope, its relative size makes it seem much closer to me.

  Then the thing vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

  A dust trail shows Clyde’s hurried progress down the pass. He slides up beside me.

  “We must go back now!” he pants.

  I am in no mood to return just yet, though. Why not stick around a while after all this trouble? Besides, my blood is up again and I am spoiling for a bit more adventure.

  “Did you see that bird?” I ask.

  “Bird?” Clyde scans the sky.

  “Yes, a very large sort, dark colored.”

  “I saw it last time I was here,” Clyde says. “It’s an evil creature flying out of some legend, I think.”

  “No need to be superstitious,” I say, feeling properly superior and educated.

  Clyde glances about like a cornered animal.

  “We cannot remain,” he says urgently.

  “Come now, Clyde.” I brush some dust off my clothes. “Since we’re here, why not have a quick look? I’ll just walk to that big rock over there. Start back alone if you wish.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Suit yourself, lad. I shan’t be long.”

  I walk steadily down hill, Clyde tagging along. Soon I reach the big rock. I make another decision: I’ll go a little farther, to a gnarled tree, then on to the next curve.

  In this manner, I cover a good half mile, striding with confidence as a crown prince should – master of all I survey. Finally I stop, my appetite for exploration fulfilled.

  Clyde draws alongside. The tense look on his face is almost comical.

  “My kinfolk must be nearby,” he says. “I wish I could visit them.”

  “Perhaps some other time,” I say. “Shall we go back now?”

  “Yes!”

  Clyde set a blistering pace toward Windy Gap, looking back over his shoulder to assure himself that I am following. His obvious concern begins to effect me as well, and I match his progress.

  Then my heart grows rather melancholy. Odd as it seems, I almost hate to leave these Eastlands. Here I feel like my own man, not just a boy under foot of the governing adults.

  Something stirs in the sky. Is it that bird again? Clyde abruptly stops walking.

  “What’s the matter?” I say.

  He grabs me and dives into the underbrush.

  8: Bandits

  “Stay down!” Clyde hisses in my ear. “Don’t move.”

  He grips a knife in his right hand. Is this a kidnapping – an assassination? I can’t take my eyes off that wicked blade.

  “What’s wrong?” I manage to ask.

  “Quiet!”

  Nettles poke through my clothes, but I dare not try to shift position. An unbearable amount of time limps by. Then hoof beats approach from down the path, and a terrified blacksmith hammer starts pounding in my chest.

  The hoof beats stop too close for sanity’s sake.

  Peeking through the underbrush, I can see three hard men on horseback. One, the apparent leader, is gaunt with stringy brown hair. His skin is grayish, and cruelty twists his thin lips. I try to sink through the brambles into the ground.

  The other two are swarthy like Clyde. One is a huge, bald man – his already ugly face further disfigured by a purple lump on the left side. The second man is younger than his companions, slender with long black hair and a close-cropped beard. He looks plenty tough, but somehow lacks the air of viciousness that rises from the others like the stench of rotting meat.

  “That bird is back,” the leader says in a raspy voice. “See it there over Demon’s Maw?”

  “Tis the Devil Bird, as the legends speak,” the bald one says in a surprising, high-pitched tone.

  “What do you think, Talbot?” the leader asks the dark-haired man.

  “I cannot tell if it’s a Devil Bird or just some terrible freak.” Talbot’s voice sounds almost civilized compared to the others. “Whatever it is, I should like to see it pierced by an arrow.”

  “So, who’s gonna climb up there and shoot it?” the bald one scoffs. “You, Talbot?”

  “Perhaps I will, Mulgar.” Talbot eyes the lump on bald man’s head. “Tis only a big, ugly target, like any other,”

  “Why, you – ” Mulgar grasps the sword at his belt.

  The leader intervene. “Stop it, both of you!”

  Mulgar drops his hand from the sword hilt. Talbot’s grin contains its own knife edge.

  “I don’t like any of this,” the leader says. “First the boy disappears, then this bird shows up. I don’t need you two making trouble.”

  “Yes ... what about the boy, Mulgar?” Talbot says. “Are you sure you didn’t kill him – hide the body, simply forget to tell us.
”

  The leader fixes a hard glance on Mulgar. “Well?”

  “No sir, I didn’t kill him,” Mulgar says. “Everything happened just as I told you.”

  The three sit quietly on their horses, looking off toward Windy Gap. Then Talbot glances down. He seems to look right at me! The hammer in my chest stops dead. Clyde’s hand tightens on the knife.

  What a fool I’ve been! But how could I have imagined such men as these? Their like exists nowhere in Sopronia.

  After what seems an eternity, Talbot looks away as more hoof beats come pounding up the path. Urgent voices ring out. The leader shouts orders and all the riders depart.

  The air hangs very still, exhausted. The huge claw gripping by stomach begins to relax a little.

  Clyde pokes his head above the brambles, and I adjust myself to a slightly less painful position.

  “Those gentlemen are bandits I take it,” I say, trying to sound casual and failing badly.

  “That they are,” Clyde says. “Captain Afflis and his lieutenants.”

  “So, the top man himself has come to welcome me?” I say. “Perhaps I should feel honored.”

  Clyde grunts. “Lucky they didn’t honor you with a sword thrust.”

  His comment stings me to the quick, and I want to utter a sharp reply – but that would only make my foolishness worse than it already is.

  9: Hasty Plans

  Several minutes go by, and Clyde relaxes a bit. I begin to feel more like a human being again, rather than a hunted rabbit.

  “Who is the vanished boy they spoke of?” I ask.

  “That would be me,” Clyde says.

  I am thunderstruck. What new revelation will come from this amazing lad?

  “Your Lordship saw the injury on the bald one’s head?” Clyde says.

  “Yes.”

  “I did that.” Pride swells in Clyde’s his voice. “Smashed him with a club, good and proper.”

  I feel my eyes widen and hasten to conceal my amazement.

  “Afflis seeks to punish you, then?” I ask.

  “Yes, my lord,” Clyde says. “Worse yet, he might draft me into his gang. Says he likes a lad with fighting spirit. Of course, I’d get a hard flogging first.”

  I am appalled and can no longer conceal it.

  “Has this happened to others?” I ask.

  “Yes, my lord. Many in the bandit gangs were forced to join. Others are happy to volunteer.”