Helga: Out of Hedgelands (Wood Cow Chronicles, #1)

Helga: Out of Hedgelands (Wood Cow Chronicles, #1) Page 3

by Rick Johnson

  ~ ~ ~

   

  Now, as the long-ago memories faded, the sight of Miss Note, graying and bent, sent shivers down Helga’s spine. A powerful instinct of the heart urged Helga to push through the crowd with anxious haste, hurrying to see Miss Note. The stooped old Badger, her face still hearty and strong, greeted her former student gleefully.

  “Helga, Helga, Helga...Look at you,” Edna smiled, her eyes tearing with joy, clasping Helga in a tight embrace. “Even my eyes that are not what they used to be can see that you are changed. You are no longer the wild rapscallion that aged me beyond my years.” The elderly music teacher laughed, continuing to hold Helga by the shoulders, gazing intently at her as if seeing something in Helga that eyes were not needed to see.

  “Miss Note, I’m truly sorry...” Helga began. “I never meant to...”

  “...Never meant to put mice in my longhornphone...or to smear my flute with snake grease...or to call me ‘Old Lady Sqawkbeak’?” Edna smiled. “You know, of course, that now I laugh about all those old torments. I understand that you play the pronghorn flute rather well these days. I never dreamed my humble teaching could have such a result...I’m so happy you have returned while I can still greet you.” She eagerly felt the shape of the pronghorn flute hanging from a cord around Helga’s neck. “The mouthpiece of the flute is worn-thin. You have played it much,” Edna commented, gazing with even deeper intensity at Helga as she released her shoulders.

  “Miss Note, the pronghorn flute saved my life.  I would not be here today if I had not been able to play that flute, even as poorly as I do.”

  “Yes, Helga, I have heard something about your adventures—we all have. Travelers have brought us news of you. Everyone is so excited. Sareth and Elbin are waiting for you over by the Perquat’s wagon, and there are lots of other folk over at the Commons. I couldn’t wait to see you, so Neppy helped me get through the crowd. We have heard some amazing stories...can it all be true? There must be time for you to tell us everything.”

  Helga stepped back and looked at Miss Note fondly. “It seems strange, as I think about it, Miss Note,” she began. “I’ve seen unbelievable things and been terrified for my life. I can hardly believe what has happened to me. But, as strange as it seems, my greatest adventures were within myself.”

  Helga paused, looking embarrassed. “I was going through some confusing times when I used to torment you. Somehow, although everyone was kind, I didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. I felt so strange.”

  “You’ve changed much since I last saw you, Helga. I can see that,” Edna said with a look full of understanding. “I guess I have to let you become something other than the little rapscallion you were, eh?” she smiled. “I’ll be very happy to let you out of that old box,” she laughed.

  Helga paused, looking off into the distance as if again seeing something there. “My story is not my own, Miss Note,” she said. “In my mind I see so many friends who are not here and able to tell the part they had in my adventures. My story is actually many stories. As I tell it, it may sound like one story, but it is really many stories that cross each other. Creatures that I will never know have had a hand in my story and I in theirs. So, you see, Miss Note, you will have to forgive me as I tell my story...I don’t know it all myself.”

  The elderly Badger smiled. She bent down and picked up a tuft of grass and some dirt. Giving some to Helga, she put some in her own pocket also. The rest she tossed up in the wind. “That’s the way our stories are, Helga—many people have a piece of it, and the story carries on in directions we never know.”

  Bad Storm Breakin’

   “Bad storm breakin’,” Emil thought, as dark purple clouds swept down off the mountains and spatters of rain began to fall. The storm came up so quickly that Emil had not even noticed the piles of clouds gathering in the distance. Now the flying clouds were overhead and thunder rumbled. CRAAACK! A fork of lightning flashed, striking a towering tree along the path just ahead of Emil. Splitting down the trunk, the largest part of the tree fell across the path, forcing him to climb clumsily through the wreckage as the branches lashed about in the wind.

  “Crutt!” Emil grunted into the rising wind, “Worse than bad, this storm’s goin’ to tear things up before it’s done!” Holding his hat tightly on his head, he leaned forward against the powerful gusts tearing at his coat and kicking up dust all around. Aware that he was caught in the open, with no hope of immediate relief, Emil battled a sense of dismal foreboding.

  “Yar!” Emil muttered after a few moments of self-pity. “Whether bad or not, you only find it in the end—so I better just keep going! Struggling to pick up his pace, he knew the worst was yet to come. Everything beyond the line of low-hanging clouds was disappearing behind sheets of rain. The wildly swaying trees slipped away into the advancing downpour like the last frantic waves of a drowning beast. Grimly determined, Emil pushed forward undaunted, but when the full force of the storm hit, he was completely unprepared for the blinding chaos that engulfed him.

  A howling north wind sent blinding sheets of rain whirling around him like a curtain. Briefly considering the possibility of seeking shelter, he decided against it. “No, there’s no good stopping place. Nothing to do but keep moving, I’ll not be ruined by water and it will soon pass.” Splashing forward through the deepening puddles on the road, Emil pulled at his hat brim trying to keep the rain from his eyes. The wild, swirling downpour made it nearly impossible to find his way. His shoulders bobbed up and down as he trudged on along the road, moving more by the feel of the path beneath his feet than by sight. Ear-splitting thunder and searing bolts of lightning would have sent most beasts flying under any available cover, but Emil did not fear or falter.

  With a pocket full of coins earned from delivering his family’s goods to market, he could not dally. “If there’s to be pike and biscuits on the table tonight, I’ve got to stop at the grocer’s on the way home—there’s been enough of potatoes and greens this week!” Beyond the desire to leave off the hated greens, he’d also promised his sister he would buy some of their father’s favorite peppermints for his birthday. “Got to keep going—dawdling in pity won’t keep me any drier.”

  In spite of this resolve, however, Emil had to struggle mightily as he pushed on through the desolate, rain-swept landscape. He still had a long way to go. The journey to the Z-House was a long day’s trip even under the best conditions. The Wood Cow settlement at O’Fallon’s Bluff was far removed from the other Hedgie villages. No respectable Hedgie wanted to live near the despicable outcasts.

  Although practically every Hedgie owned a finely-made oaken chest, ash-handled tool, willow bow, pine bed, or other Wood Cow-made item, Hedgies would not trade directly with the Wood Cows. “Keep the Wood Cows off a bit, but their products near” was the Hedgie view of things. That meant a long journey to the Z-House for the Wood Cows, where a Z-Tax collector distributed the goods they made. Wood Cow tools and furniture sold well. Sometimes Emil and other young Wood Cows took several wagonloads a week to the Z-House. Yet, because of the fearsome taxes on everything they sold, Wood Cows sold much, but earned little.

  On this particular day, which so changed Emil’s life, he had made an extra trip to the Z-House to deliver a stave made especially for one of the High One’s officers. The few extra coins from the special sale meant the difference between pike and greens for dinner, and would put sweet peppermints in his Papa’s mouth. The trip had been worth it.

  But now he was caught on a lonely stretch of road far from home, in the worst storm he had ever seen. Worse, the road to O’Fallon’s Bluff was a no-beast’s-land. For a long way, there was no hope of a friendly face or a warm hearth and his situation was getting worse. When he reached Overmutt Hollow, the road was completely flooded and he was forced to find a detour. It was going to be a long and difficult journey home.

  As he headed off the road to circle around the flooding, he tried to remember the times he and his sister had picked bl
ueberries in the Hollow. “Somewhere there’s a turn,” he thought, squinting his eyes against the blinding rain. “Where is that old path—there’s a place where you slip down a slope and you’re at Overmutt Bridge. It seems to me there was a big cracked boulder that marked the way.” Emil looked here and there as he struggled along, hoping at each step he’d find the landmark showing where to return to the main road. He barely remembered the route of the unfamiliar track, but somewhere he knew there was a turn. Slogging on through the fierce storm, the miserable young Wood Cow wandered along, hoping to see something familiar.

  Blundering along in the driving rain, however, Emil passed by the anticipated landmark and wandered further and further into unfamiliar territory. Soon he was seriously lost. As the afternoon dragged on with no change in his situation, he decided to seek help. The Hedgelands air always carried a mountain chill and the rain felt like an icy bath. Soaked to the bone, the young Wood Cow clenched his jaws against the growing urge to tremble with cold.

  He was angry with himself: “Crutt! How stupid I have been. Running here and there like a leaf blown by the wind! Bah—well, I am completely lost, that much is clear. My first task must be to find out where I am. After that, it likely will be a long backtrack to get on course again.” Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve against the urge to shiver and indulge in self-pity, Emil peered through the rain for any sign of habitation. “Surely there must be somewhere to ask directions!” he thought.

  With renewed resolve, the beleaguered young beast slogged forward with a sense of increasing urgency. He could no longer afford to wander aimlessly through unknown country, hoping to find his way. With night soon to fall, shelter was essential. He no longer hoped to make it home before dark. The dream of a dinner of pike and biscuits was now a distant, forgotten hope. With dismal prospects before him, it would be extremely dangerous to stay outdoors much longer.

  Holding his pack over his head to shield his face from the driving rain, Emil marched on for perhaps an hour. Then, above the endlessly drumming rain, something new caught his attention. First, there was a sound of lively music, mingled with loud laughter and cursing, and then a building gradually emerged from the rain.

  His wandering had at last cut across a main road. A wide path opened just a bit ahead of him. Although the pathway was soundly made with stone, as Emil approached it he had to cross a sea of mud. Hurrying toward the first sign of shelter he had seen, he flailed and floundered through knee-deep muck. He stumbled several times, plunging into the deep mud at the side of the stone path. Rolling in the mud as he struggled to get on his feet again, the laughter he heard coming from the building annoyed him. “Yar! You’d think they’d take pity on such a miserable beast as myself—laughin’ and carryin’ on in the dry and warm. Ah well, they don’t know a raving mud-beast is heading for their door!”

  Pulling himself onto the solid stone pathway, Emil ran quickly to the door of what was plainly a roadside inn: The Three Jolly Climbers.

  Reaching the door of the inn, Emil halted. Over the door was painted:

  On the Way to Maev Astuté

  a Last Good Meal, Good Beasts, and Tea,

  With Kind Merriment by Horse Doobutt.

  “Warn me mother!” Emil thought. “I’ve blundered onto the Climber’s Way.” No Wood Cow ever ventured near the Climber’s Way. Every young Wood Cow knew that. The Climber’s Way was the road leading to the place where the ascent to Maev Astuté began. Most Hedgies completed the climb to Maev Astuté as an act of honor and duty to their homeland. But not the Wood Cows. They found everything about Maev Astuté disgusting and had long ago refused the climb on principle. No Wood Cow would choose to walk the Climber’s Way.

  Nevertheless, here he was stumbling along half-drowned, ready to take any possible refuge. Streaming with muddy water and trembling with cold, Emil opened the door and went inside. The stormy night seemed to push him through the door with a particularly fierce gust of wind and rain.

  Once inside, he became instantly alert. He did not like what he saw. The entrance door opened into a large public room filled with beasts of every description. Although cheery candles burned here and there on wall sconces and a warm fire blazed in the hearth, there was a distinct coolness in the air. The remains of a large meal rested on platters piled high on a counter. Around the room beasts lounged back in chairs—they had been talking, playing cards, and generally enjoying themselves. That is, until Emil entered the room. In an instant the jovial talk stopped, all eyes now fixed on him. Conversations frozen in mid-sentence, there was absolute silence, no beast even twitching.

  The stares trained in his direction were not inviting. Three or four Digger Hogs sat drinking Mud Slops and peeling boiled turtle eggs—tossing the shells on the floor as they ate. They were tattooed, filthy, steel-skinned beasts, with rippling muscles and angry eyes; wearing the iron and canvas overalls of the digging trade. One of the Digger Hogs half-rose from his chair; a clear warning to Emil to come no closer. Emil stopped. Even a strongly built Wood Cow—who was afraid of nothing—would not fight just to be fighting.

  “It’s a Zanuck, don’t you know!” the innkeeper called out as Emil entered through the door.  A tall Horse, wearing a clean linen cap, the innkeeper was strongly muscular, with arms bulging beneath the tight-fitting sleeves of his shirt as he balanced a heavy serving tray loaded with mugs and plates. A pencil-thin mustache and small pointed beard under the chin added to his look of unfriendly welcome.

  “Come in, traveler,” the innkeeper continued. “There’s still room for another guest,” he smirked, looking knowingly about the room. “Here’s a guest for us, friends! A Zanuck who, like all of them, does not know enough to come in out the rain—Har! Har! Har!” A chorus of mocking welcomes greeted Emil. “He-Ho, Zanuck, I knew you had mud for brains, but I didn’t know you wore it too! Har! Har”

  “I’ll shake the water from my clothes and continue on, if you cannot be civil beasts,” Emil replied, shaking the water roughly off his coat in all directions. Seeing the innkeeper’s angry look as the water flew everywhere, and that a burly Woodchuck was fingering a knife stuck in his belt, Emil continued with a warning: “and don’t trouble me if you’re smart; I carry a fully-loaded temper which could go off easily—it’s done so before now—and that could make it dangerous for a foolish beast who thinks I’m only a young Wood Cow. I warn you not to lay hands on me.”

  “Do you threaten me in my own inn?” the Horse shouted angrily.

  “I don’t believe in threats!” Emil retorted. “If I state my intention, it’s a promise—and my intention is merely to ask for a civil innkeeper and a bed for the night. I mean you no harm and will fight only for my own safety. Beyond that, I impose on you only to the extent of paying for a bed. Now, if you please, do you have a room?”

  “Why, sure, I’ve got a room,” the innkeeper smiled slyly. “What with the storm, we’re pretty full tonight, but for a fine young Zanuck, why we have plenty of room. Har! Har! Har!”

  The innkeeper walked over to a door with a pompous strut that made all the beasts in the room—except Emil—laugh heartily. Bowing low, he swung open the door, inviting Emil to go through. “Just drop your two best pieces of silver on the table as you pass, my friend—you can keep the coppers!”

  “And now, my dear mud-brain,” the innkeeper proclaimed in mock respect, “let me conduct you to the luxurious room reserved especially for Zanucks.”

  Feeling certain that he would be given the most miserable space in the house, Emil nevertheless followed, too wet and cold to care where he slept. Carrying a sputtering candle, the innkeeper conducted him along a long, dark passageway. Opening a second door, the roaring storm blew in rain once again. Sniggering, the innkeeper pointed to a dilapidated barn, barely discernable through the driving rain.

  “There you go Zanuck,” a nice room for you. “And you’ll find some company there—a Poolytuck is already settled down there for the night. Now get yourself out of my i
nn, the rain is soakin’ my boots and floodin’ the hallway! The barn will be fine place for a mud-brained idiot like yourself!”

  Saying nothing, Emil waded hurriedly across the flooded, muddy ground to the barn. Pushing the door open softly he peered into the gloomy, musty-smelling building. A constant stream of drips pattered here and there from the badly leaking roof, leaving much of the floor covered in puddles.

  “Ya-Chooo! Wheeez-Zooo!” The feeble sneeze revealed the location of a Moose reclining on a rough bed of burlap bags laid across some planks resting on a couple of barrels. The crude bed was set up in a corner of the barn where the roof did not leak.

  Splashing across the wet, muddy floor to the small scrap of dry space, his eyes scanned the motionless body curled tightly under a scant covering of bags. In the dim light, he could make out the poor beast’s body shivering with cold, as his breath wheezed out a nearly continuous stream of faint sneezes.

  Bone-weary and hungry, the miserable Wood Cow knew the sorry condition of his roommate had to be his first priority. Having nothing that was truly dry, Emil ripped a few dry boards off the wall of the barn. Using a bit of dry straw he found and the flint he always carried, he soon got a decent small fire going in the tiny dry corner of the barn. The old barn had a fine high roof that allowed the smoke to rise and be sucked out through the several broken windows and spaces left by missing timbers. The fire burned nicely and gradually the small corner of safety became warm.

  At first, the Moose did not respond to Emil’s presence. For a long time, Emil crouched by the burning heap of wood, listening to the wailing wind and rain. Little by little, the warmth of the fire raised Emil’s spirits and seemed to steady his companion’s breathing. Finding dry boards here and there in the barn, Emil tore them down and broke them into splintered pieces for burning. Soon he had enough to assure a decent fire through the night. Then he took off his drenched outer clothing and hung it to dry near the fire.

  He had just settled down in his underclothes before the fire, trying to warm some food and drink from his pack, when his long-silent companion spoke: “Well, look at me, sleeping like a piece o’ timber—but nothing wrong that a little warmth and a friendly snip of toast won’t cure! Not much wrong with my appetite, but my nose is still a bit out o’ sorts—Ya-chooo!”

  Emil chuckled, feeling relief that the Moose was showing signs of improvement. To his delight, the elderly Moose suddenly sat up, grinning at him with a silly, toothless smile. In the light of the fire, the Moose’s slender form cast a slight shadow on the wall, seeming like a blowing cobweb in the flickering light. He was really just a sliver of a beast, Emil thought; the obvious vigor and strength of earlier years now gone. A ragged beard hung from his grizzled, wrinkled face, which was lit by two brightly gleaming, deeply-set eyes. His head was shaved to a stubble.

  “Well,” the Moose began, “I’ll be as silly as I was born to be in a few hours. A pint of cupper and a snip of toast would put spine in my spirit. Any chance of that, my wibble?” Before Emil could reply, a violent fit of wheezing overtook the old Moose and he fell back on his bed. “Acht, it’s not more than it was,” he gasped, wheezing for breath. “I’ll need more than a pint of cupper and toast to make the climb.”

  “Make the climb?” Emil asked incredulously. “You can’t be a climber—you climb to Maev Astuté? You’re in no shape to be going on that cursed climb! Just you drop your bag of guts and drool right back on that bed and let me warm up some food and drink for us.”

  “A Poolytuck’s not got many choices when it comes to the climb, y’know,” the old Moose wheezed as Emil pulled a tin jug from his pack. “I’ve got to climb, die, or live like a dead beast. There’s few places to die in peace for an old Poolytuck with no family to fall back on—might’s as well freeze up solid on the stairs. At least that way’s no one says I’d be a cowardly beast, set only on comfort.”

  “Comfort!” Emil grimaced. “Why you’re barely a breath of air and a treadbare sheet of fur. Yar! There’ll be no climbin’ for you, old spot! I won’t allow it. I’d rather freeze on the stairs myself. You’ll be a dead beast before you take ten steps up there on the mountain. Nar, you won’t be climbin’—I’ll see to that.”

  Emil said nothing more for a time, although his thoughts whirled with fury. Twisting the wide cap off his water jug, he emptied the stale water out in a puddle on the floor. Then he walked over and held the jug under one of the streams of rain water coming through the roof. The patter of rain filling the jug soothed his nerves. “Yar,” he thought to himself, “that Moose won’t be climbin’ that cursed mountain—not so long as I’ve got breath.”

  When the jug was half-full, Emil carried it back over by the fire. Reaching into his pack he pulled out the soggy remains of a barley loaf. A dripping mass of gummy flour was all that was left of what had once been a fine fresh loaf. Emil chuckled as he torn the soggy mess into bits and put them in the jug of water, then held the jug out over the fire with a pitchfolk he found leaning against the wall.

  “There we go, old spot. We’ll just have our hot food and drink as a single batch—call it Innkeeper’s Best and I wager it’ll be no better or worse than the soup he serves to the regular guests!”

  The old Moose laughed, and could not help sitting back up as he said with great ceremony, “Ah, yes, Mr. E, the bread could not be more ruined if we had drug it behind us in the rain. It’s a putrid mess, or rather has a certain look of moldy beauty that cannot but be a gift to the belly of any beast already close to death!” With a dramatic flourish, the Moose collapsed back on the bed howling: “He-He-Ho, Yabbo-Zee! I’m dead...No, I’m faint...No, I’m sick o’ the head and my liver’s black as pitch and my name is not a word to be spoken by a sane beast! He-He-He-Ho! Quick! Salt and proper peas for me!”

  The wild words of the old Moose left Emil uncertain if his companion were acting or delirious.

  The Moose suddenly fell silent and looked sternly at Emil. “So, is the gruel ready yet? Surely you’re not going to starve a poor old Poolytuck are you?”

  Chuckling good-naturedly, Emil said, “Wait just a bit, you old faker. You’re not so thin as to die before it boils.”

  Soon each one was taking swallows of the red-hot gruel, straight from the jug. The famished beasts literally bolted the steaming liquid down, grinning from ear to ear, tears streaming down their faces from smoke getting in their eyes as they huddled by the fire.

  Later, the sound of the rain tapered off; the storm was passing at last. Emil and the Moose, who was known as LeftWit-70114, sat around swapping stories. Neither beast had mentioned the climb to Maev Astuté although the subject had not left Emil’s mind since he had heard that the Moose intended to make the climb.

  Since Wood Cows refused to draw lottery numbers, Emil had no climbing date attached to his name. He liked that. It was a slight comfort to remain aloof from the Maev Astuté project, which he despised. 

  Maev Astuté was more than the ancestral home of the High Ones, the Hedgeland’s royal family. It was also a royal tomb. Each of the High Ones was buried in Maev Astuté. It was believed that by this means, they each would one day become gods. Construction of the fantastic castle never ended. Continuing generation after generation, the castle rose higher into the sky. The reign of each new High One saw Maev Astuté rise more sharply into the sky as a new level was added. Each level served as the home of the High One and his royal court. When he died he was buried in a magnificent burial chamber on his level. The life work of each Hedgeland monarch was to build a new level, to serve as the home and tomb of the succeeding High One.

  The great construction project had begun in the barely remembered times before even the Forever End was planted. Ancient traditions told of a day when the great castle spire would be “forever visible”—able to be seen anywhere in the Hedgelands. In that day, Maev Astuté would so dominate the skies that “the heavens themselves would be but vassals of the High Ones.” The line of High Ones would form an unbrok
en link between the earth and the very heavens themselves. On the day the great castle became “forever visible” the line of High Ones would be divinely reborn and they would return to rule the earth. For loyal Hedgies, the sight of Maev Astuté year-by-year rising into the sky was a promise of future glory. On clear days, the fantastic castle sparkled brilliantly in the sun, its highly-polished white marble a dazzling spark of light high above everything else. Inexorably it climbed higher and higher into the heavens.

  While a few Hedgies might complain about the brutal conditions of the climb—as they went skulking in the shadows, muttering under their breath—everyone knew that complaining about the climb was at best bad manners, and at worst dangerous.

  Wood Cows did not complain—they simply refused to go. The price of that refusal was to confirm the Wood Cows’ status as social outcasts, despised and cut off from every social benefit and every esteemed profession. In the eyes of most Hedgies, Wood Cows were Zanuck—“fly droppings” in Kinshy—and treated with contempt. In the Hedgie world, there was nothing lower and more contemptible than one who refused the sacred climb.

  Just slightly above the Zanuck were the Poolytuck—“sitters” or “loafers”—beasts who did not oppose the climb but were too old or weak to undertake the ordeal. Being unable to climb to Maev Astuté was a great humiliation. Although allowed to choose a stand-in, only the weakest Poolytuck did so. Mockery and indignities of every sort were heaped upon the Poolytuck. Accepting this humiliating treatment was better, however, than the alternative that awaited any Poolytuck who dared complain about the taunts and unchallenged cheating of merchants against them. The fate of those Poolytuck was to be carried up the mountain by the Royal Patrol and heaved into a deep glacier crevasse.

  “It’s a miserable night, and a black life, friend,” LeftWit-70114 wheezed as if a he had only a teaspoon of air to spare for an entire sentence. “Yet, tomorrow I begin the sacred climb.”

  “Aye, it’s a night not favorable for any beast,” Emil agreed. “But tomorrow you’ll not be on the mountain,” he continued. “You’re hardly fit to lift a mug. Tomorrow, you’ll be walking in the sun toward O’Fallon’s Bluff, carrying my pack and coins back to my father and sister. I’ll be climbing the mountain in your place.” Emil’s tone, his look, his words—all expressed a resolute recklessness that would not be turned aside. “I will climb for you, as one of the stand-ins that even the cruelty of the High One allows for a Poolytuck. You will go to O’Fallon’s Bluff and finish my duty to my family. You can rest there until you recover your health.”

  And so it was that Emil found himself on the sacred climb—and turned the entire Wood Cow way of life on its head...

  Broken Across the Rocks

  FoRoar-2036 gasped for breath, struggling to climb the steps in the biting cold. Every muscle in his body protested. He was too tired to go on. Every sense told him he was too weak to continue. Yet, still he went on, his breath shooting out in great white clouds. Gasps of moist breath, instantly shock-frozen into icy puffs, marked his progress. He clutched his sacred stone tightly to his chest. The heavy stone made it hard to keep his balance on the ice-covered stairway, worn to a slippery gloss by the constant pad of reed-boots passing over the ice.

  “Can’t walk...any...further...AIEEEIYAHHH!...”

  FoRoar-2036 hesitated in confusion, wondering in his semi-frozen stupor if the fearful scream was his own. Too late, he tried to grasp the cloak of the Hedgie walking in front of him. Clutching vainly after the flapping folds of his friend, he watched helplessly as SaRimm-2036 collapsed from cold and exhaustion, and pitched sideways off into the abyss. FoRoar-2036’s eyes filled with icy tears, but he kept walking. He had no choice. Barely inches separated one stair-climber from another in a line that stretched for miles in both directions. Step, step, step—the stair-climbers endlessly moved up the stairway toward the castle, Maev Astuté, each bearing his or her own sacred stone. To stop in such a line, on such a narrow and treacherous stair, with no guardrail or helper except one’s own courage, could mean that dozens might stumble and pitch off into the abyss. The line could not stop—no matter what.

  “SaRimm-2036...my old friend, my dear brother...if I return home, I will tell of your sacrifice. It will not be forgotten. You will be remembered as a hero of the Crowning Glory.” FoRoar-2036 had seen many such falls during his climb to Maev Astuté. Never, however, had he lost a close friend. No matter how many pitched off into the abyss, the climb up the long, winding stairway went on without pause. Mechanically, like a great, living machine, the endless line of stair-climbers carried stones to be used in the construction of Maev Astuté. The great event in the life of every Hedgelands dweller, all were called upon to make the sacred climb on a designated day in their lives.

  Chosen by lottery at birth, the date of the sacred climb became part of the name of each creature. FoRoar-2036 and SaRimm-2036 both had the same climbing date. They had begun the sacred climb 20 years, 3 days, and 6 hours after their birth. What was unusual, and considered a great blessing, was that the two creatures drew the exact same climbing date and also had exactly the same birth time.

  Although FoRoar-2036 was high born—a Glazier Dog, while SaRimm-2036 was a commoner—a Mining Goat, they had always been close. Their shared destiny had bonded them like brothers since childhood. The sacred climb was the only place in Hedgelands society where high and low could mingle. Young and old, male and female, sick and strong, rich and poor, all were called upon to carry stones to build the great, unfinished castle. Regardless of season, the line of stair-climbers endlessly ascended the stairway to Maev Astuté.

  Braving howling winds, risking avalanches that swept dozens off the stairs, and struggling through ice and deep snow, the sacred climb was an ordeal of a special order. Even in summer, much of the ascent occurred above the snow line on Star’s Door Peak. The ancient stairway wound its way across narrow footbridges swinging over deep chasms, cut steeply up its seemingly endless slopes, and crossed glaciers—hugging the mountain until it began to mount the castle spires of Maev Astuté. Carrying stones to build the castle was the most difficult and trying event in the life of every Hedgie.

  Since being a wee pup, his parents had trained FoRoar-2036 to look forward to the climb as the most glorious event in his life. “In the climb,” they had told him, “you give yourself to the Crowning Glory of the Hedgelands—Maev Astuté—the greatest work of our folk, and symbol of our glory.” Glazier Dogs made the precision glass lenses for the High One’s telescopes and, thus, had a relatively high station in Hedgelands society. Yet, even so, FoRoar-2036 could attain no station grander than that of a Hedgie who helped to build Maev Astuté. Even the lowest classes were accorded respect for completing this duty.

  The sacred climb held the promise of eternal glory. “You will be the one-hundredth of an unbroken line in our clan to make the sacred climb without a death on the stairs. This rare achievement will make you one of the great heroes. Your name will live forever in our histories. Our clan will gain a high place in the spirit world because of your deed.” FoRoar-2036 now repeated these words over and over, urgently. His numbness and exhaustion were only held back by this promise of bringing eternal honor to his clan. He must go on. Stamping crusted ice off his reed boots as best he could, he pulled his cloak tighter against the cold and shuffled on. SaRimm-2036 would be remembered for his sacrifice on behalf of the Crowning Glory, but FoRoar-2036 was determined to not only be remembered, but to gain eternal honor for his clan.

  In Kinshy, the ancient tongue of the first High Ones, the castle was Maev Astuté, (Our Crown). The first High Ones began construction of the great castle. Many Hedgie commoners, however, called it Mae Vasuté, (My Steps in Agony). The play on words was more than an odd coincidence. Rising like a jagged needle from the summit of Star’s Door Peak, Maev Astuté had a shadowed place in Hedgeland lore, as its commoner name suggested.

  The cornerstone at the very base of the castle, laid by the first High On
es when they began construction, was inscribed: “Here Begins Our Crowning Glory.” Crowds of school beasts learned to chant the phrase, and each year their chants rang in the air in celebration of Beginning Day. Almost everyone claimed to take pride in the great project. Some Hedgies yearned so much to see Maev Astuté completed, that they put their names in the lottery more than once and again made the trek up the staircase twisting thousands of feet from the base of Star’s Door Peak to the castle that crowned its summit.

  Not all Hedgies felt affection for the project, however, as FoRoar-2036 was reminded by the grumbling comments of a creature in line behind him.

  “Yar, you fat-faced bullies,” a Wood Cow named Emil muttered under his breath as two members of the High One’s Royal Patrol passed. Although the climbers were packed together in line, another narrow lane ran along beside the climbers. This lane was reserved exclusively for the High One’s Royal Patrols and others were forbidden to set foot in it. The Royal Patrols moved up and down the line, tossing those unable to continue off the edge. The harsh discipline was effective. The line kept moving.

  The Royal Patrol stopped a few paces ahead. Emil shuddered as he looked over the Patrol. Skull Buzzards, recruited especially for their harsh and heartless manners, made up the elite Patrols. The fiendish Buzzards were not Hedgies. Not trusting Hedgies to guard him and enforce his will, the High One recruited Skull Buzzard mercenaries from distant Crags. Infamous for their cruelty to those in trouble, the High Ones found them perfect for service in the Royal Patrols.

  Emil’s eyes happened to meet those of the Skull Buzzard who wore the gold-braid insignia of a commander on the collar of his uniform. The Patrol leader’s face was thin and pale, his feathers grizzled, his eyes bloodshot. Deep, darkly-wrinkled folds of skin hung loosely in great pockets around his neck. Otherwise, Emil could see little of the Skull Buzzard’s body. The heavy winter uniform, issued for service above the snow line, was buttoned up tight against the cold. It covered so much of the body, with so many layers of weighty fabric, that the Buzzard walked stiffly.

  An old Coyote had collapsed on the stairs, but had not fallen over the edge. He lay moaning piteously in the frigid wind. Uncontrollable shudders convulsed his body.

  “There now, none of your whining shrieks here, Mr. Coyote, be off to your ancestors! It’s past your time! Come! There you go!” The large burly Skull Buzzards rolled the unfortunate Coyote toward the edge of the stairs with their boots.

  Even in such dire circumstances, the line of climbers was not allowed to halt. Shuffling along in the line, Emil moved forward toward the spot where the Royal Patrol Buzzards were kicking the poor Coyote, who was now weakly begging for mercy.

  “No, No, you lazy, ungrateful, weak, sneaking dog,” cried one of the Skull Buzzards, stomping his boot on the poor creature’s paw which was grasping frantically for anything to hold onto to keep from sliding into the abyss. “The High Ones did not provide this Crowning Glory for you to whimper and complain! Arise and climb if you have worth. Go to your ancestors if you have none.”

  The Skull Buzzard commander raised his boot to give one more decisive kick to the fallen Coyote, when Emil, passing by in the line of climbers, stepped out of line and cried ‘No!’ in a voice that echoed even above the howling wind.

  “What?” roared the Royal Patrol Commander, turning savagely round.

  “No!” Emil thundered again, stepping forward into the forbidden Royal Patrol lane.  “I command you to stop.”

  “Stop?” cried the Skull Buzzard, with a derisive sneer.

  “Yes!” shouted Emil.

  Puzzled and confused by the unexpected opposition, the Royal Patrol Commander stepped back from the whimpering Coyote, giving his challenger a frightful look.

  “Leave him alone!” repeated Emil, moving forward to protect the Coyote. “I will not allow you to torment and kill this helpless creature.  I defy you. Touch him at your own peril. But I give you quarter if you leave him to me, which is better for all.”

  The Royal Patrol Commander continued to gaze upon Emil, his eyes narrowed in dangerous hatred and contempt. But traces of confusion and astonishment flickered across his face also. A Royal Patrol had never before been challenged.

  “Leave this poor wretch to my care,” Emil said. “You have shown no qualities that lead me to believe you know how to care for anyone. Leave him to me. I will carry him to shelter.”

  “Get back in line!” screamed the Skull Buzzard, almost beside himself with rage. At the same time, he seized the Coyote, who had crawled somewhat back from the edge, by the toga and pulled him back.

  “Yar, you greasy-beaked thugs, touch him at your own risk!” thundered Emil fiercely. “I will not stand by and see it done. I have courage enough to send you to your ancestors!  See if you dare to test the determination of a Wood Cow!”

  “What is this,” sneered the Royal Patrol Commander, “the lowest, most despised and contemptible scum of the Hedgelands speaks of courage? Please forgive me if I laugh.” The Skull Buzzard’s laugh, however, was noticeably hollow. He clearly did not know what to make of his surprisingly determined challenger.

  “Your cruelties give me no reason to pity you,” Emil roared, springing upon the Royal Patrol Commander, knocking him soundly across the eyes with a powerful blow from the whole of his lower arm. The blow carried the concentrated force, in one instant, of all the rage that many Hedgies had long felt toward the High One and his Patrols.

  The Royal Patrol Commander crumpled, unconscious, falling toward the edge of the yawning abyss. His companion leaped toward him, striving to halt his fall from the sheer cliffs of Star’s Door Peak.

  Grabbing his companion tightly, struggling to halt the inevitable, the second Royal Patrol Buzzard too late realized that he, too, was sliding toward the edge. “TEEEAAAAH!” The long shriek sounded as the two members of the Royal Patrol fell, locked in embrace, to the rocks below. Even a powerful Skull Buzzard could not use his powers of flight in the heavy winter uniforms of the Royal Patrol.

  The climbers all along the line halted simultaneously, as if a single thought surged through each creature at the same instant.  They moved not—the first occasion in the ‘remembered times’ when the stair-climbing line had halted.

  “Yar, you fat-faced thugs of Mae Vasuté!” Emil bellowed loudly, sending a final insult after the defeated Royal Patrol. Heaving and shaking with rage, he screamed into the wide emptiness into which the Royal Patrol had plummeted. “You’ll not be tossin’ any other fine creatures over the edge! You’re going to tell ’em you’re sorry—face-to-face!” Leaping full-force, Emil stamped on the Royal Patrol Commander’s hat, which had fallen off in Emil’s violent attack. Then he gave it a ferocious kick over the side of the stair.

  “Yar, you miserable yellow-eyed brutes! You’ll not be forcing these poor creatures to shuffle mindlessly up the stairs, carrying rocks to build a castle that is already too big for any good purpose!” Emil shouted, lost in his frenzied rant. At last, remembering his fallen friend, Emil knelt by the Coyote to attend to his needs. Finding barely a pulse, Emil gently picked the Coyote up in his brawny arms. Turning in the opposite direction of the climbing line, Emil stepped into the Royal Patrol lane—making his rebellion complete—and began carrying his friend back down the mountain.

  A deep hush fell over the climbers. A creature had attacked the Royal Patrols. Two of the High One’s elite officers lay broken across the rocks far below. It was unprecedented. The High One would be very disturbed about this.

  The Order Disturbed

  Fropperdaft Hafful TaTerribee VIII, Ancient Order of Reprehense, 3rd Degree; Lord Reckoner of Heights; Most Eminent Swellhead of the Keepers; Baron Sheriff of the Forever End; Peerless Berzerker of the Crowning Glory; Grandee of Maev Astuté; and High One of all Hedgelands; was wealthy in the things of the world and a creature of the world’s thoughts. He fancied himself a philosopher, astronomer, inventor, merchant, and monarch without equal.

 
A big, loud Wolf, with a haunting emptiness in his eyes—as if he were always deeply drugged—a metallic, mirthless laugh constantly accented his speech. He loved the finest brocades and velvets, yet was rarely seen in fine clothes. A tyrant without peer, his dungeons were eternally full. Behind the vacant look in his eyes was a brilliantly inventive mind. Often he solved wildly complex problems so rapidly that his thoughts were far ahead of his words. This was the reason for the apparent emptiness in his eyes—his mind was far beyond the present moment. At any given time, the High One’s thoughts might be entirely unrelated to what was actually happening around him.

  The Throne Room of Maev Astuté reflected this quality of Fropperdaft. A spacious room atop a high tower of the castle, the Throne Room was unlike any other seat of royal power. From floor to ceiling the room was perfectly jumbled with books, ledgers, piles of parchment scrolls, and tools of all kinds. Pipes and hoses ran here, there and everywhere. Pieces of iron, piles of coal, and wood shavings covered much of the floor. A large fire burned in a massive circular fireplace in the center of the room. Open on four sides and supported at the corners with sturdy stone columns, the fireplace was attached to a massive bellows. Heavy hammers, a large anvil, tongs and other tools for working red-hot metal were arrayed around the fireplace. The purpose of the fire was more than warmth—it was a metalworking forge.

  Although the Throne Room of Maev Astuté was mostly a combination of library, blacksmith forge, and workshop, it did also have a throne. Near the high windows at one side, a high golden throne served as the symbolic seat of royal authority. But, as often as not, Fropperdaft met visitors and held audiences while he continued tinkering on his inventions and experiments. His royal robes and crown usually hung askew on a hook in the corner, while the High One worked in baggy oil-spattered dungarees and a huge blacksmith’s apron. New visitors to the High One were wide-eyed in wonder when they first saw such an unorthodox Throne Room. But the whispered jokes and titterings had no effect on Fropperdaft. With sparks flying as he hammered red-hot metal and the bellows working loudly, visitors often had to yell to be heard as they consulted with the High One about important affairs of state. Fropperdaft’s mind was elsewhere than the day-to-day, mundane affairs of his realm.

  How different was his brother. A year or two younger than his royal sibling, Colonel Snart looked older and wiser, perhaps only because the craftiness and intelligence in his eyes looked more promising. Unlike the long, wildly-curling hair worn by the High One, Colonel Snart had a short-clipped military haircut. He spoke with the affable good humor of a creature well-used to the ways of the world. The differences between the two were summed up by the food and drink they consumed as they talked. Fropperdaft ate nothing but the finest cheese and sweets that money could buy, and liked Rotter Wine by the glass. The Colonel took what he could get, where he could get it, but always refused to “eat better than my troops.” As he stood toasting a slice of mackerel sausage on a long fork over the fire, taking deep swigs of Frog’s Belch Ale from a pewter pot, two more unlikely brothers could not be imagined.

  Their differences were nowhere more obvious than in their discussion. Colonel Snart was a military regular of sorts, posted to a remote outpost of the Norder Wolves. Many years ago, as an idealistic young adventurer, he had gone to help defend the Norder Wolves from attack and had stayed and become a citizen. Because of his relation to the High One, and a number of worldly dealers he had met in the course of his duties, Colonel Snart found a natural niche conducting a “tidy little trade,” as he termed it, between the Hedgeland and the Estates of the Norder Wolves. He was constantly seeking ways to improve the tidy little trade and was hoping to persuade his royal brother to help him.

  “Esteemed brother, you are the High One...your power is without equal. Even more, your mind is greater than all. Why do you insist on wasting your potential? You might buy more cheaply the things you crave, and sell more dearly the things you steal, if you would use your inventiveness to improve our tidy little trade. You have invented a great traveling machine—one such as the world has not before seen. It could carry our commerce easily over the mountains. It would save months of journeying by foot and boat. The riches you have now would be a mere pocket of dust in comparison.”

  Fropperdaft was not listening. Instead, he was talking non-stop, as if no one else was speaking. Delivering his observations on the mechanisms and theory of his most recent invention, he strode rapidly around the room, waving his arms wildly as he worked equations in the air and pointed out the details of his invention as he saw them in his mind. 

  “You see, dear Colonel,” he said, “the fundamental problem with traditional passenger or cargo balloons is that they are dependent on air currents to move. They move only as fast as the wind and go only where the currents carry them. But, I have invented a balloon that does not depend on the winds!” He stopped for a time, moving his paws around frantically in the air, as if figuring out math equations on an imaginary blackboard. “With a very precise boost at launch and a continuing source of propulsion,” he said smiling proudly, “the balloon can be steered wherever the pilot wishes.” Giving the bellows a mighty squeeze for emphasis, a shower of sparks shot off of the forge onto the stone floor directly in front of Colonel Snart.

  Then he continued. “Adding a bicycular fan-jet to the balloon allows the passenger, with minimum effort, to greatly boost propulsion power. The jets can be manipulated to enable precise control and steering—even in strong winds!” His metallic voice became even more loud and harsh: “With this bicycular balloon, the construction of Maev Astuté will accelerate. Stones will fly up to the castle by the dozens with the aid or my invention. Maev Astuté will ascend into the heavens rapidly. I will be the greatest builder of all the High Ones. Why should Maev Astuté crawl into the skies, one level at a time? I will finish Maev Astuté! Erelong I will be a god!”

  “Yes! Yes!” Colonel Snart exclaimed, “Your bicycular balloon will be the invention of the age! It will revolutionize travel. But don’t waste it on building Maev Astuté! Let it carry the tidy little trade...We both will be wealthy beyond any dream we have ever had. I will send you as many additional slaves as you need to build Maev Astuté. The work can continue as it always has. But let me use the bicycular balloon for the tidy little trade.”

  The High One gave another powerful squeeze to the bellows sending another shower of sparks around Colonel Snart’s feet. “You see, dear Colonel,” he replied, “trade cannot compete with divinity. A god no longer craves fine cheese. I will build the glory of Maev Astuté! What other High Ones have labored for over centuries, I will exceed a thousandfold.”

  Walking over to a set of double doors, Fropperdaft continued, “Behind these doors is my finest invention. You will be the first to see it.” Opening the double doors, he revealed a sleek bicycle with several silver metal cylinders attached behind and below the seat.

  “Notice, dear Colonel, that this unique machine looks like an ordinary bicycle. However, looks are deceiving. When a rider mounts the machine and pushes forward, this bicycular balloon slides onto a launcher that accelerates the machine to a high speed. Then, at precisely the moment it reaches maximum velocity, it shoots out of the castle through an automatic door. It flies into open air and the balloon inflates. The boost of the launch, with speed added by the rider peddling the fan-jet mechanism, propels and steers my airborne wonder! If my calculations are correct, my bicycular balloon will easily lift a full-load of stones and steer through the fierce and unpredictable mountain winds. With many of my new machines, Maev Astuté will be finished rapidly.”

  The High One looked majestically at Colonel Snart. “Soon, you will see...” His words were broken off by the sudden entry of a Royal Patrol detachment. They were escorting a Wood Cow who was obviously their prisoner. The Wood Cow carried a frail and unconscious Coyote over his shoulders. The Skull Buzzard wearing a commander’s ensignia stepped toward the High One and whispered in his ear. Fropperdaft’s
face became pale for an instant, but then took on a harsh scowl. He was shaking with rage.

  “You! Wood Cow! Drop to your knees and lick my boots right now, or die! How dare you disrupt the sacred climb! You have killed a Royal Patrol! No insult like this has ever occurred before in all the ages of the Hedgelands. Drop to your knees and grovel! Beg for mercy! Lick my boots! Plead for your life!” The High One stormed on and on in a very bad temper, his voice rising to a higher and higher screech. The more he screeched and ranted, the less he seemed actually to be present. The shock of such an unparalleled affront seemed to have sent the High One into a blind rage. He was so caught up in his anger that he seemed unaware of his surroundings.

  For his part, Emil said nothing, but his mind was racing. Wood Cows valued action and deeds over words. While Fropperdaft screeched, becoming less and less aware of what was happening, Emil surveyed escape possibilities. The Royal Patrol guards were agog, never having seen such a spectacular show of bad temper. Their watchfulness was not sharp, Emil noted.

  Only Colonel Snart seemed to have his wits about him, watching Emil’s every move. He seemed to sense that the Wood Cow was dangerously clever and brave.

  Emil spoke softly into the Coyote’s ear: “OK, old fellow, don’t worry. It’s going to get a little rough for a few moments, but with the help of the Ancient Ones, we’ll be out of here in a jiffy.” The unconscious Coyote did not reply.

  In one swift movement, Emil suddenly tossed the Coyote off his shoulders and, with a single mighty heave, sent the poor creature sailing directly into Colonel Snart’s face. The startled colonel had no time to react as the body of the Coyote hit him full force, knocking him backward toward the forge. Staggering backward, Colonel Snart reached to break his fall and put both his paws directly onto the red-hot coals of the forge.

  “YEOOOOWWW!” Colonel Snart howled and leaped away from the forge holding his burned paws. In the same instant, Emil crossed the room and scooped up the Coyote once again. Holding the poor creature tightly under his arm, Emil dashed toward the open double doors where the bicycle was parked.

  The sudden commotion brought the Royal Patrol back to their duty. “Grab him,” the Skull Buzzard commander yelled. “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

  But it was too late. Emil threw himself on the seat of the High One’s bicycle—as he supposed it to be—and pushed off, hoping to escape. He succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. With the Coyote draped over his shoulder, Emil had the ride of his life. The High One’s bicycular balloon worked perfectly. Launched with exactly the velocity Fropperdaft had calculated, and peddling furiously, Emil and the Coyote were last seen sailing high over the Don’ot Stumb Mountains.

  For days following all these unparalleled events, the High One secluded himself in his Throne Room. The Hedgeland folk were anxiously watchful. What would the High One do? The sacred climb had been disturbed. A Royal Patrol had been attacked and killed. Rumors flew that the same Wood Cow had brazenly attacked the High One’s brother within the Throne Room of Maev Astuté and escaped with the most precious possession of the High One. Something awful would surely be coming out of Maev Astuté. But what? No one knew what to expect...except that some especially hard punishment would probably fall upon the Wood Cows.

  A Mission Accepted

  Fropperdaft was annoyed. He was groping about on the floor for a screw he had dropped. It was the third time he had dropped the same screw. As he crept about trying to find it, he banged his head on the underside of his workbench. OUCH! It was the second time. He felt a headache coming on and he was deeply annoyed. The morning had not gone well. Earlier he had broken a bolt off as he tightened it. Another bolt had stripped its threads. A gear tooth had snapped off. He seemed to be all thumbs. What a day! Very annoying.

  It was all the fault of that insolent Wood Cow that had upset him. An attack on one Royal Patrol with Skull Buzzards dead. An attack on another Royal Patrol within the confines of his very own Throne Room! An attack on his brother. Stealing his most prized invention and escaping. Such things could not be contemplated. It was too astonishing for words. It gave him a headache—even without his other troubles.

  But that would soon change. Fropperdaft had decided that historic and urgent actions must be taken to destroy the Wood Cow society once and for all. The upcoming celebration of Clear Water’s Day—with its theme of purification and cleanliness—offered a perfect opportunity to cleanse the Hedgelands of the foul odor of the Wood Cows.

  From time immemorial, the High Ones had issued a royal proclamation especially for Clear Water’s Day. And Fropperdaft had decided that this year’s proclamation must be changed. “I must recall the first proclamation I sent and replace it with a new one. Time is short. There is no time to have the proclamations returned to me via Weasel Courier. I will have to call upon the Messenger Jays. That is the only way I can change the proclamation in time for Clear Water’s Day. The Jays must carry a message to the Keepers of the Light, directing them to destroy my first proclamation and substitute the new one.” The High One smiled malignantly as he considered his plan.

  At that moment, he heard the sound of Bad Bone coming up the stairway to the Throne Room. Chain mail boots sounded swish-luckt...swish-luckt...swish-luckt on the stairs. No one else wore chain mail boots. It could only be Bad Bone. The High One smiled. He had a job for his friend. Fropperdaft felt happier to think about that. He chuckled. “Yes, indeed,” he thought with some returning glee, “I have a fine assignment for him.” Reaching to pick up the lost screw, his mind focused on the approaching meeting with Bad Bone. Without thinking where he was, Fropperdaft stood up. CLUNKKK! His head slammed hard into the edge of the workbench. “Bah! Sharant! Blast that Wood Cow,” he fumed.

  A moment later, Bad Bone entered the room. An exceptionally large and powerfully-built Climbing Lynx, he wore the traditional deep blue tunic of the Order of a High Peaks Worthy. Fingerless gloves and boots of finely made chain mail completed his dress. He had a reputation as the greatest climber in the Hedgelands. Unlike the rest of the Hedgies who had a climbing date as part of their name, Climbing Lynx had no number. They were trained to climb from birth and were on the stairs to Maev Astuté throughout their lives. Scattered through the line of stair climbers, the Climbing Lynx kept the line moving and in step. Their example and exhortation, backed by the terror of the Royal Patrol, kept the stair-climbers in perfect order.

  Bad Bone was a special case, however. In his chain mail boots, Bad Bone could swiftly cross even the roughest terrain with great speed. He moved like a speeding shadow. A small grappling hook on a rope was coiled at his belt, and he carried a longbow. The great strength in his arms and shoulders allowed him to attach the grappling hook to an arrow and shoot it high up a mountain. He would tug on it until it wedged tightly and then climb up the rope. Then he would repeat the cycle. In such manner he could climb virtually anywhere quickly. For these reasons, the High One called on him for special missions of state.

  “Oooooh, my aching head!” Fropperdaft groaned, standing up and leaning against the edge of the hearth. “Blasted Wood Cow!” he muttered again. “As if I needed another reason to hate Wood Cows!” With some difficulty, the High One leaned on Bad Bone as he walked over to his Throne and took a seat.

  “The Wood Cow has ruined my day, Bad Bone...He’s ruined my work, too. I’ve broken or muddled up every one of my projects since yesterday when that insolent Wood Cow appeared!” Fropperdaft smiled wickedly at Bad Bone. “But, that will be the last time such a thing happens in the Hedgeland, my friend...the last time.”

  The High One motioned for Bad Bone to sit down at a chair near him. “Here, my loyal friend,” Fropperdaft offered, “have some cheese and Rotter Wine while we talk.”

  Bad Bone tossed his long matted hair out of his face. “I’m very glad to see you, sire, I’m sure. Very pleased, sire.” He took a loaf of cheese and bit a chunk out of it. He chewed slowly, watching the High One with interest. “Ah-har-har-har! Y
es, sire, very pleased!”

  “Well, well, my musty old bag of fur,” the High One began, “I hope you feel up to a climb?”

  “Fitted with iron in my knees, and fire in my eyes, sire!” the Lynx replied in his deep, hearty voice. The phrase was something of a personal motto. He used it to declare his readiness for anything. It called attention to the fact that nothing would stop him from completing his mission. Bad Bone took great pride in the fact that he truly did have iron fragments embedded in his knees and legs as the result of a cooking explosion in the course of a mission many years before. The explosion and fire had not stopped him from completing that mission, however, or any other mission. He was as fast and strong as ever. He felt confident in his strength and courage to triumph over any danger, conquer any obstacle, and overcome any trial. There was no one more strong, swift and courageous than Bad Bone. Everyone knew that.

  “Now listen, Bad Bone,” Fropperdaft said, “You are to go to the Messenger Jays up on the Desperate Ridges. Deliver this satchel of scrolls to their Keeper of the Light. It is my proclamation. All must hear it. The Jays will distribute the scrolls to all corners of my realm. Go swiftly. No time must be wasted. When you arrive at the Jay’s settlement, respect the authority of their Keeper of the Light, kneel before her and do as she may require. Give her this wheel of cheese as my gift. She may keep you waiting. If so, wait patiently. Do all you are asked. Although the Messenger Jays are my subjects, their home is extremely remote. They harm no one, and wish only to be left alone, so I let them do as they will. However, at times I need their assistance. They will help, but they cannot be commanded, nor hurried. You, yourself, must go swiftly and so I charge you to do. But if the Jays require patience, be patient. They are mapmakers and navigators. Their Keeper of the Light is the trustee of maps for my realms. Only the Jays know all the byways of the Hedgelands. With time so short, I must call on them to use every hidden route and little-known shortcut to assure that my proclamation is delivered throughout the land before Clear Water’s Day. Without the order of their Keeper of the Light, the other Jays will not deliver my proclamation. You must not offend her.”

  “Very much my pleasure, sire,” Bad Bone replied, “very much my pleasure, to be sure.” Bad Bone felt happy. His deep, hearty laughter echoed through the Throne Room as he ate sweets with the High One and they joked about the fools they knew. Bad Bone left his meeting with the High One in good spirits. His belly was full of fine cheese and sweets, and the High One had sent him away with one of the easiest assignments he had ever had.

  Desperate Ridges

  Bad Bone pulled himself up over the rocky ledge, relieved that his exhausting climb had ended. The Messenger Jay settlement stretched out before him, a seeming jumble of multi-story tenements built in stairstep fashion. Packed densely together, the redstone buildings seemed to wander along a maze of alleys. Gratefully, he collapsed, breathing heavily, allowing his aching arms and legs to relax.

  “Who goes here? Signify! Ya-Ya!” A Messenger Jay wearing a blue uniform with large brass buttons and a tall blue top hat stood before him. The Jay carried a short, stout billyclub hanging at the belt.

  “As you please, your ladyship,” Bad Bone replied. “I bear a gift from the High One for the Keeper of the Light. If it pleases your ladyship, I bear a gift and papers for delivery.”

  “Signify, I say,” the Jay repeated, “are you deaf?”

  “Bengt Massavo, as you please, my lady. Known as Bad Bone for an accident I had once. Climbing Lynx. Royal Mission to the Keeper of the Light and Trustee of Maps. If it pleases your ladyship, a royal gift awaits her pleasure.” 

  “Kiss the good rock upon which you stand, blessed visitor.”

  Bad Bone complied, grumbling within himself something about “arrogant fool.”

  “Now, you have shown proper respect for this blessed place,” the Jay observed. “Go to the public bath and bathe yourself. I will give you directions. Your smell is an affront to the fresh air of this blessed place. I hope I may recover from your odor within hours. Fortunately, my health is good and your smell is only foul and offensive, not dangerous.” The Jay turned her head disdainfully away for emphasis, then turned back to Bad Bone and continued. “The furred creatures are always so very smelly; it is really quite disgraceful. Our blessed place long ago resolved that the reeking, putrid odor of the furred creatures had to be specially attended before they could enter our village.” The Jay waggled the billyclub at him warningly. “Fortunately, we receive few furred visitors and are well-prepared to handle them when they do come.” The Jay reached into one of the large, over-sized pockets of her uniform and produced a bar of soap. “I trust I will not encounter you in the precincts of our blessed citizenry until you have thoroughly bathed, at least twice, with soap! Here, visitor, use this with the warm compliments of our citizens.”

  “Is that all? It is not a great deal, that!” Bad Bone replied, battling to hold back his anger. “A small sacrifice to the pleasure of your ladyship. A simple act of kindness I may offer to the citizens of this blessed place. Now, if it pleases my lady, which way to the public bath?” Except for the strength of his will to serve the High One well, he would have throttled the Jay. “This is surely the most pompous fool I have ever seen,” he fumed silently to himself. How dare this impudent, arrogant creature insult him in such terms! It was humiliating and should not be permitted. But, remembering his instructions, Bad Bone submitted.

  It was the Keeper of the Light who thus instructed Bad Bone, although he did not realize to whom he spoke. The Jay said no more but began to walk leisurely along the edge of the ledge over which he had recently climbed. Back and forth the Jay walked in slow, methodical steps. Back and forth. Back and forth, saying nothing, as if merely enjoying the fresh air. Bad Bone’s frustration rose higher and higher. What was going on? Why did the Jay not answer his request for directions to the public bath? After a very long time of simply waiting for a response, he was trembling with rage and frustration. Yet, recalling his mission, and his vows as a High Peaks Worthy to never strike out in anger, he battled to keep control of himself. Bad Bone dared not show his impatience with his host—no matter how badly he wanted to throttle the fool!

  But, even if an outburst was contained, he tingled with pent-up frustration. Trembling, shaking, quivering...Bad Bone’s body began to twitch violently. Despite his best efforts to remain calm as he awaited instruction, little by little, his body became one large tremor. The more he struggled to retain his composure, the more he twitched. All the while, the Jay continued to stroll slowly along.

  At last, his knees were trembling so uncontrollably that Bad Bone feared he would collapse in a quivering mass of twitching fur. Calling on all the powers of strength and endurance he could muster, he battled to remain upright. With tears gathering in his eyes, the burly Lynx reached deeper for strength than he had ever done before. Even climbing the terribly dangerous cliffs and crags of the Desperate Ridges did not take strength like this. The rising rush of his anger would soon burst out. The release of that rage would feel so good...but it would doom his mission and dishonor his clan. Tears filled Bad Bone’s eyes.

  “Receive your instructions to bathe, visitor,” the Jay said at last.

  I can bathe now, your ladyship?” Bad Bone had never felt such a desire for a bath in his life! He hated water. He never bathed. But it now sounded like paradise.

  “Yes, visitor, you may bathe.” The Jay gave Bad Bone a deeply probing look. “Do you now wish to take a bath?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, as it pleases my lady!” Bad Bone exclaimed with true enthusiasm.

  “I welcome you, visitor. You have gained entry to this blessed place.” The Jay gestured toward the settlement. “The public bath is at the Llanhogger Inn on Orntbeck Street,” she said. “Go and bathe. Then you are to have dinner with the Keeper of the Light. After you bathe, the innkeeper will see that you are conducted to the evening meal—if your odor has subsided by then,” she added
with another look from her sharp, probing eyes. Turning to leave, the Jay smiled at Bad Bone, as if she knew a secret that she was not telling. “And don’t be late. The Keeper of the Light does not like to be kept waiting. Make haste! Make haste!”

  Bad Bone’s tremors had ceased. He was no longer weeping, and his breathing was beginning to return to normal. But he also knew that his anger and frustration were still not well under control. “Make haste! Make haste! The Keeper of the Light does not like to be kept waiting!” he fumed. “Well, well...isn’t that too bad! As if I wasn’t kept waiting!” He sighed, “All right, your ladyship, if it pleases you...” He trudged off to find the Llanhogger Inn.

  When he found the inn, Bad Bone was surprised to see a notice posted at what was obviously the main entry.

  Feathered Entrance Only!

  Odoriferous Fur Forbidden!

  Furred Creatures

  Must Be Hosed Before  Entering!

  Furred Creatures

  Proceed to the Rear!

  Bad Bone was not amused. He did not like water in the first place. He hated baths. The urgent desire he so recently had to bathe was long gone. But his loyalty to his sovereign was strong. It was humiliating, but sighing deeply, he walked to the rear entrance. “Blessed place, indeed!” he muttered. “It’s a hamlet of arrogant, priggish bigots!”

  At the back, he found several Jays lounging on a porch. Some seemed to be snoozing. One was snoring loudly. Others sat idly swatting at gnats that buzzed around their heads.

  In addition to the Jays, Bad Bone was astounded to see a long line of furred creatures apparently waiting for something. Hares, Weasels, Lynx, Mountain Goats, Dogs—all with downcast, despairing looks—and all wearing the deep blue tunics of Worthies! Thin, ragged and listless, it appeared they had been waiting a long time. They looked weak and depressed. What was going on? What had happened to all these powerful Worthies?

  Swish-luckt...swish-luckt...Bad Bone’s boots announced his arrival and things began to happen. The Jays jumped up and began scurrying around, flapping and waving and yelling excitedly. They ran helter-skelter, running into each other, tripping over one another, screaming and shouting as if suddenly gone berserk!

  “Stand here!” one yelled at him. “No! Stand there!” another shouted “No! No, you knotheads! He goes over here!” Others tried to push and shove the confused Lynx this way or that. Some pulled him forward. Others pushed him back. All yelled at him in a frenzy!

  What was going on? He was completely bewildered. The more they yelled conflicting commands, the angrier Bad Bone felt. With jabbering, screaming Jays all around him, shoving from all directions, Bad Bone wanted to strike out with his strong, muscular arms. He did not know which way to turn. He wanted to do his own screaming at the idiot Jays. But, once again, he worried that his mission would be lost if he battered or opposed the Jays. So, he reserved his strength and tried to wait out the torment.

  But the bedlam did not lessen. The Jays continued to push and shove him this way and that, screeching at him to “Stand Here!” or “Stand There!” As time went on, he began to feel himself giving in to his anger and frustration. He once again began to twitch and tremble, as he struggled to keep his surging anger contained. Quivering uncontrollably, Bad Bone closed his eyes trying to block out the chaos around him. He covered his face to keep the Jays from seeing the tears filling his eyes. Again, his knees began to buckle as he battled to hold himself together. Bad Bone wanted more than anything to lash out at the Jays. To break their bones...to scatter them to the winds...to scream insults...“Can’t do it, can’t destroy the mission...,” he thought, feeling that his trembling knees must soon give way.

  SHOOOSH! SWISH! SPLASH! SHOOSH! When exhaustion seemed about to overwhelm his self-control, a powerful spray of cold water was turned on Bad Bone. The force and shock of the frigid water revived him. Sputtering under the drenching, the tormented Lynx let out a long, resounding howl of near-maddened joy. The jabbering of the Jays stopped and the shock of the streaming water ended Bad Bone’s recent ordeal... “Arroooooowl! Arroooooowl!” his howls echoed through the air. Then another hose turned on him, and another, and another. Bad Bone’s howls were drowned out as high-pressure water hit him from all sides!

  At last, the spraying stopped. Bad Bone dropped to the ground, completely exhausted, every ounce of strength gone. Shivering in the cool highlands air, he fell into a deep sleep. He had not undermined his mission, nor betrayed his pledge to his sovereign, nor dishonored his clan. Bad Bone slept with surprising peace.

  When he awoke, Bad Bone was seated, dried and neatly combed, in a fine suit of clothes, at a table set with beautiful silver plates, mugs, and tableware. Around the table was a magnificent meal of all manner of delicious foods. How did he get here? How long had he slept sitting upright in his chair? It could have been some time, he realized. The chair was comfortable and had arms and a back that easily supported someone sleeping.

  “A creature might get on very well here, visitor,” a familiar voice said. It was the Jay he had first met as he entered the settlement. She was now sitting at the table with him. Still in her uniform, the top hat was sitting on the floor next to her chair. She motioned at the delightful spread of delicacies.

  “It may not be a bad situation for some...” Bad Bone replied. He was about to go on with an angry complaint about the treatment he had received, but thinking better of it, continued in another vein. “...and the table certainly takes my attention, if it pleases your ladyship.”

  “I hope you have brought appetite with you?” asked his host.

  “If it pleases my lady,” Bad Bone replied, “I swear I have not eaten in a long time. I know not how long I have been here.”

  “A bath seems to sharpen a creature’s appetite,” the Jay observed. “You may eat as much as you like.” Bad Bone attacked the food hungrily.

  “You could get along very well here, visitor,” the Jay repeated. “You have done well. The Keeper of the Light is pleased. She feels that our blessed settlement has found a new citizen today, if he might wish a change...” She paused, seeing the question in Bad Bone’s eyes. “Yes, it is still today. You may be assured that you slept only a couple of hours. You have overcome our defenses with courage and perseverance. You have won our respect!”

  “Overcome your defenses?” Bad Bone asked.

  “Yes. Did you not feel more challenged, and perhaps more frightened, than ever before? Did you not feel the strongest desire you have ever felt to run away in terror? Were you not near to screaming at the torments you encountered? Did you not need more strength and courage than you realized you had?”

  The powerful Lynx looked at the Jay with a flash of understanding on his face.

  “Yes,” the Jay smiled, “what you experienced was our defensive system.” She gazed at him with admiration. “Few visitors ever visit our settlement. We are too remote. It is too dangerous to reach us. Only the very best climbers can come. Some, such as you, are sent by the High One on missions. Others have heard of our blessed community and wish to join it. Most, as you saw, are High Peaks Worthies who come to test themselves against the Desperate Ridges. Each is an arrogant fool. Each considers himself to be the most courageous climber that ever lived. Their pride inspires them to test themselves against the Desperate Ridges. Only a few ever reach our blessed place. We do not need a great defensive force. However, we deeply value our privacy, and do not wish to be disturbed. We do not want visitors loitering about uselessly. So, we do not welcome visitors warmly, as you noticed.” Leaning back in her chair, the Keeper of the Light turned her penetrating glance on Bad Bone.

  “You came here like most visitors, convinced that you were extraordinarily courageous. You thought that no one could beat you at anything. All visitors who come here believe that they are strong and brave. But...they have never had to face themselves as their own worst enemy! That is our defense! We make each visitor battle themselves. We want only the most worthy visitors to stay.
Only those who can overcome themselves. Most fail in this test. You, however, have done well.”

  Bad Bone sat quietly, considering what the Jay had said. He now understood what had happened to him, except for one thing. “If it pleases your ladyship,” Bad Bone asked, “who were the furred creatures standing in line behind the inn?”

  “Ah,” the Jay replied, “those are the creatures who are afraid to face themselves. They failed in the first trial and desired to run away, but found they had nowhere to run. Realizing that they could not overcome themselves, they gave way before the fear and weakness that lived within them. Although they climbed up here full of prideful assurance, they no longer have the courage and confidence to climb back down. These contemptible beasts now wait at the back of the inn for scraps from this table each day. They are no trouble to us. They think only of the deliverer they hope will come and rescue them. Such is the nature of most furred creatures,” she concluded contemptuously.

  Bad Bone looked at the Jay with horror.

  “No, no,” she laughed. “They are not prisoners. They might leave anytime they wish. But they await some bold creature to rescue them. Alas, there are few such creatures among the furred ones. But, there are the rare ones...Someday, a truly heroic climber will come to our settlement and overcome our defenses. He will receive our offer to stay with contempt and desire to lead these poor, frightened fools back down the mountain to their old life below. Perhaps you are that peerless climber...perhaps not. We shall see. You may have a delightful life here in our blessed settlement, or you may lead the poor fools back down the mountain. Or, you may decide to leave them as they are.  We shall see. We shall see.”

  A Fateful Day Dawns

  On Clear Water’s Day, the greatest festival of the year, Hedgies rose early and put on their finest clothes. As soon as royal watchers saw the first beam of sunlight over the eastern mountains, a great chorus of trumpets sounded, announcing the start of the festival. Even before that, however, there was little sleeping for anyone. The night before Clear Water’s Day wee beasts hardly slept a wink:

  “Hurry up, Mama! All the Squint Buns will be gone before we even get a chance at them!”

  “Now you just hold your ladle, you little whiff! The sun’s not even up yet! There’s no Squint Buns to be had yet—so you just hold your ladle and wait a bit.” And so it went in many homes long before dawn.

  Even if some creature managed to sleep through the trumpets, he would surely be wakened by the ringing of every bell and chime in the realm which followed. In any case, once the sun peeked over the eastern mountains, and the trumpets sounded, and the bells rang, every creature poured into the streets. For the next twenty-four hours, every avenue thronged with revelers. Homes and public houses echoed with laughter and song. Dancing, contests of wile and strength, games, and carnivals continued around the clock. Rotter Wine and Frog’s Belch Ale flowed freely. And wee beasts devoured small, sweet Squint Bread Buns—a holiday favorite—by the wagonload.

  Work was suspended and Hedgies barely slept. Grabbing naps now and then, eating on the run, barely stopping to change clothes, no one wanted to miss a single moment of the great annual party. Every street was garlanded with bright lights and spectacular streamers.

  After the first rays of the sun shone over the eastern mountains, the trumpets and bells called attention to the critical moment when the first rays of morning sun touched the tip of Clear Water Peak. This eagerly anticipated moment—coming 20 minutes after the first sound of trumpets—was marked as archers sent a volley of a thousand flaming arrows in a grand arc high over the town. The volley of arrows signaled the start of a great procession.

  From every corner of every village and town, Hedgies thronged to attend the solemn ‘First Touch’ ceremony held in the village High Seat. Every town had such town halls, crowned by a soaring pinnacle of stone. At the precise moment the sun’s disk first touched the top of Clear Water Peak at sunrise, the archers’ volley of arrows signaled it was time to gather.

  From all parts of town the various clans of Hedgies came, rank upon rank, becoming one mighty procession flowing into the High Seat. Coming out from their houses, flooding down the side streets and alleyways into many broad, straight avenues radiating out from the High Seat like the spokes of a wheel. By rank and class the Hedgies chose their particular avenue and made their way to the High Seat.

  Innumerable colorful banners hung from every window, happy cart vendors threw fruit from their carts, and here and there wee beasts clung to the branches of trees calling out the names of friends as they passed. As more and more beasts joined the processions streaming toward the High Seat, they were crushed tightly into a richly pungent throng. Strong smells of sweat and breath mixed with odors of perfumed fur, smoldering herbs, and flaming pine oil torches.  The intense energy of the different clan processions took on different forms as they moved down their distinctive avenues. Singing and sing-song howling, drums, rattles, bells, clapping and stomping—each procession found its own rhythm.

  When the clan processions reached the High Seat, each entered one of the arched entrances that ringed the huge oval building. According to tradition, the first to enter were the Sky Elk, the personal representatives of the High One. Decked out in their ornately embroidered gold and scarlet robes, they matched the huge hall set lavishly with dazzling gold and scarlet tiles. Keepers of the stories of the Ancient Heroes and scholars of the heavens, the Sky Elk triumphantly raised their long ceremonial telescopes in sign of rank as they entered the hall. Hedgies tossed strips of colored cloth or string across the long telescopes as the Sky Elk passed, showing honor to these favorites of the High One. Following the Sky Elk came a long train of dignitaries: Glazier Dogs, Stone Ducks, Climbing Lynx, and so on from the highest classes down to the lowest ones.

  As the Sky Elk passed through the great entrance doorway, guards on each side of the doorway dropped to one knee as a sign of respect for the High One, the king whose word was law. Appointed by the ‘First One and the Last One’ to rule over the Mountain Tops, the line of High Ones stretched into the misty past. By virtue of his rule over the Mountain Tops, the High One was believed to be the very mouthpiece of the Ancient Heroes. The High One, as King of all Hedgeland, appointed Keepers of the Light who ruled each class according to their work. From this principle of rank, the whole of Hedgie society was ordered.

  The clan entrances led into a system of corkscrew ramps. The spiraling ramps allowed huge crowds to enter the High Haven quickly, while keeping the clans separated from each other by rank. Ascending in a series of long winding curves the ramps twined around and around without ever meeting. Walls of translucent stone lined the entrance ramps. Intricate images carved into the stone pulsed with weird, undulating patterns of light. Torchlight behind the translucent stone sent flashing tendrils of light that seemed to make the images move like living things.

  As the grand procession filed into the “Thousand Tiers Hall,” the cavernous center of the High Seat, the corkscrew entrance ramps fed the Hedgie clans into their particular level of seating. Each clan was accorded a seat of honor and distinction above the next lower in rank. Sloping steeply downward and away from the center of the Hall, the tiers of seats circled the center like a gigantic inverted cone. From the very center of the cone there rose a cylindrical stone stairway leading to a platform just below the top of the dome.

  Among the first dignitaries to enter the High Seat were individuals being accorded special honors. At the very head of the order of dignitaries was a Glazier Dog by the name of FoRoar-2036. Head held high with pride, he marched smartly into the High Seat, receiving honors for his recent history-making completion of the sacred climb.

  FoRoar loved the pageantry of the ‘First Touch’ ceremonies—the pungent smell of incense, the brightly-colored tunics worn by differing clans, the stirring music from the gigantic choir, and the solemn chanting of the Keepers of the Light. He reveled in every bit of the pomp and pageantry. Not to a sma
ll extent, he was also pleased to be surrounded by the most distinguished and powerful creatures of the Hedgelands. He had brought the highest honor on himself and his clan. In one of the seating areas reserved for honored guests, his mother wept with pride. His sacrifice for the homeland had been worth it.

  FoRoar-2036 let his eyes play across the magnificent translucent carvings that covered the walls of the entrance concourse as he entered the High Seat. The carvings flickered in weird, undulating patterns of light. Yet, whatever the pattern, the carvings captured every bit of light as if it were flame—seeming to pulse with life before FoRoar’s sight. His heart beat more rapidly. All the heroic scenes in the majestic story of the Hedgies were recorded in these masterpieces.

  Each told of the great events and famous heroes in the days when the world was young.

  Foremost in FoRoar’s mind today was the carving honoring Clear Water. It showed Clear Water coming at a time when the creatures were dying from a terrible, unknown disease. An intricate design portrayed Clear Water as a visionary healer who saw that travelers were carrying disease into the Hedgelands. Images depicted him turning travelers away and not letting them come again. The picture-story also showed how he taught the creatures that they must be clean and keep their food and water pure. Creatures were shown rejoicing and celebrating Clear Water’s teachings.

  To prevent deadly diseases from ever again being brought in from outside, travel was forbidden. A great hedgewall—the Forever End—was planted, and for over a thousand years, it was extended, year-by-year. Trunks and branches of hedge trees were carefully woven together as they grew. It became a ‘living wall’ impossible to penetrate. The great Hedge ran for thousands of miles—a vast enclosure surrounding the Hedgelands. Once it was completed, travel beyond the Hedge almost completely ceased. FoRoar-2036 honored the work of the forefathers who had so wisely protected the creatures.

  “Hear and listen, all Hedgelanders! Hear and listen!” The cry of the Sky Elk herald brought FoRoar-2036 out of his reflections. The ceremony was about to begin.

  “Today,” the herald went on, “we mark a beautiful milestone in the sun’s walk through the heavens. As the sun touches Clear Water Peak, that Ancient Hero’s spirit is at home on earth, reminding us of his teachings. Through this annual renewal, the world again is given the gift of rebirth. As the sun moves through all the ‘First Touch’ Days, each of the gifts of creation is renewed.”

  FoRoar’s devotion to his homeland deepened as he considered the great history of the Hedgie creatures. “Oh, Ancient Heroes, I feel small and unworthy as I consider the glory of your gifts! Long live the Hedgelands!” he sighed, as love for his homeland surged through him. It was a very heady feeling.

  FoRoar-2036 was lost in such thoughts for a time, as he tuned out the well-known words of the herald. Then a great blare of trumpets jarred him back to attention. The herald had finished his speech and the Keepers of the Light, representing all ranks, chanted the ancient verse of loyalty to the High One. Kneeling in front of all those assembled, the Keepers of the Light affirmed their loyalty to the High One:

  When lofty First One, king of the Mountains,

  and Last One, king of the Creatures,

  Who rules all that is, Gave the Mountain Tops

  to the firstborn of the High One, He made Great Peace,

  When the Mountains quit their shaking,

  and the Creatures stood and spoke it was so.

  When in the midst of the Mountains the creatures

  became One in the High One’s Law,

  The First One and the Last One

  made Mountains and Creatures one,

  So the High One rules,

  As long as the sun touches the High One’s realm,

  He enlightens the Creatures.

  What Light we have is from Him,

  and any Light we find,

  We keep solely by His grace.

  When the chanting was complete, the Sky Elk’s Keeper of the Light rose to read the High One’s annual Royal Proclamation. 

  A hush fell over the vast hall. All eyes were fixed on the Sky Elk’s Keeper of the Light as he slowly and majestically mounted to the high speaker’s platform. No one spoke. Once the Keeper of the Light had begun his climb to the place of honor, it was considered an insult against the High One to speak before the High One’s proclamation had been read. The high platform was silhouetted from above by a large starburst of deep red glass tiles illuminated by the only opening to outside light. Unlike the undulating multicolored shimmer of the torchlit entrance ramps, the platform—and whoever stood there—was surrounded by a blazing red glow. Hidden lenses set in the wall behind the starburst collected sunlight and sent fiery shafts of light radiating outward along the fingers of the starburst. The cone arrangement of the tiers of seats placed every beast in a position to look up at the platform—silhouetting the speaker on the platform in the red starburst. It was a stunning sight.

  As the Keeper of the Light ascended toward the platform, an organ—used only on this annual occasion—began playing. The high curving ceiling of the High Seat amplified the organ notes into an astonishing musical thunder. The sound rose to an eerie roar as the Keeper of the Light reached the platform. It rattled candleholders, shook doors, and every beast present felt the vibration in his or her chest. The overall effect of music, pageantry, crowding, and light was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

  This year there was a special feeling of mystery in the air that had never been present before. Whispers and mutterings said the High One’s proclamation would be like no other year. Confused and conflicting rumors flew that for the first time in Hedgelands history, the High One had recalled his proclamation! In the days since the unheard of attack by the rebellious Wood Cow, the High One had been silent. Rumors said that Fropperdaft VIII was preparing some great and drastic punishment for the Wood Cows. But there had been no message or sign of any kind from the royal sovereign. The rumor that the annual proclamation had been recalled was ominous.

  By the custom of ages, Weasel Couriers delivered the High One’s proclamation to the Keepers of the Light in every village several days in advance of Clear Water’s Day. This allowed the Keepers of the Light to know what the proclamation contained and be prepared to implement its message. As always, Weasel Couriers had delivered the proclamation to each Keeper of the Light. But, three days after the proclamation was delivered, the unprecedented attack by the rebel Wood Cow occurred.

  The unprecedented attack shocked and alarmed Fropperdaft to his very core. Such rebellion could not be condoned. The Wood Cows had always been problems for the High Ones. Long ago, the Wood Cows first got into trouble with the High Ones because of their great love for trees. Trouble and hard feelings arose between Wood Cows and the High Ones because the Wood Cows defended trees from rude treatment or abuse. Most Hedgies considered things growing from the earth to be unclean and contemptible. Since trees had the deepest roots into the earth, they were treated the worst. But Wood Cows, from time immemorial, had refused to burn wood in fires. And they built with wood as if it were a holy act. Wood Cows always invited a tree to become a chair or a table or a building. They would never simply go out and cut a tree down. This was a deep affront to the teachings of the High Ones, but it was not the worst of the Wood Cow offenses.

  Wood Cows said that they could hear the voices of trees—that the trees talked to them. Many of the Hedgies, especially from the ruling classes, made jokes about the Wood Cows talking to the trees. Wisecracks abounded.

  But, at the same time, everyone, including the High Ones, knew that the Wood Cows were the best carpenters and wood-workers around. Their work was flawless. The wood they used to make tables and chairs was renowned for its quality and beauty. Their workmanship was second to none. They were masters of the woodworking craft.

  “How can you expect a tree to give you its best wood, if you do not ask it for help first?” the Wood Cows said. “First invite the tree to help you, and if
it agrees, it will give you its very best wood. Self-sacrifice is a noble, essential part of the order of things, but it cannot be forced or taken—self-sacrifice must be freely given. When it is freely given, it bestows the greatest beauty on its purpose. So it is with trees also. Why do you wonder when the wood has cracks and splits? If you treat the tree rudely, this is what you will always get. Listen to the trees and see what beauty lies within them, then invite them to help you. Beauty awaits in that direction only.” These simple-minded Wood Cow ‘superstitions’ filled generations of High Ones with fury.

  No one knew exactly what the Wood Cows heard when they listened to the trees. “If you have a heart for the trees, and treat them as your friend, they will speak in your ear like a clanging bell!” the Wood Cows said. But such ideas created controversy in Hedgelands. The High Ones did not like to hear such things.

  “The Sky Elk say that the stars speak to them in the voice of the Ancient Heroes, could it not be that the Wood Cows can also hear the voice of the trees?” whispered some in the Hedgelands. The High One did not tolerate such ideas. To allow such thought would undo the entire order of things. All the highest and best gifts came from above, never from the lower realms. As Fropperdaft VIII considered the case of the rebellious Wood Cow, he saw that it was not just a single case of foolish rebellion that had to be addressed. The entire life and society of the Wood Cows was a threat to the Hedgelands. “Yes,” Fropperdaft said to himself as he contemplated what he would do, “this is not a problem of just one simpleton Wood Cow...the whole worthless lot of them are lazy, superstitious troublemakers.”

  Respect for the trees prevented the Wood Cows from participating in community activities such as the annual Willow Bonfire that gave honor to the High One on his birthday. Nor did they participate in the ‘sacred climb’—believing it to be injustice in the service of tyranny. Their insistence on inviting the trees to work with them in making a table or chair meant that sometimes it took days for a Wood Cow carpenter to hear a response from a tree. This greatly slowed down any project they did. “Bah, Sharant!” Fropperdaft spat out the curse. “How dare they suggest that trees—the lowest of the low—have voices! They wish us to believe that trees can speak! Bah, Sharant! It will not be tolerated!”

  The High One feared that Wood Cow ideas would ultimately lead to great trouble. “It is unthinkable! The only voice from the Unspeaking Realm is from the Mountain Tops. And the only voice from the Mountain Tops is that of the High One. It can be no other way.” The suggestion that the Wood Cows heard other voices from the Unspeaking Realm infuriated the High Ones throughout the long ages of the dynasty. As a result, the Keepers of the Light taught the Hedgies to regard Wood Cows as evil troublemakers.

  Ages-old condemnation of the Wood Cows effectively made them social outcasts. Denied all rights to own property within Hedgeland towns, the Wood Cows went off by themselves to live in settlements around O’Fallon’s Bluff. There they engaged in woodcrafts in the traditional manner, earning a meager living—they could do nothing else. Ostracized and set apart, for long ages this had been sufficient to the High Ones’ purpose. Over the generations, myth and ignorance led to prejudices that turned the Hedgelanders more and more against the Wood Cows. They could neither buy, nor sell, goods at a fair price. Having no rights in Hedgeland society, the Wood Cows carried on their simple life virtually unseen and uncared about by the Hedgies.

  But all this changed with the attack by the rebellious Wood Cow. They had always been accused of being troublemakers, but they had never actually created any trouble. The successful attack and escape of the rebel, however, changed that.

  Thus, on that fateful Clear Water’s Day which had such significance for Helga’s story, the long-held prejudice against the Wood Cows brought an event that would forever change the history, not just of the Wood Cows, but also of the Hedgeland itself, and have grave implications for other creatures yet unknown to them.

  The Wood Cows Expelled

  On that day so fateful for Helga’s story, just before sunrise Messenger Jays set out from their post atop the Desperate Ridges. Each carried a proclamation scroll to be delivered to Keepers of the Light in the far-flung hamlets and villages of the Hedgelands. Bad Bone watched them scattering to the different directions as he prepared to return home. His preparations included exhorting the group of dispirited Worthies he had discovered behind the Llanhogger Inn. He had decided to lead them away from the Jay settlement. The rag-tag collection of creatures gathered around him, chattering excitedly. At last they were leaving the Jays.

  As the cries of the departing Messenger Jays—“Ya! Ya! Ya!”—died away, Bad Bone gave one last look at the Jay settlement and, taking a deep breath, climbed over the ledge and began his descent. Calling instructions to those following him, within half an hour he had guided the rest of his band over the edge as well. Bad Bone took deep pride in fulfilling his mission faithfully. Yet his deepest satisfaction was in knowing what he had overcome to do so. He was grateful to leave the Jays behind and had much to think about as he returned from his mission.

  Speeding swiftly to all corners of the Hedgelands, the Messenger Jays delivered the High One’s decree. In each and every Hedgie hamlet and village, the High One’s original proclamation was destroyed by the Keepers of the Light and replaced with the new message.

  When Clear Water’s Day arrived, the High Seat in every hamlet and village crackled with an unusual, anxious energy. Each Hedgie had heard the rumors about the High One’s annual proclamation. In the light of the unprecedented rebellion, what would His Highness say?

  A deep hush fell over Hedgies as the royal proclamation was read:

  Greetings to thee, all!

  The Hedge stands fast upon the dangers of beyond;

  it opens not to the West; it opens not to the East;

  it opens not to the South; it opens not to the North,

  it opens not to any who would enter our land.

  The Hedge opens only at the command

  of the First One and the Last One;

  it opens for him the foul-smelling Wood Cow;

  it opens for her the lazy Wood Cow;

  it opens for the Wood Cows who defy the High One,

  who speaks for the First One and the Last One.

  The High One, by whose wisdom

  the good live and the unworthy die,

  provides three First Touch Days

  for the Wood Cows to leave our lands.

  By the First One and the Last One,

  who alone is without equal, I decree this shall be

  a means of purifying our lands and people.

  Death to anyone who aids the Wood Cows as they flee!

  The Forever End was to be opened! The Wood Cows were expelled from the Hedgelands!

  So far as anyone knew, no creature—except for the High One’s own favored traders—had been beyond the Hedge in over a thousand years. Even the rivers that flowed through the Hedgelands passed through gates that barred entry by any creature. Now there would be an opening made in the Hedge!

  Helga and Breister, with the other Wood Cows, listened to the reading of the proclamation from a dark and dusty cellar of the High Seat where they sat on the floor. Symbolic of their place at the absolute bottom of the Hedgeland order, Wood Cows were not permitted to sit with the other Hedgies. Being confined to the cellar, however, with sound filtering down faintly through vents, had the benefit of allowing them to comment on the ridiculous things they heard.

  “‘Death to anyone who aids the Wood Cows as they flee!’ the High One says,” snorted Helga. “Wood Cows would never run away from such a tyrant as the High One! We are not cowards! We are peace-loving and law-abiding creatures. We will obey this decree, as unjust and foolish as it is. But we obey without any idea of scurrying away in panic!”

  “Aye, that is our way,” her father agreed. “If we leave, we go peacefully with the will to make a new life in a new land. We go toward a new day. Let the High One a
nd his ignorant kind hold to the old day, as they will. We go forward with our heads held high!”

  Bad Bone Bound for Glory

  The descent from the Desperate Ridges took Bad Bone longer than he expected. He arrived at his home village just as the festivities of Clear Water’s Day were drawing to a close. Conducting the group of furred creatures on the difficult route had been slow going. He was shocked to see how much the creatures he led had been degraded by their experience with the Jays. What had once been some of the foremost climbers and adventurers of the Hedgelands were now a bedraggled band of ‘scramblers and shriekers’ as Bad Bone saw them, scarcely able to move without fear.

  He had to constantly shout encouragement to one or another that had suddenly frozen up with fright. “Come on, my stout hearts! There’s Salamander Nuggets and Squint Buns a-waiting! There’s dancin’ and hollerin’ in the streets! Frog’s Belch Ale for all if we make it back before Clear Water’s Day is over!” Little by little, the tiny band made its way down.

  Leading the ragged band into the village square, Bad Bone did not expect much of a reception. For him, it was simply another mission completed successfully. But for the families of the furred creatures he had rescued, he was a hero.

  Grateful families of the long-lost creatures flocked to meet the new arrivals. Joyful mothers, fathers, siblings and neighbors raised their tankards and mugs to celebrate the return of their loved ones. Surrounded by good company and as happy as could be, Bad Bone abandoned himself to enjoying the fun. Not sparing the Salamander Nuggets and Frog’s Belch Ale, he was especially touched when a wee little Lynx, happy to have her older brother returned, offered him her Squint Bun. Bad Bone was very happy.

  The festivities went on and on, ever more raucous and spirited. One creature after another offered a toast to Bad Bone’s health in honor of a rescued loved-one. Frog’s Belch Ale flowed faster and faster. “Here’s to Bad Bone, liberator of my own dear Thudwit!” a Fox yelled, raising his mug high. “And here’s another for Smidtoker, my long-lost son!” an Otter cried. “Hurrah for Bad Bone!”

  Wild singing broke out, with the entire crowd wailing half-tangled verses of a ballad they made up:

  Ho-ho, have you heard the news, me Hedgie?

  Bad Bone is bound for glory,

  Ho-ho, hug him and rock him and bowl him over,

  Bad Bone is bound for glory,

  Ho-ho, one more day and the High One’s a-callin’

  Bad Bone will be a glory story, glory story—

  Bad Bone will be a glory story.

  Completely lost in the frenzied celebration, Bad Bone was taken with the sloshing of ale, until something distracted his attention for a moment.

  He glimpsed a familiar Wood Cow and her father passing down a side alley just to his left.

  “Helga!” Bad Bone shouted after the old friend who had once made him his fine wooden longbow. “Helga! Wait!”

  “Hush, old scout!” a Goat standing near Bad Bone muttered, emphasizing the comment with a sharp jab in Bad Bone’s ribs. “You don’t dare acknowledge the expelled ones.”

  Until that moment, Bad Bone had not known the content of the proclamation scrolls he carried to the Messenger Jays for delivery. The High One’s decree was known only to the Keepers of the Light until it was made public on Clear Water’s Day. Bad Bone had not returned in time to hear it read.

  “The Wood Cows to be expelled?” Bad Bone asked the Goat. “How can this be? What have they done? Surely the foolishness of one Wood Cow does not condemn the rest to suffer?”

  “Old scout,” the Goat replied in a hoarse whisper, “you dare not raise such questions too loudly. It is dangerous. Let it be good enough to be a hero for rescuing these beasts from the Jays. Let the rest of it be as it will!” The Goat’s harsh look made Bad Bone grow quiet.

  The sudden feelings of shame and sorrow he felt were lost on the Goat and the rest of the happy revelers. Bad Bone, however, no longer joined in the joyful partying with the same gusto as before.

  Looking over the ragged band he had liberated, Bad Bone was dismayed. “How is the treatment of the furred beasts by the Messenger Jays different from what is being done to the Wood Cows?” he wondered.  As Bad Bone accepted thanks from those around him, his horror at having participated so significantly in a deep wrong against his old friend could not be easily shaken off. Feeling small and weak, as if his great strength was ebbing away, Bad Bone walked slowly away from the revelry, wanting to pour out his tears in private.

 

  Last Night at O’Fallon’s Bluff

  Swish-luckt...swish-luckt...The unmistakable footsteps on the stone walk outside her cottage made Helga jump for the door. Even before the visitor knocked, she had already flung the door open.

  Pulling her friend inside, Helga hurriedly shut the door and turned the lock. “Bad Bone! What are you doing here?” she asked urgently. Her troubled face showed additional signs of worry. “Are you insane? If his High Fropperdaftness knew you were here, your life would not be worth a grain of sand! We are officially declared enemies of the king—anyone who comes near us is in great peril. You should not have come!”

  Bad Bone put a finger to his lips, urging quieter voices. “But you’re still glad I came, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  The smiling, hopeful face of her friend had its affect. “O.K., so I’m glad to see you,” she admitted. “But you are still insane to be here. You might have been seen.”

  “No one saw me,” Bad Bone replied in a low voice. “It’s dark as pitch outside. I kept to the back ways.” He paused and put his arm around her shoulders. “I saw you leaving the High Seat after the decree was read. I called after you, but you didn’t hear me. I have been wanting to come...” his voice trailed off. He looked down at the floor for some seconds, saying nothing more.

  “I had to come,” he continued. “I could not let you leave without telling you how sorry I am about what has happened. I had to be with you and Breister on your last night in the Hedgelands. It’s taken me a long time to get up my courage to come, but I had to see you before you left.”

  “We leave at dawn,” Helga replied. “Papa is in the workshop, packing our tools.” She motioned at the jumble of chests, barrels, and satchels scattered around the room. “You can see we’re mostly ready to leave. We’ve been preparing for departure almost non-stop for weeks. There’s been so much to do.”

  “It’s been so many weeks; you didn’t expect to see me, did you?” Bad Bond asked.

  “I can’t believe anyone would come,” Helga replied. “Especially the High One’s celebrated courier. Your mission to the Jays, and the rescue of those poor beasts, is the talk of the market and taprooms.” Helga gave her friend a kind look full of understanding. “You did as you were asked, not knowing what you were doing,” she said simply.

  Bad Bone could scarcely believe how good those words sounded. “I am not”—the uncertainty lingered in his voice—“an outcast here? I am still welcome at your hearth?”

  “We are all outcasts here,” Helga said grimly. “If you are here, you are marked as an outcast by the High One. Even if you are never officially expelled, in coming here you have chosen to join us in our fate. Because of this, you are forever our friend.” She gave Bad Bone a friendly smile.

  “I brought you some information that may help you,” the Lynx offered.

  “What is it?” Helga asked.

  “I know some of the High One’s officers,” Bad Bone began. “One of them has got a loose lip—talks more than he should. I learn a few things that most beasts will never know...I’ve heard about safe routes beyond the Hedge.”

  “Come, sit down,” Helga invited warmly. “I will bring you a drink and we can talk a while.”

  Bad Bone sat down on a box, with his back towards a window that opened onto the road in front of the house. The window was slightly ajar to let in the refreshing evening air.

  He had not sat more than a few moments, and his host had barely filled
the teakettle with water, when he was startled by the mention of his name. “That traitorous fleabag, Bad Bone...” His skilled sense of his surroundings, long cultivated on dangerous missions, alerted him to the faint comment that disturbed his calm. He lifted his head carefully to peer out of the window. A troop of Skull Buzzards was standing in the road just outside the house.

  “It came from them, no doubt,” he thought. The comment had raised an uneasy sense that the soldiers were looking for him and he strained to hear more.

  The soldiers spoke in low voices, but now and then burst into a muffled laugh. Bad Bone could catch no repetition of his name, nor anything sounding like the words which had attracted his attention.

  He wondered if he had imagined the words altogether, or misheard what had been said. The words, “traitorous fleabag,” however rang in his mind as clearly as if they had been shouted in his ear. Perhaps he had been wrong in thinking his own name was connected with that phrase, but he was confident that he had heard that particular phrase.

  He was just turning away from the window, when he heard the words: “We’ll hang up Bad Bone for the flies to eat when we find him.”

  “I was right,” Bad Bone muttered. “It is as I feared.” He realized that the voices were becoming more distinct. The Royal Patrol troop was moving toward Helga’s front door.

  “The High One was right to suspect that the highly-esteemed Bad Bone might be a traitor,” one of the Skull Buzzards snarled in a sarcastic tone. “He has been asking more questions than is normal for him. He knows all he needs to know to serve within the High One’s wishes. Why does he need to know more about routes beyond the Hedge? And now we track him straight to the Wood Cow settlement—that traitorous fleabag will no longer be the great hero some make him out to be.”

  “Let him be fly bait!” cried another Buzzard, and the entire troop erupted in harsh guffaws.

  Just at that moment, Helga came back into the room carrying a pitcher and cups. “Let me call Papa,” she said. “He will want to see you also and hear what you have to say.”

  “I fear that there is no time,” Bad Bone replied. Keenly aware of his own danger, and the danger he had brought to Helga and her father, he continued quickly: “The Hedge will be opened at Bazoot’s Store—there’s a Skull Buzzard barracks near there.” This was news to Helga. The High One did not want anyone crossing through the Hedge except the exiles, so the site of the Hedge opening had been kept secret. At dawn, the Wood Cows were to gather in the square by the High Seat. From there, a Royal Patrol escort would conduct them to the place where they were to cross through the Hedge.

  “That’s not the best place for one going east,” Bad Bone continued hurriedly, “but it will do. After crossing through the Hedge, go down the mountainside straight as possible to the north. At the bottom of the mountain, you should come upon a road of broken stones, left from ancient times. Follow the road until you come to a group of stone huts, surrounded by corrals. It’s a small hamlet of farmers called Shell Kral. They grow a few potatoes and keep herds of giant tortoises. They’re simple folk—a few Hares, a few Opossums, a few Skunks. In the center of town, under a fir tree, you will find a tea vendor—Bost Ony. Ask her about routes to the east.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickling with a rising sense of danger, Bad Bone gave Helga an urgent look. She heard it, too. The sound of heavy boots on the walk outside—the Royal Patrol was at her door!

  Motioning quickly, Helga pointed toward the back entry. “Go to Papa. He will hide you.” The Lynx nodded, gave Helga a squeeze on the shoulder, and was off.

  A harsh RAP-RAP-RAP sounded at the door. A Skull Buzzard pushed into the house as soon as Helga cracked the front door. Looking coldly at her, he said, “The Lynx that came down this road, where is he?”

  Helga realized that attempting to stall the Royal Patrol was fruitless. Delay would only inflame their suspicions and endanger her and her father further. Walking quickly around the room, she flung open all of the doors, including the one through which Bad Bone had so recently passed.

  “You may look in all of these places, as you wish,” said Helga, in a pleasant voice. “However, you shall not find any visitors here, only outcasts.”

  The Royal Patrol commander looked at her scornfully. His bitter, hard, death-white face sent a chill down Helga’s spine. The Buzzard’s horrid-smelling breath was hot in Helga’s face as he glared into her eyes and hissed: “Perhaps he is hiding among his Wood Cow friends? The High One has been watching him. The sound of his chain-mail boots was heard on this road not long ago.”

  In a desperate attempt to delay the soldiers, without appearing to stall, Helga placed herself near one of the doors that Bad Bone had not used. Her movement succeeded in drawing the commander’s attention.

  “Yah! There! After him, troops!” the Buzzard yelled, pointing to the door Helga seemed to be favoring.

  Making no attempt to block their search, Helga stood silently aside while the Patrol ransacked the room. Although only a few moments passed, the stratagem purchased precious time. Then, as their examination of the room ended, she took a great risk. Trusting in her father’s quick mind, she invited her brutal enemy to follow her out to the workshop. “If you wish, sir, you may also like to question my father. Perhaps he has seen the Lynx you are seeking.”

  “Slug-brained idiot,” said the soldier, “I take no advice from you. What is your imbecile father’s word worth to me? I will see for myself.” Motioning for his troops to follow, the Skull Buzzard pushed Helga aside. He and his troop stormed into the workshop, clubs at the ready, apparently hoping to surprise their prey.

  But, as the Royal Patrol pushed into the carpentry shop, they found no one. A light shined, however, from outside the back door, which stood open.

  “Yaa-Haa! The scum went this way!” the commander cried, rushing out through the open door.

  Clattering outside, the troop of Skull Buzzards pulled up in surprise. Some distance across the garden behind the workshop was an outhouse. A lantern swung gently above the door, casting illumination.

  The blustering commander was speechless. He had not expected this. For a moment, he did not know what to do, but recovered quickly. Signaling to his troops, they ran quickly to surround the latrine.

  As the Royal Patrol took up positions around the outhouse, their cursing and tramping brought a shout from inside the small shed. “Who’s waiting for the pot?” Breister’s voice boomed out cheerfully through the closed door. “I’ll only be a minute. This is a one-holer, so you’ll just have to wait a moment.”

  Yanking the outhouse door open, and brandishing his hooked club, the commander yelled, “Freeze! Don’t move!”

  Breister, apparently startled, stared at the Patrol leader. Although his carpenter’s apron gave him some privacy, he was clearly sitting on the toilet.

  Looking embarrassed and a little annoyed, Breister said, “My, my, your mother needs to teach you some manners! Can’t a fellow be alone at a time like this?”

  The commander’s eyes flashed dangerously, but seeing that there was no one else in the small, cramped shed, he said nothing.

  “If you give me just a moment, I’ll be glad to see if I can help you fine fellows,” Breister offered. “But, I’m surprised that the High One’s troops do not have better things to do than to search outhouses...”

  “Zet! Sharant!” the Royal Patrol leader shouted angrily. “The Lynx is not here! But he cannot have gone far. Leave the idiot Wood Cow! Spread out and check all the houses and alleys!”

  The Royal Patrol dispersed to continue searching. As a parting shot, the Skull Buzzard commander spat at Breister, “I belong to the High One! Nothing has ever stopped me in his service. I will tear the Lynx to pieces, wherever he may be.” Swinging his club with ferocious rage, he shattered the lantern, spraying fragments of glass and blazing oil in all directions. “Bah! Sharant! You may tell the Lynx that is what awaits him, when I find him!” With that, the commander stompe
d off after his troop.

  A surprisingly bemused Breister rose, adjusted his clothes, and stepped outside. “O.K., Bad Bone, it’s safe to come down. But don’t tarry. We don’t have long.”

  Dropping down from a tree overhanging the latrine, the Lynx emerged from his hasty hiding place. Despite the dangerous encounter, the friends laughed heartily, although nearly without sound. A few moments of levity were all they could afford, however. The situation might be ridiculous, but it was also deadly serious.

  “You don’t have much time,” Breister urged. “The Patrol will be back here soon enough, once they find no trace of you down the road. You must escape quickly.” He looked at his friend fondly. “We will never forget that you, alone among the Hedgies, showed us kindness. Although you serve the High One, you have been kind—in secret, a friend. We will never forget you.”

  Breister’s voice cracked between every rapid sentence, and with every word his eyes misted over more completely.

  Bad Bone gave a low bow, his hand sweeping the ground. “I address myself to the noblest of true friends. I will never forget what you have done. Your courage is something those thugs will never understand,” the Lynx said, his own voice thick with emotion. “The High One and his legions mistake your simple ways for ignorance and weakness. But the fools do not know what true friendship is worth.”

  There was a long period of silence as the two unlikely comrades gazed at each other with respect. Then, Breister wiped his eyes a final time and said gravely, “Enough of this blubbering—we have little time. That mob of Buzzards is crawling all over the place. You must get away.” He urgently motioned his friend to depart. “You’re the best climber there is. Now go and climb for all you’re worth—time is short.”

  “I have learned the mountains well,” Bad Bone replied. “There are places that no pursuer will be able to track me. Don’t worry, I will be fine—it will be a solitary life, but I need some time to think. It will be well for me.”

  As Bad Bone turned to leave, Breister said, “There’s a pair of my reed boots near the workshop door. They should fit over your chain mail and deaden the sound. You’ve got to go quietly.”

  The Lynx disappeared into the darkness, leaving Breister on watch in case the Royal Patrol returned.

  It was a very dark night.  With the outhouse lamp broken, Breister was left to peer through the gloom. Few beasts were stirring. A pair walked past on the way home from the tavern—singing and joking. Wisps of fog hung in depressions here and there, softening the yellow glow from the windows of houses scattered farther down the road.

  As he kept watch, Breister could hear more than he could see. The large bell at Thedford’s Crossing, counting off the last hours before the Wood Cow settlement would be deserted...The babble of voices at Glad Bean’s Road House, having a final game of draughts and finishing off the last keg of Gulletwash...The mournful cry of Brigitte, the Steffes’ infant, wailing for the last time in the house where she was born...So many generations, spent in tidy houses nestled under O’Fallon’s Bluff...In a few hours, it would all be history.

   

  Milky Joe

  As the mid-day sun beat down, a caravan of Wood Cow carts and wagons, accompanied by a contingent of Royal Patrol soldiers, halted at Bazoot’s Store. A country store at the remote fringe of Hedgie settlements, Bazoot’s sat at a place where the Forever End crossed a wide and fairly level meadow. In the clearing in front of the general store, some fifty Digger Hogs and Axe Beavers loitered, lounging around a small, dirty fire. The campsite of dingy tents, the dirt-caked tools, the smell of new-sawn logs—all explained the large, ragged break that had been created in the Hedge.

  The travelers used the stop to take on additional water and make some final adjustments to their carts and baggage. Then, one by one, wagons bumped through the crude gap in the Hedge. Skull Buzzards inspected each one to make sure no stowaways were aboard. Once through the Hedge, each family took its own bearings. Most joined a long wagon train headed west, but a few intended to settle just beyond the Hedge, and Helga’s family had its own plans.

  The inspections were maddeningly slow. While they waited, parties of exiles talked in excited, but anxious tones. Before the opening stood some thirty or forty Hedge Blades—the elite battalion of Skull Buzzards assigned to guard the Forever End. Gazing grimly out from beneath their broad-brimmed, steel helmets, they crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking advance toward the Hedge. When an inspection was complete, the line would part to allow passage, and then close again to await the next approved party. Presenting a long line of razor-sharp swords—each 4 feet long—there would be no passing through the Hedge without their consent.

  Scurrying back and forth among the émigrés, a few of Bazoot’s clerks sought to sell items to the travelers. Breister was glad to purchase some rivets to repair a fastening that had unexpectedly popped loose. In the midst of the crowd, Bazoot himself was pushing a barrel of Strawberry Fogg, “Hey-Hetty, me bully-wats! Cold Fogg, swallers and cups—last chance for civilized drink!” The fat Woodchuck waddled merrily, long hair and apron flapping in the breeze. Here and there the jovial storekeeper stopped to turn the spigot for customers taking a last swig of Fogg before beginning their journey into the unknown.

  On a bench close by the line of Hedge Blades, a Wolf sat with a heavy ledger lying across his knees.  A second Wolf—an albino, small and thick-necked, with a large bristly moustache—stood nearby flipping gold coins high in the air. Attracted by the glint of the flying coins, a crowd was gathering around him. Helga found something familiar about him—the clouded, pink eyes; the hard, chisled jaw—somewhere she had seen him before. But it was his powerful voice that shook her memory as he shouted out a rhyme:

  Jokes ’n tricks upon the King,

  A pocket full of coins

  Twenty-seven rings

  To every beast as joins

  Milky Joe is here to take you

  To live a life of ease

  Line up all you nameless whos

  For riches as you please

  Come along with Milky Joe

  Throw off your toil and woe

  Let the King foam and mutter

  While you eat jam and butter

  The recruiting pitch succeeded, at first, in attracting a few young Wood Cows to listen curiously. But soon parents called their young ones back to them.  “Don’t you go listening to that hogwash peddler!” one scolded. “Keep your ears clean of that trash flim-flamer!” another parent hissed. “He’s a lying shill, he is! Why, that Milky Joe is nothing more than a slaver—hanging around troubled folk, trying to snare unsuspecting idiots and kids. Babbling against the King and talk of riches will always suck in a few down on their luck or looking for adventure. But it’s a pit of hell—mark my words!”

  Helga winced as another comment reached her ears “Yah, he’s got twenty-seven rings alright, iron ones that go right around your neck! Why else do you think he can scoff at the King right under the noses of those Hedge Blades? He just signs you up, and sells you right off to the King’s own bloodsuckers!”

  The touch of cold iron seemed, for a moment, to be palpable on Helga’s neck. She shuddered. Unease trickled through her heart. She’d heard stories about Milky Joe, but they had always before been almost fanciful—a “boogy beast” sort of tale. She’d never thought of him as being real, but now that he was sitting just a few feet away, she felt a deep sense of dread.  It was as if she knew Milky Joe was deeply evil, but at the same time, could not remember exactly what she knew. The chill passing through her was not fear, but a confused feeling that she had seen the white wolf with pink eyes before...heard his booming voice...knew him from somewhere...

  “You can’t stay here, weevils!”

  The inspections dragged on into the afternoon. Little by little the line of wagons and carts shortened. Being one of the last in line, Breister and Helga took time to shift gear and baggage to better balance their load. They had packed for difficult travel
, taking only their most important possessions and other essentials. First of all among their treasures was their Family Engraving, a traditional item in every Wood Cow household, on which the names of ancestors were engraved on a redwood plank.

  Next came Helga’s favorite family possession—the Root Teaching—a collection of Wood Cow wisdom that embodied their philosophy of life. Helga, like every Wood Cow, had her favorites:

  Tossing crickets in another beast’s drink does not make a friend.

  Throwing knives in the dark rarely fixes a problem.

  A beast who sees for herself is not a slave to what she is told.

  Justice considers small beasts before big plans.

  Listen where others say there is nothing to hear, and learn.

  Knowledge is bread, wisdom is coffee, and work is fire.

  In the happy times before Helbara went missing amidst Wrackshee slavers ten years before, Helga’s mother had read the Root Teaching to her and Emil every night. They also talked about how the Teaching applied in this or that situation. Helga missed those wonderful times. With Emil also now lost, and the entire Wood Cow clan scattered to the winds, for Helga, the Root Teaching seemed to hold the sense of her family together.

  After these precious belongings in importance, were essential practical items: fishing line and the flicker-pole. The fishing line served both to catch fish for food, and as a weapon for defense. In the hands of a skilled Wood Cow, the line weighted with a stone sinker could immobilize an attacker in a massive tangle. The flicker-pole’s flexible strength made it a very useful tool and weapon also. The most versatile tools they would have on the journey, the Wood Cows could wield both with power and skill.

  Following this, several precious items of household furniture: the chest, lovingly handmade by her mother, that held the family’s woodworking tools; Breister’s reading rocker and Helga’s carving table; the woodshop tables and benches; the kitchen stools and breadbox; the clothes cabinets...and so on.

  And, of course, the food: sacks of dried, pounded fish; baskets of pine nuts; dried apples and pears; rosehips for making tea; pouches of honey nut butter; and chunks of course, leathery trout jerky.

  Uniquely among the exiles, Helga and Breister did not have a cart or wagon. Instead, they pulled a homemade boat behind them on a sled. A great river was said to be just beyond the Hedgewall to the east. Old stories told of a time when the Hedgeland folk had eaten fish from a great eastern river, said to be within a day’s walk. If they could make the river, they hoped to sail into the unknown lands toward the rising sun. Bad Bone’s intelligence about routes to the east had given them even more hope.

  By the time Breister and Helga got through the gap in the Hedge, a long line of wagons stretched toward the western horizon. A relatively gentle slope led off in that direction around the mountainside, and virtually all the exiles headed that way.  As they turned in a different direction—almost with a sense of reassuring himself of the decision to go it alone—Breister observed, “We are a family of the rising sun! We will go toward the new light, not the sunset. Let the others go toward the darkness. We may die, just as the others may die. Let us die, then, going toward the new day, not the past one.” And so, following the directions Bad Bone had provided, they headed down the mountainside.

  The wild and unfamiliar terrain was far more rugged than they had expected. A confusion of creeks and ravines cut through the steep mountainside, making it difficult to tell which way to go. Breister was obliged to cut a path through tangled briar thickets and brush. Rocky hillsides shot up at sharp angles, to dizzying heights.

  Several times, they slipped on the steep slopes. Once, Breister lost his footing and rolled for fifty yards down the mountainside until he lodged against a tree. His cloak was badly torn, but he was unhurt. Many times, fallen trees and rocks had to be moved. They struggled on like this until the sun began to set.

  “It’s time to find a campsite for the night,” Helga said as dusk was falling. “Where should we stop?”

  “Perhaps that may be a cabin up ahead,” Breister replied, pointing to a wisp of smoke catching final rays of sun above a rise. Peering through the deepening twilight, the outline of a chimney was also visible.

  “Yes, there’s a sort of farmstead,” Helga agreed, as they walked closer. Several more buildings and other signs of habitation appeared as they continued their approach.

  Perched on a plateau of level ground, several stone cabins were scattered amongst an intricate network of pens enclosed by low rock walls. Large numbers of tortoises with huge, high-domed shells crawled around with surprising speed in the corrals.

  Amazed and baffled, Breister and Helga proceeded down the path toward the first cabin. A tall, lanky Opossum, cracking a long whip at some of the dome-shelled creatures he was herding from one pen to another, noticed them. He looked over the newcomers suspiciously, his head completely hidden by a white bandana wrapped tightly over his head and knotted at the back.

  Closing the gate behind the last tortoise, he stepped toward the travelers with a fearsome look in the eyes that glinted just under the edge of the headwrap. Stepping toward them, he cracked the whip sharply on the rock path—an obvious command that they halt.

  “I am Matsu,” he said, “Who are you, strangers?”

  Breister introduced himself and Helga. “We are very glad to meet you, Matsu,” he said calmly. “We’d like to draw up a chair at your table tonight, and sleep by the fire if we could.”

  “Ayah!” Matsu replied angrily. Slashing his whip once more, he shouted. “Begger weevils! Begger weevils! Why should I let you stay? What’s your business in Shell Kral?”

  “Ah! You take us wrong!” Breister cried. “Two weary travelers, with all our worldly goods, only stopping to rest and talk with Bost Ony...”

  As Breister uttered these words, the Opossum’s dark eyes flashed with fire. “What do you want with Bost Ony?” he asked. “What do you come to her for? Why are you here?”

  “We have lost our way,” Helga explained. “We don’t know which way to go. A friend told us that Bost Ony knew safe routes to the east.”

  “A friend sent you here?” Matsu repeated. “Milky Joe—did he send you?”

  “No,” Helga answered slowly, tingling with unease at once again encountering the name. “We are not friends with anyone called Milky Joe. We are just lost beasts looking for a place to stay the night and then a safe path east in the morning. That is all we want. We are very sorry if we have disturbed you, Matsu.”

  “You can’t stay here any longer, weevils,” replied Matsu, staring at them with a stone-faced scowl. “No one but friends of Milky Joe can be in Shell Kral when he is coming to trade.”

  “If we cannot stay, where shall we go?” asked Breister. “We would not trouble good beasts such as yourself if we knew where else to go.”

  “Ayah!” the Opossum snarled, pointing toward the east, “them’s as want to go to the east, should go that direction. You’ve nothing to lose that you will not lose anyway if you stay here. I do you this one mercy. Now, be off with you!” he snapped the whip in their direction again. Ha! Ha! Ha-Ho!”

  “If you please, Matsu,” Breister began, “if we cannot see Bost Ony, can you tell us a safe path to follow?”

  “So, you’d like to be able to go easy as you please, is that it, weevils?” he replied. “All the routes to the east are safe—if you survive! Ha! Ha! Ha-Ho! Any safety you might find in Bost Ony’s advice is lost if you stay here one more instant!” the Opossum cried, slashing viciously with his whip. “Leave! Be gone, weevils! Be thankful I show you this mercy before Milky Joe and his Wrackshees arrive. I could trade you for many tortoises!”

  “Trade us for tortoises!” cried Helga, in amazement.

  “Both of you weevils together,” replied Matsu, “might bring 3-4 nice high-grade trallés.”

  “Trallés?” asked Breister.

  “Trallés are the currency of slaving around here,” the Opossum replied i
n an evil tone, flicking his whip lightly for emphasis. “Racing tortoises. There’s lots of fancy beasts all over that love their classy clothes, princely titles...and, racing trallés...Some fancy beasts favor the laces of Matuch and Framm, or the brocades of Sonivad and velvets of Potwigg, or Rotter crystal and wine, but almost anywhere, the fancies covet racing trallés.” Matsu’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Mercy’s not much more than a word around here—and it don’t last long,” he hissed. “Unless you’ve a will to be sold for a few trallés, take that bit o’ timber you’re dragging behind you and beat it!” Ferociously cracking his whip in all directions, he advanced slowly toward the unfortunate travelers. “Be off wi’ya, weevils!”

  Saying nothing more, the Wood Cows turned away from Shell Kral and set their course for the brow of a distant hill.

  The Only Possibility

  Helga and Breister did not travel far before they stumbled upon a stream that appeared suitable for their boat. Twilight was giving way to deepening dark, and they made camp and cooked supper. Helga made a hearty soup from slugs, rockbeets and snowberries, while Breister baked pine nut bread. They ate happily and then each bedded down under a cloak for the night.

  The next morning they launched their boat and set out. The river was swift and there were frequent rapids. But Helga and Breister were fearless. Their boat was sturdy and had a sail that they hoped to be able to use once they passed out of the mountains—if the mountains ever actually ended, as the old tales said they did “in the rays of the rising sun.”

  The rapids proved to be far more dangerous than they could handle, however. Their vessel plunged wildly and sometimes spun crazily out of control. Helga and Breister used their long oars as poles to push away from on-rushing boulders, or to regain control of their craft as it flew through the spray. Water sloshed around their ankles, and the beleaguered cows bailed frantically to keep the boat from sinking.

  Sometimes the water ran through narrow places, making deep canyon-like troughs in the water. Water crashed on all sides—even above the boat! Seeming tiny and puny against the force of the river, their boat was often tossed about like a cork. It was terrifying! Time and again, they nearly overturned.

  At one point, after crossing a series of rapids, they rounded a bend in the river and came upon a junction with another river. With the infusion of this additional flow, the river ran even more swiftly. The travelers vainly looked for a spot to pull over and rest, but were swept along at dizzying speed. Battling exhaustion, they struggled mightily to slow their movement enough to grab a suitable rock where they could temporarily tie up their boat. Alas, they had no luck until they rounded yet another bend in the river. There they found two more rivers coming together with the one they were traveling.

  Happily, the Wood Cows found a rock jutting out into the river that provided both a secure place to tie their boat and a narrow ledge to stand upon. Joyfully, for the first time in their pell-mell, cascading trip down the river, they were able to get out of their boat and stand on solid ground. From that vantage point, they could clearly observe the river junction. They were presented with an unexpected question. Which way to go?

  “That river seems not so wild,” Breister commented, pointing to a stream flowing from the southwest. Although it flowed swiftly, the river he indicated seemed not so tortured as the one they were traveling. “Perhaps we should follow it upstream a bit and see if it provides a better route,” he suggested.

  “Or the other one,” Helga replied. “It seems to be flow through a wider gorge than either of the others...Perhaps we could escape from this canyon with its endless steep cliffs.”

  They were silent for a time as each considered the possibilities. At last Breister spoke. “I fear for us if we continue forward,” he said. “The river is flowing faster and faster. There looks to be no end to the rapids...I don’t know how much more battering our boat can take. Perhaps we should explore the stream that looks less dangerous.”

  Slumping to the ground, resting and thoughtful, they were quiet for a time. Then, Helga, who had leaned her head back against the rock wall, spoke. “The rock carries an unusual amount of vibration,” she said. “It’s as if there is a far-off rumbling...perhaps there is a gigantic falls around the bend.”

  “But there is no mist rising to the sky, Helga,” Breister mused. “If there were a great falls, there would be clouds of mist rising into the sky. It must be something else...but what?”

  Helga’s response was immediate. “That settles it. We cannot go forward without knowing what lies ahead. And we cannot go the other direction and row upstream. Even if there are fewer boulders, we cannot row uphill against this current. The mountains are too rugged—that stream is no less dangerous. Even if we explored that gorge that seems more open, it’s too wild to think we could walk out. It is better to take our chances as we are,” she said. “And only the river we are on leads to the east,” she added, smiling. “Don’t forget, we are a family of the rising sun. No, we do not turn back.” Breister returned her smile, but still looked worried.

  They were silent for a few moments. “We must explore,” Helga continued, “before we go further on this river. I will stay here with the boat,” she continued, “while you see what lies ahead.”

  Her father agreed, but they soon realized that it was difficult to look around. Rising perhaps 3,000 feet on both sides of the stream, sheer cliffs seemed to block any advance. Retreat was also impossible. The force and speed of the river made it impossible that they could force their boat back upstream.  The only possibility was to go forward. But how?

   “I think I can climb the cliff to the top,” Helga said softly, as if to herself. There are breaks and ledges enough that perhaps one could climb.”

  At last, Helga turned to Breister. “It looks to be at least 2,000 feet to the top. And what then? Could I follow the river up there? What do you think?”

  “Helga,” Breister began, “I think you must try to climb to the top. You used to climb all over everything when you were young.  You can scout the river downstream and perhaps find a safe route for the boat. When you return, we can make a plan.”

  Helga gave her father a long hug, as they both considered what lay ahead.

  “Catch some fish for us,” Helga said at last, breaking the embrace. “We’ll have a good fish fry when I get back...” Her voice trailed off as they both realized how long that might be, if ever. Helga threw her arms around her father in a lingering final embrace. Then she gathered a bit of food and water in a pack and began to climb.

  Breister stood for a long while watching Helga skillfully pick her way up the lower portion of the cliff. He admired her courage. Taking one last longing look after his daughter, Breister settled down and dropped his fishing line in the river...

  “My life, I am a Borf!”

  When Bad Bone had slipped on Breister’s reed boots and padded away from Helga’s cottage, at first things went well. In the early going, the deep darkness shielded him. A faint glow at the horizon, however, promised a full moon would soon rise into the cloudless night sky, pressing the urgency of escape upon him. “What a miserable night to attempt escape,” he thought, nerves tingling with alert. Even keeping to the deepest shadows, he sometimes would be forced to step across moonlit gaps in the cover. “There is nothing to do but try,” he scolded himself softly. “I can beat this.” In spite of his desperate troubles, the Lynx smiled. “The Jays taught me a few things. I will not allow a gang of bungling cutthroats to catch me.” 

  Crawling on his belly along ditches for concealment, Bad Bone crept cautiously toward the forbidding mountains that rose just beyond the Bor Jeeves River. Flowing past the hamlet at O’Fallon’s Bluff, the river represented safety. “If I can just get across the river,” he thought, “they will never be able to track me in the mountains.” He hoped to cling to the side of the ferryboat at Thedford’s Crossing and, breathing through a reed, catch a ride across the river undetected. Once across the Bor Jee
ves, escape into the wildest ranges of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains beckoned. The fugitive Lynx knew that time was short. Soon, fruitless search of the hamlet would turn the Royal Patrol to possible avenues of his escape. Each moment, the full moon rose more brightly into the sky.

  Realizing that spies might be watching the normal river crossing, Bad Bone crept softly toward the crossing point. The Bor Jeeves River cascaded down from the mountains in a furious series of cataracts. These made the river impossible to cross upstream from the ferry dock operated by Stoke Thedford. Every hour, Stoke’s boats made a circuit across the Bor Jeeves. It was the only safe crossing in miles.

  Bad Bone listened as the hourly bell rang, calling passengers to board the ferry. Except for the bell, however, he was puzzled by the unexpected silence at the crossing. Normally, he knew, the ferry dock would be packed at this time of the evening, as creatures hurried home or went to visit friends. “There should be lots of folk boarding the ferry,” Bad Bone thought. “Where is everyone?” Something was wrong at the ferry crossing. Straining his ears to pick up any sound that might give him information, he tingled with anxious suspense. The absence of any of the normal sounds of passenger traffic was so stark as to be sinister in its implications.

  “There must be spies or soldiers watching the ferry,” he concluded. “The other beasts know there is trouble and are staying away. It’s a trap. I will have to take my chances further downstream.” With this thought in mind, Bad Bone wormed his way, inch by inch, away through the brush where he had been hiding. “Haven’t been downstream from Thedford’s in years,” he reflected as he crawled along. “The river is deep and swift through there...but no rapids as I recall. Perhaps I can swim it at some point...but that will have to wait for daylight,” he mused. By crawling a few dozen feet, then resting and listening for several minutes, then crawling another distance, he gradually moved down along the river. He heard no signs that he was being pursued, and after about an hour of proceeding in this manner, Bad Bone stood up and began moving quietly from tree to tree.

  He now moved quickly away from Thedford’s Crossing, although he stayed alert and watchful. Traveling into increasingly wild terrain, he kept moving in utmost stealth for several more hours. At last, judging that it must be the wee hours of the morning, and feeling a creeping sense of bone-weary exhaustion, he stopped to rest. He mounted a boulder-strewn slope, slumped behind a large rock, and was soon asleep.

  Just as the first streaks of daybreak lightened the sky, a call awakened him. Instantly alert, Bad Bone leapt to a low, defensive crouch, eyes darting. Standing among the boulders on the slope above him, he saw three Borf scouts—instantly recognizable to him by their low, flattened hats. The two adult female Squirrels, and young male Coyote, wore the close-fitting hats which sloped down from the crown of the head with long flaps made of willow bark and grass woven together.  Only their painted ears—notched in traditional Borf style—were not covered. Familiar with the clan of wandering nomads, he circled his arm above his head in the customary Borf greeting. One of the Borfs stepped toward him and repeated the sign of friendship.

  Bad Bone approached the party, turning his head to show a small notch cut from the edge of his left ear. He wished them to know that he had once lived among the Borf, and the ear notching was proof of that. Three years earlier, as a Climbing Lynx in training, Bad Bone had been assisted by a Borf raiding party.

  A fierce clan of nomadic Squirrels and Coyotes, the Borf generally kept to their homelands in the wildest ranges of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains. Their bitter enmity with the High One, however, sometimes brought Borf raiding parties down to plunder royal caravans. Masters of stout cord nets, Borf raiders did not attack with deadly weapons. Relying on surprise and overwhelming numbers, Borf raiding parties swept down on hapless caravans encamped for the night. In seconds, dozens of nets were tossed across guards and any other resistance. Taking the plunder they sought—trallés—the raiders escaped into the darkness.

  Despite their fierceness, Borf raiders were essentially peaceful. Their style of attack was extremely successful and, so long as they were not pursued, the frightful tangles of net they left behind were the only harm they caused to those they attacked. Let any beasts set off in pursuit, however, and they would encounter skillfully made traps of every sort. Many a Skull Buzzard had found himself hanging upside down by one leg—victim of a hidden rope trap. Borf raiders were so skilled that capturing them was nearly impossible. Although the High One grumbled at their thievery, he could not enforce his will in the rugged, lawless Borf lands. The losses were accepted as a cost of the trade in trallés—the ‘tidy little trade’ that Fropperdaft and his brother carried on.

  While on his first mission as a Climbing Lynx, Bad Bone was encamped high in the mountains when his cook fire exploded. The inexperienced Lynx had chosen porous, water-soaked rocks as a bed for his fire. Water in the rocks, turning rapidly into steam, could not escape, and the stones exploded. Shards of stone and pieces of iron pot flew everywhere, hitting Bad Bone in several places. A Borf raiding party attracted by the explosion found him lying unconscious, seriously injured.

  From times long past, Lynx had served the High Ones in positions of highest trust and on missions of utmost importance. The Borf, on the other hand, hated the High Ones and all that served them. The Borf were not a cruel folk—far from it. Fierce toward the High Ones and sworn enemies of the slave trade they carried on, the Borf were friendly and compassionate toward all others. They carried the badly injured Lynx to their camp and nursed him back to health. During the several weeks of his recovery, Bad Bone was accepted as a member of the clan.

  As he approached the Borf raiders now, his sign of greeting, the ear notching, and his friendly attitude were enough to assure the party of his good intentions. Dropping the nets they held at the ready, they embraced Bad Bone in welcome.

  From the many freshly-killed lizards and snakes tied to the poles they carried, Bad Bone recognized that this was a small hunting party. Knowing that the main Borf encampment must be nearby, he asked to accompany them to their camp. The Borf readily included him in their party and they set off, the oldest female leading the way. After a half-day’s hike further down the river, a larger party of about sixty Borf appeared from all directions, surrounding Bad Bone and those conducting him. Accompanied by friendly clan beasts, and familiar with the customary show of over-powering force, Bad Bone gave the sign of greeting and advanced toward the Coyote he assumed to be the leader. Reaching him, he turned his head once again to show his ear notch. Joyfully, the Borf chieftain stepped close and pressed his own notched ear against Bad Bone’s—affirming friendship with one accepted as a brother.

  After this show of acceptance, the Coyote—Borjent by name—motioned to several Squirrels. “Tell the folk that our old ‘Friend from the Biting Fire’ has returned. Roast the lizards! Prepare a feast!” The Borf went off at a dead run to inform the others to prepare for their arrival. Soon the entire party also set out for the main encampment.

  When they reached the camp, Bad Bone was ushered into a makeshift brush hut and seated on green boughs and tanned snake skins. Renewing his acquaintance with many Borf he knew from his earlier visit, he laughed until his jaws hurt. Many small Borf crowded around, eager to see the beast who had been ‘bitten’ by the fire and had iron in his knees. Bad Bone entertained the wee ones with stories of many of his other adventures as a Climbing Lynx.

  As the sun approached its setting, a meal was offered. Bad Bone enjoyed gnawing the meat of several spiny-horned lizards, roasted on skewers, with wild carrots and onions. Cakes of wild berries, meal and cherries followed. Cold water washed down what he pronounced “a hearty meal worthy of the many years I have waited for it!”

  When the meal was over, Bad Bone strolled down to the river with Borjent. He learned that Borjent was the son of Borswen, the Coyote chieftain Bad Bone had grown close to during his first visit with the Borf. “My father died a year ago, “ Borjent r
elated. “A royal caravan was taking a large number of trallés to deal with a slave trader by the name of Milky Joe. The High One buys slaves to build his castle—paying for them in trallés.” He paused, eyes flashing with fearsome anger as he gazed across the river. “The Borf hate the slaving. When we can, we raid the caravans and steal the trallés, then we use them to buy the slaves ourselves and set them free.” He paused and a hint of a grin passed over his face. “When our raiders attack a trallé caravan,” he continued, “we hit them with such surprise that the attack is over before they can resist.”

  Demonstrating the throwing of nets with arm motions, the Borf leader explained how royal caravans were plundered. “After the guards are trapped in nets, other nets, especially for the purpose, are rolled out and the trallés loaded on them. Then, the trallés are quickly carried off by runners bearing the nets. My father loved running with the trallé carriers—but he was not as strong as he once was, and his heart failed him on that caravan raid.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Bad Bone responded. “He was a great leader and a dear friend.”

  “He gave his life for the cause of justice,” Borjent replied. “That is how I remember him—and why I now run with the trallé carriers myself. Every slave we buy with our plunder is one less beast doomed to the High One’s hellish project.”

  “Why do you sell trallés?” Bad Bone asked.

  “You know we are a simple folk,” Borjent replied.  What need do we have for trallés? Only the wealthy want them. They are useless to us. So long as we have lizards to roast—and there are many—greens and wild rice to gather, and berries to pick, our folk are happy. If our needs are met, why not use our bravery to help others? Why stand by while beasts are enslaved to build a worthless tomb for a tyrant? Our raiders are brave, we can free some doomed beasts...On the frontier of law and disorder the High One’s nice rules don’t apply. There’s some wild and unsavory places—dubious bazaars where slavers sell to anyone who pays the going rate in trallés.” Borjent paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And the raiding is sport for us! What better fun than ruining the High One’s cursed trade?”

  Bad Bone’s mind was reeling. So much came into focus. So many things understood in a flash—The Hedgies carrying up their ‘sacred stones’ but not actually building Maev Astuté...The sacred climb reserved for Hedgies, but the actual building work being beneath their station...With so many workers needed to build the Crowning Glory, where did they come from? Now Bad Bone knew the answer.

  He was silent for a time. At last he inquired if Borjent knew a safe place to cross the river. From Bad Bone’s viewpoint, the river was still too dangerous to cross safely. The Borf homelands were in the mountains on the other side of the river, however, so they must know how to cross.

  “A half-day’s march further downstream, it joins another river—the Sar Jeeves—twice as large,” Borjent replied. “Where the rivers merge, they cross a level plateau known to us as the ‘Confusion of Hopes.’ The Bor Jeeves splinters into many smaller streams that twist and meander as they flow into the larger river. The Bor Jeeves stops being an impassable torrent, and becomes a multitude of small, gently flowing streams. For the traveler, the long dangerous river appears to be tamed. At the beginning, the countless streams all look promising, as if they will take you somewhere if you follow them in a boat. Most of them, however, flow into bramble thickets and rock-choked channels that cannot be floated in a boat. But, if you ignore the hope of riding in a boat, the confusion of streams can be crossed. That is the way to our homelands.” Drawing many wavy lines on the ground to represent the rivers coming together, he piled large stones on one side to show the steep mountains where the Borf lived. Drawing a straight line across the wavy ones into the pile of stones, he concluded, “In those mountains, beyond the junction of the rivers—we live in plenty, safety, and peace. You are welcome among us.” The Coyote chieftain pointed toward the horizon where his clan lived.

  Bad Bone made no reply, but only gazed into the distance where Borjent pointed. “Come with us,” Borjent urged. “You can be one of us. Our folk love you. We could use someone with your climbing skills in our raids. You would have no more worries about the High One...instead, you would be a worry for him!”

  Bad Bone again was silent. His thoughts were busy, and his heart full. The offer was tempting. He liked the Borf and he relished the idea of avenging the wrongs the High One had done to Helga and her friends.

  “Why does the High One not pursue you?” he asked at last. “If you raid him continually and steal his trallés, why does he not send Royal Patrol Buzzards to destroy you? He has enough, I should think...” Bad Bone was genuinely puzzled about details of Borjent’s story. “The Borf lands are still within the Forever End,” he continued. “You are subjects of the High One, are you not? Surely the High One does not allow rebels and bandits such as you to go unpunished?” Fear of capture played no part in Bad Bone’s questioning, but if he was to join the Borf, he wanted to know how things were.

  Borjent laughed heartily as he heard the questions. Looking at his inquisitive friend, he gave his face a very stern expression and moved his lips as if talking forcefully—but actually said nothing. Bad Bone, feeling even more confused, gave Borjent a perplexed look. Borject repeated the stern expression and forceful, but soundless, movement of his lips.

  Shaking his head in bewilderment, Bad Bone clearly did not understand what Borjent was trying to tell him. With tears of merriment shining in his eyes, the Borf leader clasped Bad Bone’s shoulders in affectionate embrace. “Dear friend,” he said, “do not be surprised that I laugh at your questions.” Pausing briefly to stifle his chuckles, the Coyote continued, “Beyond the Confusion of Hopes the commands of the High One are not heard. That is the meaning of my stern looks and soundless shouting.” He once again chuckled. “The High One makes many words, but there are places that they are not heard.” The Coyote once again looked sternly at Bad Bone and soundlessly shouted at him. Then, smiling at his friend, he said, “The Borf do not hear the High One’s noise.”

  “But, what about the Forever End?” Bad Bone asked. “What about the Crowning Glory and the sacred climb? What about the Royal Patrols? What about the Hedge Blades? Surely the High One does not just ignore your attacks and leave you to yourselves?”

  “The Hedge is only as strong as the High One’s words!” Borjent replied. “In the mountains where my folk live, no Royal Patrol has ever been seen! The Hedge was never completely planted—there is no Hedge beyond the Borf homelands! The High One claims many lands where his words are mere noise.” Borjent shouted again in silence to emphasize his point. Then he chuckled and embraced Bad Bone once again. “The High One’s words are heard in many places, and his Patrols back up his words where it is easy to do so. But, where his words are not heard, and it is not easy for his cutthroat Buzzards to make folk hear his words—in those places, we hear only our own words. The Borf speak for ourselves.”

  Bad Bone remembered one of his missions into a wild, barely-settled region of the Hedgelands. He had seen stretches of the Forever End in disrepair. Obviously untended, but still a formidable barrier, he had not imagined that the Hedge might end altogether in some of the far away clan homelands. “A life beyond the reach of the High One?” Bad Bone tried to imagine such a thing.

  “My life, I am a Borf!” the fugitive Lynx exclaimed. “When do we leave?” he added, feeling a tingling sense of new-found freedom.

  Beyond the High One’s Reach

  In the days following his decision to join the Borf, Bad Bone whole-heartedly fell into the life of the nomadic clan. For eight days, festivities of welcome for the new clan member continued. The food of the wandering folk was simple, but plentiful—huge pots of sweet, sticky rice, eaten in paw-sized balls, and the usual roasted lizards. There were nightly dances accompanied by dozens of small lizard skin drums, tuned to different pitches; turtle-shell tambourines; and snake rattle shakers. The adults sang raucous songs and
played instruments as they watched the young beasts dance on their front paws and perform acrobatic stunts. Bad Bone commented that he had “never seen creatures with such wonderful strength in their arms” as he watched them dance for hours without stopping. When the nightly festivities ended, the camp fell into a silent, satisfied sleep.

  In addition to feasts and frolics, however, Bad Bone’s welcome also included introduction to camp life—rising early to set water boiling in the cook pots, curing snake skins in the sun to make clothing, and caring for the wee beasts with songs and games. Finding safety from his pursuers, Bad Bone also found an acceptance for which he had long yearned. “If brotherhood is more than a word,” he thought, “this must be what it is like.”

  When the Borf broke camp, they journeyed through a narrow opening, called Tramandrivot—the ‘Axe Mark’ in Kinshy—in an otherwise impassable razorback ridge.

  “This trail is murder to climb,” Bad Bone complained, as he struggled over the small stones covering the trail almost like a bed of rollers. “If you use this trail so often, why don’t you take time to clear it and make it easier to travel?” he asked Borjent.

  “We don’t dare touch the stones,” Borjent replied. “The trail is maintained like this by the Munk clans that live on the ridge. “You don’t see them, but they are watching us even now.” Seeing Bad Bone grow instantly more alert, Borjent touched his arm with a friendly, comforting paw. “Not to worry, my friend,” he advised. “The Munk are friendly to us, and do a service by keeping the trail covered with these small stones,” Borjent continued between labored breaths as he climbed. “Wait a bit and I’ll tell you more when we reach the top.” Bad Bone was quite happy to wait—the climb took all of his breath.

  Reaching the summit, the trekkers stopped to rest. No one spoke for some time, as everyone regained strength. Ragged breathing gradually subsided, and the characteristic Borf laughing and joking returned. Borjent pointed back down the trail. “The stones on the trail protect all the creatures on the far side of the ridge from intruders,” he said. “Tramandrivot is the only way for a large group to cross the ridge. Munk Sentinels are on constant watch and repair the stone bed in the trail as needed. The treacherous path deters most beasts of ill-will from attempting the climb, and slows others down long enough to sound the alarm. When an alarm is sounded, the Munk roll massive stones down on the trail from the heights. That thwarts any other foolish attackers.” Smiling, Borjent waved to the heights above his head. “You won’t see the Munks, but they are there,” he explained. Soon after, a small round pebble sailed down from above, bouncing off of the rocks with a soft Clink-Clink-Clink. “Munk Sentinels returning the greeting,” Borjent explained, grinning.

  Gazing up at the rocky pinnacles that soared around the sides of Tramandrivot, Bad Bone saw no hint of the hidden Munk Sentinels. “I begin to see how it might, indeed, be possible for clans of folk to live beyond the reach of the High One’s rule,” he commented. “Very interesting,” he continued, “very interesting, indeed.”

  “You begin to see,” Borjent replied, “but you do not yet fully understand.” Beckoning for the Lynx to follow him, the Borf chieftain walked a number of steps toward where the trail apparently descended the far side of the ridge. Leading Bad Bone around the side of a rock wall, he extended his arm to indicate what lay beyond the summit. The long, steep climb up the slippery trail led to a breath-taking vista at the top of the ridge.

  On the far side of the steeply pitched ridge, mountains glistened with lush forests, hidden here and there by wisps of moist clouds. Bad Bone had never seen such forests as these.  Luxuriant forest unrolled down the slopes into a long mist-shrouded valley that stretched as far the eye could see. Off in the distance, just peeking above the endless clouds covering the valley, he could make out the continuation of mountains.

  “The Confusion of Hopes lies below,” Borjent said. “Within that misty valley is the pathway to our home.”

  “But, the valley is buried in clouds,” Bad Bone exclaimed. “How could a beast ever find his way through such a dense forest drenched in fog?”

  “Ah,” replied Borjent, “now you understand the Confusion of Hopes. Most beasts enter the valley and assume that the only way through is to follow the stream courses.” He shook his head sadly, then continued. “Hope after hope rises in the heart of a beast trying to find a way through that valley by boat...but it leads to nothing but confusion. The only way through is to climb across the valley in the canopy of the trees!”

  “Go across the valley in the trees!” Bad Bone replied in astonishment.

  The Borf leader held up his arm to call a halt to the march. “I’ll explain more later,” he replied. “Now, the folk are tired.” He swung his pack to the ground and laid it against a tree. Then he called to the Borf following him, “We stop here for food and rest.” The Squirrels and Coyotes happily dropped their packs, laid down the pole and net sleds that some pulled, and fell on the ground to rest.

  A while later, Bad Bone sat chewing dried snake meat and sticky wads of rice from the satchel he carried. He watched a rain cloud sweep over the mountainside below them. Borjent walked up and dropped to the ground beside him. “The rain is a good thing for us,” he smiled. “It makes the trees grow to massive size. Some of the cedars are over a thousand years old. What we see of the forest from here is one of the best roadways imaginable for Borfs. The gigantic trees form a dense canopy—a network of huge limbs and mossy vines. Where the limbs and vines fail us, our folk have strung net pathways from tree to tree—think only of the ground, and you will never escape from the Confusion of Hopes,” he observed. “But consider the canopy, and all the directions are open to you. A strong Climbing Lynx like you will find it wee beast’s play.”

  “I don’t like water,” Bad Bone remarked glumly, “but it looks like a tremendous adventure!” he concluded with a smile.

  “The rains come off of the Great Sea, which is just beyond that last line of low peaks you see at the horizon,” Borjent replied.  “The clouds drop most of their rain as they rise up over this high ridge, so one side is very wet, and the other much drier.”

  “Wee-heww...” Bad Bone whistled as his eyes took in the sharp contrast between the two sides of the mountain ridge.

  “The ridge is a sort of demarcation line,” the Coyote continued. “Along the Misty Coast of the Great Sea, rain clouds develop every afternoon and move inland. Rain pours down on the wet side of the ridge all night long. But on the other side, it rains only a little—you never suspect such a contrast until you reach the summit.”

  “Well, I still don’t like to get wet,” Bad Bone laughed.

  “And you won’t,” Borjent said. “We will cross the Confusion of Hopes in a few hours—the route is easy for us. We will be on the high ground again, and heading into our homelands, before the rains begin. We will camp here tonight and set out just after dawn tomorrow.”

  Bad Bone smiled broadly. “I’ll be up early and see to the cook fires,” he said, showing his pleasure at the plan.

  “Well, not so fast, my friend,” Borjent laughed. “I’ve got a task for you before you cross the Confusion of Hopes and go to our home.” He paused and rolled out a reed mat in front of them. “When you lived among us while you healed, we accepted you, but did not fully trust you. You were a Lynx in service to the High One and we dared not show you everything about our life. But now, as a new member of the clan, there is something that you must see.” He pointed to the mat, which was actually a rude map. “Two day’s trek from here, some distance into the forests on the dry side of the ridge, lies a caravan way-station, Mis’tashe. Caravans travel back and forth between Port Newolf, on the Great Sea, and the Hedgelands, carrying slaves and trallés. They halt at Mis’tashe to take on food and water.” He could see from his friend’s intent gaze that Bad Bone was listening with great interest.

  “The Borf never attack the caravans in that region. The terrain is too difficult and there is no easy escape
with captured trallés—there are more favorable places to launch our raids,” he continued. “The caravan masters know they are safe at the way-station, so they do not mount heavy guards.” He pointed at the map with a stick, tracing a route. “A skilled climber like you can approach the caravan rest stop from this direction. I want you to lead a small scouting party and see what a trallé caravan looks like—you will need this understanding to help us later in our raids. Are you ready for such a mission?”

  “Fitted with iron in my knees, and fire in my eyes, brother!” Bad Bone declared.

  “I ask you to take Bormarojey and Bormaso,” Borjent directed, naming two seasoned Borf Squirrels that Bad Bone knew well. “You will put the ‘dead beast’s eye’ on the caravan,” he instructed. “No one pays attention to the gaze of a dead beast,” he explained, seeing Bad Bone’s quizzical look. “You are to scout the caravan with such stealth that you are noticed as much as the gaze of a dead beast.” Giving thorough instructions with the assistance of the map, Borjent directed that the scouting party leave immediately. “You will rejoin us at our home camp in not more than five days,” he concluded. The beasts going with you are well-used to the route. You will do well.” So saying, he left the Lynx to reflect on all he had learned and prepare himself for his mission.

  Finishing his simple repast, Bad Bone went to gather the other members of his scouting party. He found the two Squirrels sitting at the bottom of a tiny waterfall spilling out of a crevice in the rock above them. Holding gourd cups under the falls, they used gulps of cold water to wash down the dry snake meat they were eating.

  Calling to Bormarojey and Bormaso, he told them of their mission. Silently, a general smile moved across their faces. They were pleased to go with Bad Bone on the proposed journey. Bormaso spoke what was in the heart of both Borf Squirrels: “That a Lynx goes with Borf to cast the dead beast’s eye on one of the High One’s caravans is something new under the sun. The High One’s sleep will be disturbed before he hears the last of this.”

  Casting the Dead Beast’s Eye

  Scuttling forward on their bellies, Bad Bone and his companions peeked out from the protecting cover of pine trees and ferns. Not far away, crowds of unsavory looking beasts—mostly Wolves and Cougars, with a sprinkling of Mink—loitered around three sturdy, but well-worn log buildings. Food was being served on tin plates handed out through the large window of a cabin used as a canteen. Smithy beasts labored to repair broken wagon fittings and applied grease to wheels. Here and there, Skull Buzzards kept watch over lines of trallés roped together, while handlers led the high-domed tortoises, 2 or 3 at a time, to the livery barn for water and to get their feet checked. Several Royal Patrol officers sat around a table on the porch of a two-story log inn, talking with a richly-dressed Wolf, near whom knelt four Mink servants.

  Rows of peddlers’ tents jammed a narrow alley between the inn and the livery. Bad Bone’s attention was drawn particularly to a middle-aged female Wood Cow, who sat under a tree near the livery, carving wagon wheel spokes. Her bearing and manner were familiar—“she’s a Wood Cow from the Hedgelands, or I have no sense in my head,” he thought. Looking more closely, he could see that the Wood Cow’s long white shaggy hair, falling down across her neck and shoulders, almost hid an iron collar encircling her neck. Through the shadows, his eyes could make out a chain attached to the collar. “Helga’s mother! She’s a prisoner!” Bad Bone breathed softly.

  “A slave, you mean,” Bormarojey whispered. “She’s well-known to us—a legend, actually—name of Helbara. She caused some trouble for the High One many years ago, and she and her family were sold as slaves. When the Buzzards came to take them, she fought like a thousand demons to protect her family. In the end, they all escaped except her. The High One ordered her to be kept as his personal household slave—to humiliate her. But she sang such mournful songs and called so loudly on the Ancient Ones day and night, that no one in the royal household could sleep. He sent her to this remote caravan way-station, hoping that would be the end of her trouble-making.”

  Bormarojey paused as some Skull Buzzards looked a little too attentively toward their hiding place. They soon turned away, however, and showed no further sign of suspicion, so he continued his story. “This is a perfect place for her,” he said, grinning at Bad Bone. “The High One has forgotten her, thinking that this distant exile was the end of her...Which suits our purposes fine!” he added with a slight chuckle.

  “How does that poor beast being in slavery suit any good purpose?” Bad Bone asked.

  “See the hat that Helbara is wearing?” Bormarojey asked. “You see the brim is rolled on one side? Rolled brim in front, the caravan is bound for Shell Kral; rolled brim at the back, it’s going to Hedgelands via Port Newolf; and if the hat is hanging on a peg, it’s going to Hedgelands via the Norder Passage. The reason we come here to scout is to learn which caravans we will raid later on!”

  “She helps you to raid the royal caravans?” Bad Bone exclaimed, struggling to keep a low voice, despite his astonishment. “Don’t they get suspicious when their caravans constantly get robbed?”

  “Here’s the deal,” his Squirrel companion replied. “We don’t raid all the caravans. There’s no pattern to our attacks. Even Helbara doesn’t know when we come to ‘cast the dead beast’s gaze’ on the way-station. She puts up her signals and never knows which ones we see—but she hears about the raids from the furious traders.” Bormarojey grinned widely. “The High One does not suspect that the slave he humiliated and banished now guides Borf raiders to plunder his trallés!”

  The scouting party counted the trallés in the caravan—60—and was about to withdraw when trallé handlers removed several of the giant tortoises from the line. Leading them to the far side of the open ground in front of the livery, they put bridles in their mouths and laid colorful blankets across the crown of their shells.

  The Mink servants picked up the chair in which the finely-clothed Wolf sat and carried him to a shady spot beneath a tree where he could observe the tortoises being lined up side-by-side.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Bad Bone whispered.

  “They’re going to have an exhibition race with the trallés so that fancy fellow can judge their quality,” Bormarojey answered. “He’s probably a merchant that deals in racing trallés. He wants to see what he’s buying.”

  “I thought giant tortoises were more used to pulling a plow than racing,” Bad Bone said.

  “These are specially chosen for racing,” his companion replied. “Rich folk are crazy about them—it’s an exotic sport for those who can afford such things.”

  It took a while to get the race underway. At first, for amusement, the Royal Patrol commander ordered some of his troops to serve as impromptu jockeys. The Skull Buzzards looked ridiculous trying to mount the trallés and had no experience in racing. They did not know how to get the tortoises to move.

  “They’ll do these ‘clown races’ for a while,” Bormarojey said. “Later, they’ll put experienced trallé handlers on some of the finer mounts to show what they can really do as racers. Often when there are trallé racing meets, they put clowns and other beasts in costumes on the tortoises and run them around town before the serious races start.”

  After a slow start, the trallés took off at top speed and several of the Buzzards fell off. Roaring in laughter, the Wolf called out, “More! More!” and for some time the silly races were run over and over again. With the attention of most of the beasts at the station fixed on the racing, the Borf scouting party silently withdrew.

  Lost Hiker’s Delusion

  Bad Bone was puzzled. Something about the surrounding landscape seemed more familiar than it ought to be. The Borf party was returning over the same route they had traveled the day before and nothing had struck him as familiar on their earlier passage. He had never visited this region of the Hedgelands before. Why did what he was seeing now seem so very familiar?

  As they trekked along on the
ir return to Tramandrivot, Bad Bone’s mind worked on this puzzle. Then, gradually the answer came to him. “Ah, yes,” he thought ruefully, “the lost hiker’s delusion.” As an experienced mountain climber, well-schooled in the ways of the wilderness, he knew that his puzzlement resulted from the same problem that often caused inexperienced hikers to become lost. “The perspective is different coming and going,” he thought. “Many a poor hiker has learned how very different the same mountains and trees look when approached from the opposite direction.” This was the answer to his puzzlement. “What looked strange and new when we approached from the north, now looks familiar as we return from the south!” Yet, some of his puzzlement remained. “But why does it look familiar from this direction, when I’ve never walked this way before?”

  He could not shake the mystery. Again and again he tried out possible solutions in his mind. Nothing seemed to answer the question. Then, when the party paused to rest and take food near a beautiful lake, he asked a question. “Does this area live in any of the legends you have heard?”

  Bormaso, lying on his back under a tree, lazily pointed at a peak to the right of where they were stopped with the salted lizard tail he was gnawing. “That peak looks like a javelin point from this direction,” he observed. “The grandmothers always tell us that the javelin point flies fast to where it is going. They say that in the ancient times the folk rode the javelin point to sail like the wind through the mountains...”

  “...riding the great river that flows down from Javelin Point—standing up in boats that never touched the water,” Bad Bone broke in, finishing the sentence.

  Bormaso grinned. “Yes. I see you know the legend also.”

  “My grandmother told me the story as a wee beast,” Bad Bone replied simply. “I never paid much attention to it, but the image of beasts standing up in boats that never touch the water always seemed strange and wonderful—I’ve never forgotten it.” He paused, gazing off at the peak that had become the focus of his thoughts. “And the javelin point shape of that peak is so unmistakable from the stories I heard countless times, that it looked familiar to me. I guess the legend had more effect on me than I realized,” he chuckled.

  The three friends lounged silently for a time, then Bad Bone spoke up. “Do you think perhaps there is such a river? I mean, one that makes the beasts fly through the mountains like it says in the old story?”

  “I have sailed on it,” Bormaso said quietly. “The river definitely exists.”

  “What?” Bad Bone exclaimed. “The legend is true?”

  “Wait, wait!” Bormaso replied. “Not so fast. To say that the river exists is not to say the legend is true. There definitely is a mighty river that flows down off of Javelin Point. I have sailed on it—and a fearsome ride it is. Rapids such as would frighten most beasts to death...Unclimbable cliffs...Skull Buzzards...It’s a terrible, terrible place.”

  “But you rode the river,” Bad Bone said. “Where does it go?”

  “That I cannot say,” the Borf Squirrel replied. “As a young beast, I was captured by a Lynx slave trader during a raid and sold.” Bad Bone’s face showed pained surprise. Bormaso looked with kindness at him. “You surely know that some of the Lynx are slave catchers and traders, yes?” 

  Bad Bone looked away and did not answer. Bormaso, sensing that Bad Bone wanted a moment to himself, took a swig from the water pouch. He was wiping his mouth when his Lynx friend said, “My family has always served the High One, but we are Climbing Lynx, not slavers. I have served the High One honorably, but have never been cruel to any beast. I regret what other Lynx do, but they are not my folk.”

  Bormaso put a comforting paw on Bad Bone’s arm. “I do not accuse you of being a slaver,” he replied. “You are now a Borf brother and we have no reason to think ill of each other. I see it as a great sign from The All that a Lynx is now my Borf brother. Welcome, brother,” he concluded, hugging Bad Bone around the shoulder.

  The three scouts sat quietly together for a few moments, then Bormaso continued: “While being transported to the Hedgelands along the Norder Passage, our boat capsized and I escaped with several other slaves. Thus, I did not ride the river its full course, and it was a long time ago. I don’t know where the river goes. I only know it must be the one mentioned in the legends.”

  “What do you know of the Norder Passage?” Bad Bone asked.

  “There is an underground route that crosses from the Estates of the Norder Wolves to the Hedgelands. A portion of the passage follows an underground river—it’s mostly used by slavers.”

  “Do honorable beasts travel that way?” Bad Bone asked softly.

  “Not that I would know of,” Bormaso answered. “There are actually several branches of the river and all except the Norder Passage are impassable. Even the Norder Passage is treacherous, but it can be traveled. The other branches of the stream are deadly. Because the Norder Passage is the only useable river, and it only goes to the Norder Wolf Estates, not many honorable beasts feel a calling to go that way.”

  Bormaso could see that his friend was suffering. “What’s the matter, Bad Bone?” he asked.

  “The legends about Javelin Point and the great river and the Norder Passage...” he began.

  “What about them?” the Squirrel asked.

  “The elders in my family tell of a Lynx of the bygone days,” Bad Bone said, staring toward Javelin Point. “He was said to have gone to the Norder Estates traveling on an underground river—but we never really believed it. It seemed too fantastic!”

  “He knew of the Norder Passage,” Bormaso repeated thoughtfully.

  “Apparently—does that surprise you?” the Lynx asked.

  “The legend of Javelin Point and the mighty river are told by many folk,” he replied. “But the Norder Passage is only known to slavers and trallé traders,” Bormaso said. “If your ancestor knew about it, he knew more about that sort of trade than a simple Climbing Lynx would know.”

  So many thoughts swirled in Bad Bone’s mind as he listened to Bormaso. A long obscured story was awakening within him. Listening to Bormaso jolted his mind. He recalled with wonder his experience at Stupid Frog Shallows a few years back. He learned that the Shallows—in the desolate wastes between the Borf lands and the Rounds—were rumored in bygone days to be a hideout for slavers. His own great-grandfather was connected with the Shallows in some way. Was Stupid Frog Shallows on the river of the ancient legends? In the misty past—was his great-grandfather a slaver?

   “You think he was a slave trader?” Bad Bone asked quietly.

  Bormaso smiled at his friend. “We never know what new faces we will find if we look deeply into our history,” he said. “In a clan as old as the Borf, we’ve had our share of rascals and liars,” he laughed. “The Lynx surely have some black-hearted scoundrels—but what you see when you look in the mirror is what is most important. There may be the tale of a slaver within you, but there are many other tales there also. Borf are a practical folk—we are interested in who you are now and what you will be. Why take a long-dead slaver, who may or may not exist, into the clan, when you have shown us that you are a fine honorable Lynx ready to come on your own without him? We will take you for who you are and what you will be. Let the past die if it is no help to us—that is our way.”

  With this assurance to his heart, Bad Bone rose and gave his friends the Borf welcome greeting. “I welcome my Borf brothers into my own story. What else may be there, I cannot say, and may never know. But as you have embraced me as a brother, I, in turn, embrace you.”

  The three friends embraced heartily and, joking merrily, prepared to set out once again on their trek toward the Borf homelands. “Fill your water pouches, brothers,” Bormarojey said. “This is the last lake we will see. We’re into some wild and barren land now. There will be no beasts to be seen, and we will find but little water, until we reach Tramandrivot.”

  Little did the three friends realize, however, that a Wolf, descending a nearby hillside,
quietly observed all that was done.

  Night Above the River

  Shifting her pack from her back, Helga crouched on a narrow ledge breathing heavily. Leaning back, she lodged her body against an outcropping to keep from sliding backward. Her arms ached like never before, and her body was scraped raw where her clothes had been torn from rubbing against the rock. Alert despite her fatigue, Helga rested only briefly. “I can’t waste time,” she thought. “I don’t want to be on this rock wall when darkness falls.” Observing the position of the sun, however, Helga realized that she probably could not reach the top before dark.

  She decided it was unlikely that a better place than the ledge could be found to spend the night. Making preparations for a precarious campsite, Helga lodged her flicker-pole into a crevasse at the bottom of the sloping ledge and wedged her backpack against it. This blocked any possible slide into the river. Helga was not worried about the pole breaking. She trusted the tree that had given the wood. The pole would not break.

  Helga sat down leaning on the rock wall, wedged next to her backpack. She lay her soft cotton cloak down on her other side to make a place to sleep—clinging to the side of a cliff 2,000 feet above the river!

  Rummaging in her backpack, Helga brought out a small yucca fiber and porcupine quill pouch. Opening it, she took out an oiled cotton package. Inside was a dark tan-colored lump—honey nut butter! She smeared some of the sweet tasting spread across a strip of trout jerky and gnawed on it, washing it down with a few swigs from her water gourd.

  Feeling secure in her precarious perch, she considered the night that was coming. She had enough food and water to last at least two days more, and she felt certain she could reach the top of the cliff tomorrow. But she also was worried. Watching the sky, she saw signs of clouds gathering. If it rained, she had little protection. The cold mountain night would increase the risk. If her clothes became soaked, she could die from exposure. Calmly, but with urgent concern, she reviewed each item she had with her. How could she increase her shelter?

  Not being able to climb with a heavy pack, Helga was traveling light. The prospects were discouraging. She would have to rely on her wits to protect herself as well as she could and hope for the best. Feeling alone and helpless, she wished she could get help. Then an idea occurred to her. What about the flicker-pole?

  Filled with new energy, Helga carefully shifted the backpack out of the way and lodged her own body where the pack had been. Then she wedged her back and legs securely against the two sides of the crevice to keep her precarious campsite from sliding into the river. When she felt that she was lodged securely enough to prevent a disastrous collapse of the campsite, she gently pulled the pole loose. Hoping that her plan would work, Helga began to work the flicker-pole in what was normally the ‘weapon’ style of use. Waving it in a way that made the end a blur of motion, an undulating, whisper-like song sounded across the cliff. Softly singing the ancient prayer songs she knew by heart, Helga rocked forward and back, working the staff with an almost surreal power and intensity.

  For many minutes, nothing seemed to happen, but she continued moving with dogged determination. Dusk fell. Cold rain began to fall. Time was short. “Please, Ancient Ones...Help me,” Helga murmered. Possessed with strength beyond her own understanding, she worked the flicker-pole with even greater power. Then they began to come: Pinion Jays, Canyon Swifts, and Rock Wrens from all corners of the canyons. Soon the calls and cries of the canyon birds were loud enough to drown out the music Helga was making. By the tens and hundreds they came, dropping from the sky in flocks to roost all around the crevice where Helga camped. Flock by flock they covered the crevice completely as bird after bird joined the serried lines, creating a complete protecting canopy over her campsite! The steady pelting of bird droppings was only a minor annoyance to Helga, grateful that she would survive the chilling rain. She spread her cloak to protect against the droppings and thanked the Ancient Ones for their help.

  The Ancient Ones had discovered the power of the flicker-pole to attract birds. From times of unknown past, its tones had always called nearby birds to roost. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, some deep language of the heart called them to join together in fellowship. When the music sounded, a great conclave of birds gathered around the pole. Coming in peace, but coming in vast numbers, this amazing roosting of birds had been used by the Wood Cows since ancient times as a means of defense. Even the most dangerous enemy did not want to be covered by hundreds and thousands of birds, however peaceful they were!

  As the rain began to fall, the water slid from the feathers of the birds and fell harmlessly down the cliffside. There could not have been a more effective protection against the rain! The body heat of the birds also helped to warm the bone-weary Helga. She wedged the flicker-pole back into position at the front of the ledge, returned the backpack to its position, and slumped in exhaustion. Slipping into a beautiful dream of being reunited with her father, Helga thought little more about what might lie ahead...

  Broken Eye and Slasher Annie

  Broken Eye was hungry and tired. The Cougar and his wife, Slasher Annie, had eaten nothing but ‘bandit’s mush’—cricket paste mixed with cornmeal—for days. Lying as flat on the ground as possible, hastily burrowed under a covering of leaves, sticks, and pine needles, they tried not to breathe as some Grizzly Bear trackers passed nearby. Now they wouldn’t have even bandit’s mush to eat, having lost their supply satchels when the trackers surprised them.

  “Them’s get’in hot on ma’tail, them’s is—Shouldn’t hav’ lost all ma’crew...ma’victuals...” Broken Eye’s mind was wild with activity, even as he lay absolutely still under the covering of leaves. The wily Cougar did not let a moment waste as he considered the situation. As dark as the prospects looked, he felt a strange glee. His eyes burned with fire as he waited patiently for his pursuers to pass. Although the trackers were passing within a few feet of where he and Slasher Annie were concealed, Broken Eye was not worried. “Nay, ma’laddies...Nay...Nay. Old Broken Eye ish’nt done yet. We’s some fun ta’have yet! Broken Eye didn’t become what’s he isht by bein’ feared of a few fisheatin’ bears. Nay, there bein’s some fun in him yet!”

  Broken Eye and his gang had been on the run for five weeks, barely stopping to rest. Sheer will kept them moving. Grizzly trackers, sent to hunt down Broken Eye’s gang, were hot on his trail. One by one, Broken Eye had lost his Cougars to ambushes, poison darts from Grizzly blowguns, and claw-to-claw combat. The Grizzlies were sworn not to quit until they had wiped out the bandits. Now only Broken Eye and Annie were left. The trackers were closing in on them.

  Broken Eye had eluded his pursuers so far by calling on every trick of cunning he had. But they were getting too close for comfort. He would have to do something spectacularly brilliant if he and Slasher Annie were to have a chance. His stalkers were so close to their hiding place that Broken Eye could almost count the individual hairs on the huge shaggy legs poking out between the top of the boots and the bottom of the leggings they wore.

  Lying under the leaves as still as a rotting log, Broken Eye’s mind was busy with feverish planning. Never one for fear and trembling, Broken Eye took each new setback as a chance to demonstrate his brilliance. His thoughts raced with plans for escape and fury against his enemies. “Ya’thinks ya got me, ya’ugly loot robbers, but we’s got some fun left in us yet!” In spite of the danger, Broken Eye relished the challenge of outwitting the Grizzlies, whom he considered ‘loot robbers.’ “They’s a bunch of parlor bandits,” Broken Eye thought to himself. “We’s steal ma’loot fair and square, usin’ ma’brain and wits. And then these parlor bandits waltz in, as easy as ya’please, and steals it back from me! Surely we’s tell ya, it’s robbery! They say as if they will give it back to its ‘owners’—Well, we’s say him’as stole it first, owns it!”

  As the trackers passed by his hiding place without incident, Broken Eye began to breathe again. Slipping out of hiding, a wide, wicked
grin spread across his nearly toothless, badly scarred mouth. He shared his new plan with Slasher Annie. “Aye, ma’laddies, we’s got just the thing fer ya’s stupid loot robbers,” Broken Eye said. “Da’laddies will remember Broken Eye a long time. They’s don’t scare me. We’s hide only to think. When we’s know what to do, we’s no longer hide! We’s knows the plan. They will see Broken Eye in full sight, and they’ll be helpless ta watch us escape. They won’t be able to do anything about it. Nay, they won’t never forget Broken Eye!”

  When he spoke this way, Annie knew her husband was no longer ‘right in his mind.’ He went into a kind of insane trance where he spoke and moved almost by instinct, without thought or fear. Once he knew what he wanted to do, he gave no further thought to obstacles, adversity, or danger. It was Broken Eye’s way. It had saved his skin many times.

  As a young Cougar challenging for leadership of the bandit gang, he had spent six days in the wilderness with his paws tied behind his back. Although anyone could challenge to be bandit leader, few did. Such a challenge sent both the chief and his challenger into the wilderness for a test of craftiness and grit. Each was left deep in the woods, with their paws tied behind their backs. After three days, if one was still alive, he became head of the gang. If both were still alive, they were left for another three days, and so on until only one came out of the ordeal alive. With only one’s wits and courage to live by, the Cougars considered it a proper test of someone who would be a master of bandits.

  Broken Eye had nearly died from thousands of mosquito bites he had received in that trial. When the ordeal ended, his body was swollen like a balloon when he crawled out of the forest on the last day. He had survived, but lost the sight in one of his eyes, which had swollen to the point of exploding. His challenger had not been so lucky. No trace of him was found except for some shreds of bloody clothing tied to a tree with barbed wire—the sign of Grizzly Bear trackers. So Broken Eye did not underestimate the Grizzlies.

  “Annie,” Broken Eye called to his wife with a crazed look shining in his one good eye, “we’s going to do what a Cougar has never done before! We’s goin’ to surrender!”

  Slasher Annie looked at her husband dubiously. “Surrender? There’s ten Grizzly trackers out there, Broken Eye! They’ll chop us into pieces!” But Annie knew it was no use, and, although it made no sense now, she did not doubt Broken Eye’s statement. Annie had seen many surprising tricks from the old Cougar.

  “We’s givin’ up,” Broken Eye said slyly. “We’s givin’ up. We’s just walkin’ out there, white flag a’flutterin’. Then we’s have some fun!”

  “But, Broken Eye, I don’t understand,” Annie replied. “Surrendering is fun?”

  “Just don’t never forget who we’s be,” Broken Eye screeched. “We’s got a plan! The dumb laddies will never forget Broken Eye!” His tired, bloodshot eye bugged out insanely. His body quavered with excitement as his mate had never seen before. Pulling his battered red tricorne hat on his head, he grinned wickedly: “Aye, ma’laddies, we’s got fun.”

  “AYE, MA’LADDIES, YA GOT ME THIS TIME, WE’S GIVIN’ UP! YA, HEAR US YA UGLY LOOT ROBBERS?” Turning to Annie, with a wild look in his bulging eye, Broken Eye said, “That should do it...They’ll be coming back our way. Now we’s got fun! Hold ma stuff, Annie, here comes some fun!”

  Slasher Annie looked at Broken Eye questioningly. The powerful old Cougar was standing before her, slipping off the series of ribbons that held his three machetes slung across his shoulders. He gave the machetes to Annie to hold. Fumbling in the big pockets of his coat, he pulled out a coil of dried-grass fuse, a flint, and six gourds.

  “Flash gourds!” Annie exclaimed. “That’s the last ones we have. What do they have to do with surrendering?”

  “Ish’nt it ma fun?” Broken Eye laughed. “We’s be havin’ some fun with da loot robbers!”

  Broken Eye quickly cut several lengths of fuse, and stuck them in every possible opening—in his ears, his mouth, his coat pockets, and his boots. Cougar bandits twisted strands of dried grass together in long braids. These were smeared with snake grease, which, when dried, made the twisted braids of grass sturdy, and turned them into effective, slow-burning fuses. Broken Eye carried a coil of fuse rolled up in his pockets, along with a number of flash gourds. Each was about the size of two fists and filled with pulverized grain dust. The dust was highly explosive. Each gourd contained enough to level a small-sized building. The homemade explosives were Broken Eye’s weapons of last resort. Flash gourds were completely harmless until the fuse was lit. Then they detonated within moments—depending on how long the fuse was.

  “Ha’rsh, Ha’rsh, Ha’rsh!” Broken Eye laughed as he worked quickly to ignite the fuses! “Yea, ma’laddies, old Broken Eye ish’t really comin’ ta surrender, but I guess I forgot ta tell ya that!”

  Using his flint, Broken Eye put fire to all the fuses—both the ones on the flash gourds and the spare ones poking out of every possible opening. He stood before Annie with smoke pouring off of him. She was amazed to look at him. Broken Eye was always a terrifying sight. But now, he looked like a beast from someone’s darkest nightmare. Annie was barely able to see him through the smoke that writhed around him. His bright red hat; long, billowing red coat; and red ribbons tied to the ends of his wild, shaggy braided beard added a sinister cast amidst the swirling smoke. With his badly scarred face, red eye-patch, and enormous height, Broken Eye was a terror to behold!

  Slasher Annie herself could well understand why creatures fled at the very name of Broken Eye, even when he wasn’t wreathed in smoke!

  “Ya know me Annie...just don’t ya be fearin’. Stay here and ready. We’s be back straight away. Aye, and ya might put in some ear plugs!” With that, he walked straight in the direction of the trackers. Annie judged that the fuses on the flash gourds probably would burn about two minutes before they would all explode with a deafening blast! Flash gourds were used only rarely in Cougar bandit attacks—like blowing open a building to be plundered that could be opened in no other way. In those cases, usually they were dedonated one at a time! They were far too dangerous to use in groups.  Now Broken Eye had six of them lit, their fuses smoking out of his pockets! When they went off, they would level everything within a hundred yards. Annie pulled two small corks from her pockets and stuck them in her ears, then pulled the kerchief tied over her head down over her ears as far as it would go. There was going to be a tremendous explosion! Any right-minded creature would run for her life, but Annie stayed where she was. She knew that when Broken Eye got into these insane moods, he seemed somehow to know what he was doing—at least in the past. But he’d never done anything so foolish and daring as this.

  Broken Eye walked out into a clearing in the woods and stood waiting. The trackers stopped at the edge of the clearing, obviously perplexed. They well knew the reputation of Broken Eye. He was crafty and very dangerous. What was this hideous, smoke-wrapped apparition about?

  “Just hold it RIGHT there, ya LOUSY loot robbers!” Broken Eye screamed. “we’s brINGIn’ you some fun! we’s givIn’ up! we’s SUrrendering! WE’S youR prisOner! WE’S just comIn’ over TO SURRENDER TO ma laddies! all THAT’S mine ISHT FOR you too! aye, we’s got ma flash gourds for ya! mA pockets ish’t full!” Broken Eye’s ranting echoed through the forest.

  The Grizzly Bear trackers looked at one another. They realized Broken Eye was a walking bomb! They well knew that even one flash gourd would be enough to kill or maim them all and Broken Eye obviously had many! The Grizzlies fled back into the woods, running pell-mell in frantic retreat.

  “nay, ma laddies! iT ISHN’T easy ta get fAR ENOUGH away! Here’s be some fun fOr ya loot robbers!” Laughing hysterically, Broken Eye tore off his coat with the smoking flash gourds in the pockets, and swinging it around over his head, heaved the coat upwards far into the air in the direction the Grizzlies had fled. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could back towards where Annie awaited.

  The las
t thing Annie saw was Broken Eye, leaping towards her with a wild, gleeful grin on his face. He hit her with a forceful tackle just as the roar of a deafening explosion split the air! Earth, rocks, shards of wood, leaves and other debris rained down upon them. The force of the blast knocked down a massive tree just in front of them, which saved them from being crushed by others that fell.

  Smoke and dust was still swirling as Broken Eye leaped up, grabbing Slasher Annie by the arm. “Aye, Annie, we’s got’s to go. Da’laddies be back. Nay time’s ta’wastes.”

  In no time, Broken Eye and Slasher Annie were speeding away beneath the dense forest canopy. They moved like the wind. On and on they ran, putting miles between themselves and the scene of the explosion. They hoped the trackers would be stunned long enough to delay their pursuit. They heard no sounds of being followed. Grizzlies could not move as fast as Cougars on the run. Even if they were not hurt and able to move at high speed, they would make considerable noise if they were moving fast enough to keep up with the Cougars. At last, feeling they had left the Grizzlies far enough behind for some safety, and nearly exhausted, they slowed down, gasping for breath.

  “I have no idea where we are, do you know, Broken Eye?” Annie asked.

  “Nay, we’s don’t know. We’ll just camp for the night. Come day’s light, we’ll explore. There be Skull Buzzards circlin’ ahead. That might be some fun!”

  Broken Eye knew that Skull Buzzards were native to only one place—the Don’ot Stumb Mountains. Few beasts went there because it was too dangerous. “Go by land, you die. Go by water, you drown.”—he had heard the warning many times. Either way, the Skull Buzzards picked over your carcass and plundered your stuff. Most creatures thought those were not good odds. But not Broken Eye. He lived to cheat death.

  “Aye, Annie, tomorrow we’s visit the Skull Buzzards and see what they have that we’s want!”

  Cut Up Badly

  A cool, gray morning dawned as Helga awakened from a sound sleep. The roosting birds had departed at the first red streaks of sunrise. She felt rested and refreshed as she sat up, carefully avoiding the mess of bird droppings that had showered the cloak during the night.

  Feeling famished, she gave herself a couple pieces of jerky smeared with nut butter and then popped a rock cracker in her mouth. Sucking on the small and extremely hard sweet crackers provided a long-lasting source of energy. Helga liked sucking on one when she had hard labor to do. Popping one in her mouth, she shouldered her backpack again and began climbing. The going was difficult and dangerous—steep, precarious talus slopes covered the portion of the cliff just below the final vertical face. Progress was slow all day, as she constantly slipped on loose stones and slid backwards. Slowly her persevering spirit and strength prevailed. Little by little, she inched toward the top of the rock cliff.

  As the shadows began to lengthen across the canyon, she was perhaps only 100 feet short of the top. Even that short distance seemed daunting to the exhausted young Wood Cow. Suddenly, however, she heard a voice call out: “Aye, Annie, if it ish’t a climbin’ beastie! Lookee here, Annie!”

  Craning her head as much as she could to look upward without falling, Helga saw a creature such as she had never seen before peering over the edge of the cliff above her. A large, burly figure gazed down at her. In spite of the oversize, red tricorne hat that shaded most of his face, she could tell he wore a red eye-patch and had ribbons hanging amidst his tangled beard. “Well, well, ish’t looks to need some help, Annie...What ya think?” Broken Eye said gleefully.

  “Why sure, Broken Eye, let’s give her a lift,” Slasher Annie replied. Pulling a long length of wild hemp rope out of her satchel, Annie made a loop in one end and fastened the other end securely around a nearby tree. Then she lowered the rope over the side of the cliff toward Helga.

  “Catch the rope,” Annie called out to Helga. “Hook your arms through the loop and we’ll pull you up.”

  “Thanks,” Helga called out gratefully, not knowing who was helping her, but glad to at last be finishing her climbing ordeal.

  Broken Eye and Annie worked furiously to pull the heavy Wood Cow to the top of the cliff. Gasping for air, they collapsed on the ground wheezing piteously as Helga pulled herself over the side of the cliff to solid ground once more. Her joy and gratitude knew no bounds. She cried with happy release from her struggle and joyously thanked her helpers over and over again.

  Broken Eye and Annie continued to lie on the ground seemingly writhing in pitiful agony from their exertions. Their sorrowful state tugged at Helga’s heart. She slipped off her pack and rummaged for water, offering it to them. They pretended to be too weak to drink it. Worried, Helga said, “Hang on, let me signal Papa that we have reached the top of the cliff. Once he knows we are safe, I’ll find a way to help you.”

  Helga turned her back to release the willow-drum attached to her pack to use in signaling Breister. The instant she was bent over the pack, Broken Eye and Slasher Annie jumped on her, trying to overpower her. They wanted the pack and everything in it, imagining it must be filled with food. Helga fought with the strength of ten cow beasts. Her natural strength, added to her fierce desire to protect herself, made her a magnificent fighter. Unable to reach the flicker-pole, Helga resorted to Yeow-Yeow—the ancient Wood Cow martial art. Blow by blow, she skillfully mixed head-butts and lightning hoof strikes, pummeling her attackers. A ferocious battle raged across the head of the cliff. Broken Eye and Annie attacked Helga repeatedly from every side with their fearsome claws and machetes.

  Helga fought valiantly, but could not withstand the sustained attack of two battle-wise Cougars in their prime. A machete slash to the shoulder here and a deep swipe of claws to the side there. At last, slashes and wounds covered her body. She sank to the ground. The treacherous Cougar bandits ransacked Helga’s backpack but, of course, found little. Infuriated, they smashed the contents of the backpack: the willow drum, the water gourds, anything of value.

  “Nay, Annie, ish’t be nothing worth the butts we’s took!” Broken Eye scowled. “We’s took her down, but ish’t a pity we didn’t find better pickings.”

  “She said her Papa was down below,” Slasher Annie mused. “She was going to signal him.”

  “She is a young beast...Ish’t a parent below, ya mark my words,” Broken Eye replied. “But why did she climb all the way up ta here and leave’ns ’im below?”

  They looked at each other. The same answer was occurring to them at the same time: A stranded boat!

  “He’s probably run the boat aground. She’ll be loaded with stuff! Maybe he’s hurted or somethin’. She’s scoutin’ the way out. He’s guardin’ some treasure stuffs, ya be sure of that, or we’s not Broken Eye! Aye, Annie, easy pickins that will be, if we’s careful.” Broken Eye felt suddenly refreshed.

  “We’re better climbers than a Cow,” Annie added excitedly. “We have a good length of rope. Working together, we can lower ourselves down quickly. We’ll work at night while he’s sleeping. Cougars don’t have good night vision for nothing!”

  “Aye, Annie. We’s jump him while he sleeps.” Broken Eye’s one good eye bugged out wildly, gleaming in anticipation.

  “What about the Cow?” Annie asked. “She’s cut up badly.”

  “Good,” Broken Eye said, his words dripping with callous contempt. “She won’t be botherin’ again.”

  With that, Broken Eye and Annie began to lower themselves down the cliff. They made rapid descent through the deepening darkness. The Cougars’ natural agility, strength, and skill using ropes, well suited them to climbing on the sheer cliff face.

  The bandits’ plan to take advantage of darkness proceeded well. Their rapid progress seemed to assure their ability to ambush Breister in the dark. It would have worked perfectly, except for one small problem. About halfway down the cliffside, Broken Eye and Annie encountered an outcrop of rock that they could not pass so easily. It stuck out too far. This was a place where Helga had lost considerable time on her
way up because she had to move a long way horizontally to get around the obstacle.

  Surveying the situation, Annie noticed a route that Helga had also seen. “Broken Eye, there’s a way to go to the side for a while, then down. We wouldn’t need the ropes.”

  Broken Eye, however, was confident that there was a better way. “Isht too far, Annie, we’s lose too much time that way. We’s will use surprise and dark. Annie, we’s will pull around this rock and you just hang on ta the rope. Let isht out slow when we’s call for isht. Stay ready. We’s will swing down, and swing out. When we’s lands below the outcrop we’s will call you. Then, we’s hold the rope and you let yerself down. We’s be past here right away.”

  Annie knew it was pointless to argue, so she wrapped the rope around a tree and braced herself securely, holding on to the other end. She would let Broken Eye down until he could find a landing place past the rock outcrop. Once he signaled that he was ready, he would hold his end of the rope and Annie would let herself down. When they both were past the outcrop, the rope could be pulled loose and recovered. Then, they would continue their descent.

  Broken Eye let himself out over the outcrop and dangled freely out over the river. Little by little, Slasher Annie uncoiled the rope, letting Broken Eye descend. At last, he was past the outcrop and ready to swing back to the cliff. In the darkness, he used his excellent night vision to look for a landing place. His attention was drawn to what looked like a perfect landing place—a wide ledge—and he swooped over for a closer look. Peering through the darkness, he saw that the ledge was not empty. Lighted with torches, it was teeming with Rabbits, Chipmunks, Mice and Packrats!

  “What isht this?” Broken Eye fumed. “There isht no place ta land!” Unable to slow the rate of his swing, Broken Eye lifted his legs high and pulled himself up the rope as much as possible to try and miss the crowds of creatures. WHAM! SCHRUNCH! Broken Eye’s heavy boots hit the rock wall above the creatures, sending a shower of pebbles and dusty grit down on the crowd.

  Broken Eye, unable to land, pushed off the cliffside again, sailing out into space. As his pendulum arc reached its limit, he looked over the situation, trying to make sense of the scene. Swinging back, once again, toward the ledge, he saw wagons, carts, and a few buildings, in addition to the crowds. Dry Gulch Saloon and Dance Hall read one sign. Porter’s Dry Goods read another. And Mol’s Blacksmithing was dead ahead. It was apparently a small town, and business was bustling! Torches lit the crowded street that ran past the few buildings.

  Broken Eye Plunges

  ‘Hatchet’ Mol retired to Dry Gulch because of the peace it offered. Perched high up on a precipitous cliff, and hidden away under the protecting shelter of a huge rock outcropping, Dry Gulch was definitely quiet.

  The old mining town had once seen some boom years after gold was discovered, but now it was nearly abandoned. A few dozen Rabbits, Mice, Chipmunks and Packrats—old prospectors, miners, shopkeepers, and some of their descendents—still lived in the town. Most of the week, not much happened in Dry Gulch. On Friday nights, other creatures from ’round about came to town to do marketing and have fun. Torches and lanterns lit the streets; farmers and artisans sold wares off the backs of their carts and wagons, friends and neighbors talked and laughed, and a little rowdiness spilled out of the saloon and dance hall. Friday nights were the highlight of the week for creatures around Dry Gulch.

  Although Mol liked her peace and quiet, she didn’t begrudge her friends and neighbors the noisy Friday night festivities. She enjoyed the community spirit and even liked all the “little butter biscuits”—as she called the young ones—that climbed all over her, demanding stories.

  “Tell us again about ‘Wild Roar,’ Hatchy Lady! We wanna hear how you sunk his ship and found his loot!” Strufee Mizzle howled loudly, tugging on Mol’s ears. Strufee was not alone. Five other small Rabbits and Packrats climbed on Mol’s lap or crowded around the barrel where she sat in her blacksmith shop. “Yeah! Missy Hatchy, tell us about Wild Roar and how you tied up his whole horde with a rattlesnake!” Strufee’s little sister, Yubbs, hollered. Friday nights, Mol was glad to oblige her small visitors, although she’d never touched a rattlesnake in her life! Her real exploits seemed to inspire the little “butter biscuits’” imaginations!

  “Wild Roar the Tusk?” Mol asked in a whispered tone, cloaked in dramatic, but feigned, fear. “Do you mean the worst Boar bandit ever to terrorize peaceable creatures like yourselves? The fellow with two huge tusks capped with solid gold? The meanest scalawag to ever eat chopped up ears for his breakfast? The vilest, most dangerous desperado I ever tracked down? You mean that Wild Roar?” Mol asked innocently.

  “YES!” roared the Young’ins, looking at Mol with adoring, wide-eyed awe.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mol began slowly, giving each of the Young’ins a solemn look. “Do your parents know you’re here? Do they know that I might tell you about how Wild Roar carried a blood-red sickle curved like a moon, that he used as a toothpick. AFTER HE CHOPPED UP EARS WITH IT!” Grabbing Strufee by the ear she asked in her mild, innocent voice again, “Do your parents know that?”

  “YES!” the little ones chorused gleefully. “Our Mamas say, ‘Go see Miss Hatchy, she’ll tell you what happens to Young’ins that don’t obey their Mamas!’”

  Mol raised her eyebrows, and peered closely at the Young’ins. “So, do you little butter biscuits know what does happen to Young’ins that disobey their Mamas?” Mol moved her gaze slowly from face to face, then she said, “Well, I’ll tell you what happens to ’em—They become terrible villains and desperados and then Hatchet Mol has to hunt them down. And when I hunt them down, why, I chase ’em day and night, day and night, until I catches ’em. I don’t let bandits stop to eat, or drink, or sleep, and there’s nowhere for ’em to hide. I’m so close behind ’em; they see me in every shadow. And when I catch ’em, I make sure they end up hanging by their ears in a deep, dark dungeon. When I’m done with ’em, they say, ‘I should have listened to my Mama, I should have listened to my Mama,’ for the rest of their lives.”

  “So, my dear little butter biscuits,” Mol continued, “I’ll tell you about one of the most famous, and dangerous, adventures I ever had...if you promise to be sure an obey your Mamas! Hatchet Mol doesn’t ever want to have to come track you down because you turned into some dastardly character like Wild Roar or Broken Eye.”

  With the Young’ins clustered around her and listening anxiously to every word, Mol continued: “Now, Broken Eye is one of the nastiest, most cunning Cougar bandits that ever was. Once he was terrorizing and pillaging some WooSheep villages and they asked Mol to help bring him to justice. After a long chase, I cornered him and his sidekick, Slasher Annie. There was a ferocious fight...my hatchet against his machetes...We fought steel-to-steel for two solid days without rest, we fought across 30 square miles of country, battling up hill and down hill, through streams, through woods...Finally, my hatchet shattered the last of his three machetes, and I had him. I turned him over to the sheriff and he went to prison, but I hear he’s loose and maybe up to his old tricks again...”

  Hatchet Mol was Dry Gulch’s most celebrated resident. A world-famous tracker and mountain beast, the aging Jackrabbit was still a household name. Long a popular hero, stories of her exploits were legion. Mol had grown up in Dry Gulch during its boomtown days, helping her father in his blacksmith shop. Many mountain beasts, explorers, and adventurers of all sorts came through Dry Gulch in those days. Mol liked to hang around these daring beasts and listen to their stories. One of her favorite mountain beasts was a Grizzly Bear known as Wind Tracker Bart because it was rumored he could ‘track the wind.’ Bart taught Mol to throw knives and hatchets with deadly accuracy. By the time she was ten, she could slice cactus needles in half with a hatchet at fifty paces. Soon, the excitement and adventure of the mountain beasts and explorers captured her imagination, and Mol left Dry Gulch to follow their ways.

  After a life full of danger and
adventure, and tired of celebrity, Mol returned to Dry Gulch to live out her life. Taking over her father’s small blacksmith shop, she sought to slip away into obscurity. She was happy making repairs to the broken tools and weapons that were brought to her smithy. On the side, she made exquisite custom hatchets—pearl handles, exotic wooden inlays, beautiful etching on the blades, specially designed blades...They were works of art. She had a fine collection of such hatchets mounted on the wall where they gleamed in the light of her forge. On Friday nights, Mol would sit on a barrel in front of her collection, surrounded by Young’ins, reliving her exploits, but grateful those days were finally in the past.

  “Missy Hatchy,” Gilly Mufft asked with a quavering voice, “what if Broken Eye comes to Dry Gulch?”

  “Don’t you worry your little butter biscuit head, Gilly,” Mol replied. “Broken Eye would never dare come to Dry Gulch, and if he did...” Mol said with a stern, determined look, “He’d have to deal with Hatchet Mol! And that fat old coward doesn’t want to do that!” Mol chuckled. The eyes of the Young’ins gathered around her were wide with adoring respect.

  Mol was happy to tell stories about her past exploits, without having to actually confront the world’s worst villains anymore. She sighed with contentment…then screams and shouts erupted outside! With Young’ins howling in terror, Mol rushed outside to see what was happening.

  The street was in chaos. Creatures were scattering and scurrying in every direction, hollering in panic, and running for cover.

  “Bandits! Run for your lives!” a Mouse yelled at Mol as he ran past in the swirling dust.

  “If it’s bandits, we must fight!” Mol yelled. “Save the town! Rally here!”

  A few creatures that heard her stopped their rush toward the buildings. “What’ll we do?” Gungo Packrat asked.

  “I don’t know,” the old Jackrabbit replied. “Let’s see what’s happening.” Then she saw it. Although it was too dark to make it all out, she saw the distinct shape of a shadowy beast swinging toward Dry Gulch on a rope! As it got closer, understanding flooded into her mind. “Cougar!” she yelled. “It’s a Cougar bandit! Grab whatever you can to defend the town!”

  WHUMP! SCHREECH! Seeing that he could easily land on the ledge, Broken Eye did a rough, but upright landing on the main street of Dry Gulch.

  As the Cougar bandit landed directly in front of her blacksmith shop, Mol quickly ran inside and grabbed several of the hatchets from her collection. Running back out in the street, she rapidly sized up the situation.

  “Broken Eye! You old, worthless scoundrel! You came back so I could finish you off, eh?”

  Broken Eye stopped short in his tracks. “Well, well, isht an old has been…Fancy mettin’ you here.”

  “We’re not meetin’, Broken Eye, no slimy polecats are welcome here!” Mol replied. “You’ll be leavin’ now, or I’ll be fillin’ you full o’ hatchets.” Mol raised a deadly looking hatchet in her paw. Its blade glinted in the torchlight.

  Mol looked around. Creatures of every age and size were gathering, brandishing every manner of weapon—torches, lanterns, knives, swords, machetes, scythes, picks, shovels, clubs, slingshots. The sheer numbers of those opposing the bandit, and their determined advance towards him, gave her pride.

  The Jackrabbit smiled. “Now, Broken Eye, you have one chance to leave Dry Gulch alive,” she said. “You can swing back out on your rope, and get out of Dry Gulch forever, or—” She paused and looked to the crowd around her. “Or, you can deal with us! It’s your choice.”

  Broken Eye hesitated, then in a show of bravado, he snarled, “Ya’s peace’ble ’fraidy beasts oughta go home to ya’s Mamas. We’s can slice you up! We’s can chop you ta bits! We’s can tear ya down ta fur and bones! We’s can...”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Mol finished it for him. “You can get out of Dry Gulch!” she roared. “Charge!”

  The Dry Gulchers rushed Broken Eye as a single mass, spitting and bellowing threats and curses. Being hit by thrown torches and lanterns, Broken Eye’s fur was smoldering in several places. One direct hit with a torch thrown by Gilly set his tail on fire. ZING! SWISH! ZING! ZING! A barrage of shovels, picks, spades and hammers flew at him from several directions, pelting him like hail. “OUCH! OOOCH! YEOW!” In addition to the crowd advancing on him, some town creatures were also throwing hot frying pans, kettles, irons and pots of coffee at him from windows. The mass attack took its toll. Broken Eye, yelling in pain and fear, jumped off into the night sky clinging to his rope.

  “Annie,” he called desperately, “haul up da rope! Haul me up!”

  But Mol had other ideas. Impressed with the spontaneous showing of courage from her Dry Gulch friends, Mol had reserved her hatchets, in case they were really needed.

  “Well,” she mused, “this is a perfect use for my skills.” As Broken Eye dangled in open space waiting for Annie to haul him up, Mol said, “Would all the Young’ins help me please? I’d like you all to carry torches and lanterns over to the rim of the cliff. Gather all the light you can there, I need to see the rope holding Broken Eye.”

  The Young’ins scurried to the rim, carrying every type of torch and lantern they could find. The light bathed Broken Eye. Mol, who could still split a cactus needle at fifty paces, took careful aim on the rope.

  “Annie, Annie, hurry up!” he howled piteously. He inched upward as Annie pulled on him with all her might.

  Mol’s skills were still sharp, however. Her aim was sure, and Broken Eye dropped out of sight with a long, long howl.

  Somewhere in the darkness above, Slasher Annie fell backwards as the weight was suddenly removed from the rope she had been pulling...

  Caught in a Tangled Web

  “YEEEEEEOOOOW!” Annie listened to the long, long howl that could only be one thing: Broken Eye falling through thin air. Somehow the rope had snapped or been cut.

  “Well, I guess that’s the end of him,” Annie said to herself, not without some glee. “Poor old good-for-nobody. I hope he takes a nice big bounce! Now, I can finish the job and take the loot for myself! You stupid fool,” she thought, “if you had only listened to me and taken the longer route, you might still be around.”

  Coiling the remaining length of rope over her shoulder, Slasher Annie began to descend the cliff again, this time moving horizontally to go around the outcrop.

  After three hours of climbing, Annie had worked her way around the overhang and was nearing the base of the cliff. Moving especially quietly through the dark, Annie chose her moves carefully so as not to dislodge stones that might alert her intended prey. Navigating the rocky cliff was very treacherous in the pitch darkness, even for a Cougar. But Annie lost her balance and nearly pitched off the cliff into the raging river below, when a voice spoke to her unexpectedly out of the darkness!

  “So, Annie, what took ya so long?” Broken Eye! The resilient old Cougar grinned up at Annie. A tree, rooted at an odd angle into a crack in the canyon wall, had caught the back of his pants in his desperate fall.  The way in which his pants had snagged on the tree was very precarious. Broken Eye clutched the waist of his pants tightly to keep the snag from slipping off. This made it impossible for him to free himself from the branches. “Got’s some rope?” he asked.

  Annie, startled by Broken Eye’s unexpected whisper, considered what to do.

  “You old fool!” she whispered back angrily. “I should just leave you there to rot! If we hadn’t followed your idea, you wouldn’t be hanging there like that. I should let you be food for the Skull Buzzards.”

  “Nay, Annie, ma girl...ya not goin’ ta leave old Broken Eye here,” the Cougar replied. “Ya know too well, that isht a long ways ta anywhere. Ya needs old Broken Eye. Ya’ll be food for ta Skull Buzzards by yourself!”

  Slasher Annie sighed deeply within herself. What Broken Eye said was true. This wild, rough country would be very dangerous for her to challenge alone. Her chances were better with Broken Eye than without him.

&
nbsp; Moving gingerly, Annie maneuvered so that she was lodged behind a boulder. She tied the rope securely around the boulder and lowered herself down to Broken Eye. Wrapping another rope around his middle, she knotted it and then pulled herself, paw-over-paw back up.

  “All right, Broken Eye,” Annie whispered tersely, “as I pull you up, you should pull loose from the tree. If you have to, leave your pants behind.”

  “Aye, aye, ma Annie girl,” Broken Eye said, “we’s knew ya weren’t a black-hearted dog! Always so lovin’ and concerned!”

  Not far below, Breister was deeply worried about Helga. Why did he not hear something from her? If there was no signal by daybreak, Breister resolved to climb the cliff himself to look for his daughter. Having a boatload of household goods meant nothing to him without Helga. For a long time he played Helga’s pronghorn flute that she had left with him. She was teaching him to play it. As he stumbled over the notes in his imperfect practicing, sweet thoughts of her playing at the hearth back at home filled his mind. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Later he tried to rest, but his sleep was troubled. All through the night, images of wild-faced cats chasing Helga disturbed his dreams. Unable to sleep, he sat on the ledge gazing out over the rushing river. Rocking forward and back in the traditional Wood Cow manner, he sang the ancient prayer songs calling on the Ancient Ones to help his beloved daughter in whatever danger she was facing.

  As dawn began to break, Breister decided to cast another longing look up the cliffside to see if there was any sign of Helga. The last thing he saw before he pitched off the ledge into the river was two wild-faced cats springing at him out of the semi-darkness above his head. Becoming aware of their presence moments before they sprang at him, Breister had time to reach in his pocket and bring out his fishing line and swing it in defense. The force of the Cougars hitting Breister stopped the swing of his arm in mid-stroke. But it was enough. The sinker-weighted fishing line swung wildly around Broken Eye as he hit Breister. Wrapped in a tangled web of fishing line, Broken Eye and Breister sailed off the ledge. Bound tightly together, they struggled in the raging river until they disappeared under the crashing waves of the rapids, and were seen no more...

  Slasher Annie could not believe her good fortune. “Mine! Mine! This time, for sure, it’s all mine!” she said to herself with glee as she looked at the fine boat and its cargo. “This will serve very nicely to set me up in a new life, far away!” she exulted. “Soon, I launch the boat and find my destiny. I’m free of this miserable life at last!”

  Far above, Helga moaned in fitful unconsciousness. Her terrible wounds mercifully caused her to sleep deeply. In her dreams she saw herself walking and talking with the Ancient Ones. They motioned to her to come into their homes and be welcomed by the fireside of eternity. But each time they beckoned to her, the dreamy, distant notes of a flute disturbed her sleep. At last the dreams came no more and she slept.

  Book Two

  Reunited and Combined

  Where It Came Out, No One Knew

  As the morning sun rose above the mountains, Slasher Annie considered her good fortune. “A fine boat filled with worthy goods and enough fresh trout to last me several days. I don’t know where this river goes, but it doesn’t matter. When I find a place I want to stay, creatures won’t guess who I am. I’ll just be Annie, a respectable traveler. I’ll settle in and melt out of sight. I too can live by my wits.”

  Feasting on the fresh trout that the unfortunate Breister had caught, Slasher Annie felt full in the belly for the first time in weeks. “Poor, poor, old Broken Eye,” Annie said mockingly. “He always had to be first in line. Putting yourself first is not always the best,” Annie laughed. “He was a bit too hasty this time...Sleep well, Broken Eye, don’t let the fish nibble your toes! Har, Har, Har!”

  Pulling the last fish bone out of her mouth, Annie stepped into the boat and loosened the rope that secured it. Annie had never been on a boat before and knew nothing about sailing, but she was not worried. “If stupid Cows can sail, a Cougar can do it better! You stand here at the rudder and steer. I can do that.”

  As soon as she loosened the rope, the boat was sucked into the raging current. Annie realized she had been a fool. She could not control the boat. No matter how she moved the rudder, the vessel spun wildly in the current, banging hard on massive rocks, filling with water, careening with dizzying speed down through huge cascades of water. Only the fact that the boat had been built with great sturdiness and fine wood kept Annie afloat. As she began to overcome her initial panic, she realized that perhaps things would be OK. The craft was sturdy. Although it was hitting rocks with crashing power, the wooden hull was not splintering. Water rose above her ankles. Annie thought that perhaps if she bailed, she could keep it from rising enough to sink the boat. Battling her sickness, she bailed hard.

  Her feverish work had little effect. For all the water she threw out, a greater amount poured in. At last, she could see it was hopeless. Knowing it would be suicide to abandon the boat, she settled down to wait and gather her strength to swim if she must. Either the vessel would eventually break apart on the rocks, fill to overflowing and go down—or perhaps she would reach calm water before either of these things happened. In any case, she needed to gain strength. There was nothing else to do.

  Struggling to keep her nauseous stomach under control and feeling dizzy and disoriented, Annie crouched in the bottom of the boat. Her eyes were closed in a grimace of discomfort as her stomach sloshed as tumultuously as the river around her. At last, unable to control her seasickness any longer, Annie grabbed the gunwale and, leaning over the side, violently spewed her recent breakfast into the river. Gasping and wheezing, the miserable Cougar hung weakly over the side.

  Feeling less and less in control of her wits, Slasher Annie limply raised her head to identify a new sound. Her distracted mind, at first, thought it was seeing things. A wide sandy beach was just ahead! The boat was no longer pitching violently. The water, although still moving swiftly, was no longer tormented by rapids. If she could just get to the beach she would be safe!

  Finding new life, Slasher Annie picked up an oar and began to row with all her strength. Yet, no matter how strongly she rowed, she was not able to close the distance. And the more she tried to reach the beach, the more she observed what was on it. Skull Buzzards! Dozens of the large evil-looking birds were perched on the sandy bank or circling overhead. Some were picking over the bones of a carcass. One Skull Buzzard caught her attention in particular. He was strutting around, sporting a battered red tricorne hat on his head!

  Feeling a growing sense of inevitable doom, Slasher Annie stopped rowing. Sitting listlessly, she once again let the current carry her as it would. An increasingly loud SHHLUUURRSH pulled her attention to a monstrous whirlpool that was slowly, inevitably drawing her towards it. She did not resist. Sitting motionless, her mouth open, tongue hanging out, drool dripped down the front of her coarse cotton coat. Her closed eyes no longer watched as the yawning whirlpool pulled her vessel toward its depths. Slasher Annie had lost consciousness—her brain shut down by terror—long before the craft was smashed to a zillion pieces as it was sucked into the vortex. Pulling the entire river underground, the whirlpool let nothing escape, except for luckless creatures that were picked out of the water by Skull Buzzards before they reached the eye of the whirlpool. After that, not even a Skull Buzzard was strong enough to pull something out of the current. Not even mist escaped into the sky from where the river plunged deep underground. Where it came out again, no one knew.

  Eating Grubs and Beetles

  The brilliant morning sun was insistent, stirring Helga from her sleep. She winced immediately—pain shot through every inch of her body. Her shoulders, legs and back felt like burning coals were buried in them. Slowly, she tested her movement. Pain and more pain. She could not move her legs, and one of her arms seemed useless.

  Remembering what had occurred, she looked around to see if her attackers were
still present. No one could be seen. She remembered vaguely that she had seen them going over the side of the cliff during a brief fit of wakefulness.

  “Papa!” she thought solemnly. Then her sense of practical courage went to work. “Well, I’m no good to Papa now. If the All allows, the Ancient Ones will assist him. I’ve got to see to my wounds.” Helga realized that there was nothing she could do for her father now. She must place her focus on protecting and healing herself.

  Unable to stand on her mangled legs, and weak from her wounds, Helga dragged herself toward some nearby bushes. The ground was damp around them and inching a little further, Helga found a trickle of water. Somewhat further on, she also found some Raven berries. Filling one of her pockets with the fruit and soaking a piece of torn cloth in water, she struggled back to her pack.

  She greedily stuffed the fruits in her mouth and soon her mouth was stained with purple juice. Using the piece of water-soaked cloth, Helga cleaned her wounds as best she could. Using some of the birdwood leaves that she always carried rolled up in her leggings for emergencies, she packed leaves and mud on the worst of her injuries. Birdwood poltice was known for its healing properties. The soothing effect strengthened Helga to drag her belongings over into a shady spot.

  By the time she had done these things, Helga was exhausted. Terribly weak and with only one of her arms and legs working, every activity drained her energy. Finding a few pieces of rock crackers in her pocket, Helga lay down, sucking on the rock crackers while she rested. “Well, I’ll just rest a while until the heat of the day passes. Then we’ll see.” Pulling her wide-brimmed hat over her eyes, she slipped into a peaceful doze.

  Later, able to sleep only fitfully, Helga considered the situation. She did not know exactly where she was. Somewhere in the Don’ot Stumb Mountains, she knew. From the higher vantage point she now had at the top of the cliff, she could see that the mountains went on and on. Somewhere, though, she knew the mountains ended to the east. With her mobility so limited, she could not see as much as she wished, but she knew her hope lay in the direction of the rising sun. “We began this journey with our faces set toward the new day,” Helga thought grimly, “and we will not leave that hope behind. I think not of the past, but of the future. No matter what may have happened to Papa, I cannot live in the past and in fear. I will live in hope and for the future. This was our pledge when we left the Hedgelands, and I will not turn from our decision.” Helga felt that, even if she were not to see her father again, this was the choice he would also make in such circumstances.

  From that time on, Helga moved toward the east. Each day, for the next month, Helga dragged herself toward the rising sun. To conserve energy and water, she traveled only a few hours in the morning and a few hours just before and after sunset, when it was cool but there was enough light to see the way. Little by little, each day Helga’s wounds improved. As she changed the mud and birdwood leaves dressing each day, she saw injuries that looked less ugly and she was freer from pain. But the deep damage was done. Her legs would not work fully and she had trouble controlling the use of one of her arms. Nevertheless, little by little, Helga learned to make the best of her arms.

  Day after day, she half-crawled and pulled herself over the rough terrain. Living mostly on wild cherries and berries, Helga was gradually able to forage more widely as she gained strength. Sometimes she would find the carcasses of large pike and trout that eagles had caught but had only partially eaten. Making a small fire with her flint and some dried grass; she would roast the fish and hungrily feast on it.

  As the days wore on and Helga steadily gained strength, she was able to increase her rate of travel. Each day now, she covered what she guessed was more than a mile. Her improved rate of progress, however, was still far too slow. Her clothes were quickly falling into tatters and the night temperatures were cold. She knew that she would have to do something else.

  On the 14th day after the attack, Helga decided that she must try to stand. Using a tree to pull herself upright, excruciating pain shot through her legs. Gritting her teeth, she held on. Feeling dizzy and with tears filling her eyes, she tried desperately to maintain her balance. “DO NOT PASS OUT, HELGA! DO NOT PASS OUT! CALL ON THE ANCIENT ONES!” she commanded herself silently. Gradually, several minutes of shakiness passed. Helga’s legs were painful but, clinging to the tree, she found that she could steady herself.

  Feeling greatly encouraged by her brief experiment, Helga slumped back to the ground. She realized that with the help of some support, she could learn to hobble. It might be painful, but at least she would make better progress. She had to be out of the mountains by winter or perish. Even without the onset of winter, the risks were great. Her best hope was to go on and find some kind of settlement. Surely the lands before her were not completely uninhabited.

   Despite her grim prospects, she felt strangely happy. “The pain is not enough to stop me,” she thought happily. “I was afraid that my legs would not hold me up, but I can hobble along. By the power of the Ancients, I think I can get through this...” Helga leaned back against a tree and began to consider her next move.

  She planned to use her flicker-pole as a walking stick, but thought her progress would be faster if she could make a comfortable armrest for it. By the end of the day, she had located a sturdy scrub oak branch. She used a large rock as sandpaper to fashion a detachable armrest piece that attached to the flicker-pole, so she could use it more easily as a crutch. Helga picked this particular branch because it looked strong and had a curiously pleasant sound coming from one of its gnarled curves. Helga, in all her years as a Wood Cow, had never heard such a sweet, but unusual, tone in a piece of wood. It sounded like it would make a very comfortable crutch. Now her flicker-pole could be used both as a staff and as a crutch. Helga found that with this additional help, she could now make perhaps two miles a day. Still not great, but better.

  She wondered if she would ever find help. How could she possibly survive in the wilderness like this? Although her wounds had gradually healed, she was losing weight from lack of proper food. The little food she could locate was mostly fruits and roots and sometimes a bit of scavenged fish. Lately, there had been no fish and she was reduced to turning over rocks and rotting logs to find grubs and beetles. When she found nice, fat grubs, she squashed them and squeezed the slippery goo through a piece of cloth, straining it. This she mixed with pollen she collected to make a paste. Adding some cherry juice made the taste palatable. Although it was surprisingly nutritious, she continued to lose weight and spent more time each day gathering food. It took a lot of grubs, pollen, and fruit to make enough paste to feed her. How long could she continue?

  The Power of Enigma

  Helga was lying in the shade of an aspen grove, taking a breather and listening to the pleasant music of the rustling leaves, when a differet sound attracted her attention. Aahhhooo...oooooo...aaaahhhoooo...ooooo...ladoooooo...ladoooo...The sound was musical and soothing; it made her happy to hear it.

  Struggling to a standing position, Helga picked up her pack and hobbled off in the direction of the music. “Creatures! Someone is playing music! Creatures!” Helga was so excited that she stumbled forward wildly, overjoyed at the thought that after so much suffering and trouble, help might be at hand.

  Crashing through the brush, half-staggering, half-hobbling over rocks and fallen logs, Helga came upon a most startling sight. At the side of a beautiful mountain lake, a Wolf was hanging upside down by his feet, playing a flute! Helga stopped in amazement. She was speechless. Aahhhooo...oooooo...aaaahhhoooo...ooooo...ladoooooo...ladoooo...The music from the flute was simple and softly cheerful. In deep concentration of his playing, the Wolf had not noticed her, despite the noise Helga had made barging through the brush.

  The Wolf was hanging in a perfectly vertical position, with his feet hooked over a tree branch, about ten feet above the ground. He was dressed in a loose-fitting, light green shirt and trousers, each with ruffled ties around the
wrists and ankles to keep the garment in place while he was upside down. He wore a dark green sash around the waist. Helga noticed what appeared to be another dark green garment and some sandals on the ground under the tree. The flute was perhaps two feet long.

  Helga stood for a time listening to the soothing music. She dropped her pack to the ground and sat down. It seemed wonderful that so strange a musician, with so simple an instrument, using nothing but air, could have such power over the heart. Helga felt as if the beauty of the scene and the melody of the flute were drawing all the struggles and pain of her days since leaving the Hedgelands away from her mind. Hunger and weariness vanished, and only as the sun fell lower in the sky did the flutist at last stop his playing. How many hours had passed? Helga did not know.

  Suddenly, in one somersaulting leap, the Wolf had swung free of the tree and landed before her.

  “And now yor best coome along with me,” the Wolf said. “Where have yor coome from? The mounts, those awful mounts, I’ll be born. What were yor doin’ there? Aiean, moony a poor body has been lost in those tumbled, coold, wildy mounts and never been foound.”

  When Helga began to explain how she had come to be there, the Wolf raised his paws to stop her. “Aiean, it’s enough to know by the mercy of the Ancient Ones yor ever got oout. Comin’ along with me.” The Wolf slipped on the sandals and the dark green habit-style garment that had been lying under the tree.

  While he did so, he let Helga hold his flute. It was beautifully made from aromatic red cedar. It had a long fringe running its entire length—the fringe was made of tassels strung with beads. She admired its beauty and longed to play it herself, but the Wolf said, “Wherever yor find there be music, the music be comin’...yor don’t need the flute. Findin’ the music first, then the flute be comin’ to the music!”

  Slipping the instrument in a special pocket in his habit, the Wolf said, “My name be called Ola. Comin’ aloong now...Give me yorn pack. We’ll be getting’ you out of these mounts.” Helga handed her pack to Ola. He led her some distance through the rugged, but beautiful land. After a scrambling climb up a long hillside, they reached the top of a high ridge, and looked out over a vast reach of wetland valley reaching to the horizon. The end of the mountains!

  They went a short distance down the far side of the ridge, leaving the high wall of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains to their backs. Ola walked slowly, allowing Helga to set the pace with her hobbling gait. He said nothing more, but walked with a dignity and kindly spirit that gave Helga more and more confidence in his goodness. As they walked along, Helga’s curiosity overcame her and she said, “Ola, where is your home?”

  “The world bein’ such a wide-big world, the robe and the flute is my home, Misst Helgy,” Ola replied. Helga learned that Ola was a Gateless Wolf novice. The Gateless Wolf was one who practiced the ancient Wolf art called Enigma. Enigma was a nonviolent martial art in which the warrior used the power of riddles and anomalies to defeat an enemy, sometimes engaging in intense duels with an adversary using riddles as the only weapon.

  Ola looked Helga intently in the eyes with the happy, but serious look that was characteristic of him. He gave her an example of Enigma: “You don’t often be seein’ many creatures in the wilds you came through—not even the Borf be comin’ there. But three days before you saw me at the lake, I be findin’ a Borf scoutin’ party there. And a fine Lynx was leadin’ it—and wearin’ the Borf clothing. Well, Misst Helgy, I’ll be a tellin’ you...there’s never been a Lynx among the Borf a’fore that...and a fine Lynx he was, too. But, I’m tellin’ you it was a deep, deep work of Enigma—a Lynx bein’ a Borf clanbeast? Lynx and the Borf bein’ together is like makin’ something from fire and snow...it’s a deep work of Enigma. I had to meditate on that powerful enigma for three days to understand it. Then you show up, and that’s my answer. I needed a deep enigma to be keepin’ me there by that lake long enough to help you. Without that enigma, you’d probably still be wanderin’ in the wilds.” Ola paused and smiled at his friend. “That’s the power of Enigma.”

  Novices taking the path of the Gateless Wolf roamed the world freely, especially the remote wild areas where they could practice the disciplines of Enigma. The path of the Gateless Wolf had grown out of the violent traditions of the old clans of warrior Norder Wolves. Stressing physical endurance, artistic discipline, service to others, and the practice of Enigma as means to realize personal powers, they were renowned for their uncanny ability to be nearby when travelers were lost or creatures needed help.

  Full-fledged followers of the Gateless Wolf path could hang by their feet from the edges of cliffs for days on end, playing their flute and solving enigmas. But, Ola explained, Gateless Wolves were not hermits. Whenever they passed through a community, they worked hard at whatever was needed: fieldwork, gardening, building or repairing cabins, caring for the young, cleaning, cooking, or whatever.

  Ola’s happy, good-natured strength made Helga think of her father. It seemed as if Ola helped her long unhappiness to fade. Somehow she felt that meeting Ola was helping her to find peace with the loss of her parent. She wondered if he had survived the treachery of the Cougar Bandits. Perhaps he had been able to escape in the boat. If he had, he might be alive and looking for her. Her father was a powerful Wood Cow and armed with his fishing line. Unless he was surprised or ambushed, Helga knew that he would be a formidable foe for the Cougars. Yet, she herself was strong and quick-witted...and she had been overwhelmed by the treachery and brutality of her attackers. What if they had used the same tactics on her Papa? She did not want to think of it. Yet somehow, the spirit of the Gateless Wolf brought peace to her mind.

  As they walked, leaving the highlands behind, the edge of the vast wetlands stretched away before them, seemingly without end.

  “I’ll be paddling into the Drownlands, Misst Helgy,” Ola said. “It’s the season for the trading people to be migrating. There’s need to help the lost and trooubled traveling beasts.”

   “I’ll be coming with you, Ola, if you’ll have me,” Helga replied. “I’ll not stay behind to wander aimlessly. At least you wander with a purpose of helping lost beasts.  Maybe I will find Papa’s path, and maybe I won’t, but at least I’ll be trying to help those who are lost and hurting. That will be more to Papa’s spirit than wandering without purpose.”

  “Aiean, Helgy, that be the path,” Ola smiled. “That be’in the path...”

  King Stuppy’s Trading Post

  Ola and Helga paddled slowly into the small settlement Ola called “King Stuppy Marit’s Tradin’ Poost.” Ola knew the place. He’d visited many times in his years of roaming through the Drownlands as a wandering monk. He especially liked the Drownlands, in spite of the fact it “drew a bad-bad lot” as he said.

  “The Drownlands are wilder than anythin’ nor any placin’,” Ola said. “Cuoog’er Bandits and thievin’ creatures of every kind. They all are at home at Stuppy’s.”

  As they paddled into the Drownlands wilderness—a vast, uncharted wilderness of lakes, marshes and bogs—Helga hoped the trip might help her find her missing father. Ola told her that, “There’s only one spot that’s goot any beasts that might be goin’ to know anythin’...that’s goin’ to be King Stuppy’s, that’s goin’ to be the crossroads of all the travelers and spies.”

  Helga trusted Ola completely, but she wondered how they would ever find anyone in the vast wilderness. They had been paddling for more than a week in Ola’s dugout canoe, following endless bayous and channels that he seemed to know well. They had met no other creatures, although they had seen several shanties that Ola said were used by itinerate Bayou Dogs who fished and collected wild marsh honey. “The Bauyoo Dogs never stay put. They’re always floatin’ and movin’,” Ola explained. No beast ‘stayed put’ in the Drownlands, Ola said. Everyone kept moving, following the best fishing, finding the marsh honey, collecting the berries and mushrooms in their seasons. Ola explained that there were “loo’ts of the creatures”
around, but they were an independent lot that valued their freedom. Many of them were either sent to the Drownlands instead of jail, or escaped there to hide out. “But they all be comin’ to King Stuppy’s at the tradin’ time.”

  Ola came to the Drownlands each spring and autumn, during the great trading seasons. He always found travelers in need of help at trading time. “The creatures are always in troouble with the bandits and getting’ lost,” Ola explained. “There’s always a need for Ola.” Wandering the Drownlands, he meditated, played his flute, and rescued travelers in trouble.

  Among the maze of bayous and lakes, time seemed to stand still. The sheer isolation and vastness of the Drownlands seemed to make yesterday, today, and tomorrow useless ideas. Underground springs created a lush wetlands. Expanses of grass and reeds were interspersed with groves of giant trees that towered above the wetlands in places. Here and there were snaking runs of lesser trees and scrub bushes along bayous. Any effort to leave the canoe seemed pointless—there was little solid ground, much quicksand, and the grass was impenetrably thick. The streams, lakes and bayous were the only ‘roads.’

  Helga could understand why Ola said this was a land of hideouts. A bandit could easily lose himself here and never be found.

  Finally, after seven days, Helga noticed signs of commerce. Other canoes, small boats, and large flat-bottom barges pushed with poles gradually became more and more frequent. All were filled to overflowing with creatures and goods, many loaded so heavily that they seemed in danger of capsizing. Where there had been hardly a sign of life, now there seemed to be boats of every description coming from every direction.

  King Stuppy Marit’s Trading Post was the only permanently inhabited outpost in the Drownlands. The nearest trading center other than King Stuppy’s was more than a week distant by canoe. If it had to do with commerce or trade, it came to King Stuppy—including assorted ‘bad goods’ from theft and banditry. Stuppy’s sign said it plainly: “KING STUPPY MARIT’S TRADING POST—We Buys It All, And Sells It All; Keep Your Questions To Yourself!”

  As their canoe nosed up to the dock, Helga did not feel good about what she saw. Surely there were a great number of honest traders here, but the sly and sinister face was everywhere. Boats, so loaded with passengers that they hung off the sides, also bristled with machetes, cutlasses and pikes. Apparently a safe voyage was not always assured. One large, flat-bottomed boat loaded with Jackrabbits, Muskrats, Beavers, Geese, Raccoons and Coyotes—and every space between them crammed with bags of cornmeal, oats, pinenuts, and barrels of pickled fish—flipped over with a huge ‘SPOOLSH!’ sending passengers and goods into the water. Quickly, small pirogues of King Stuppy’s Dock Squirrels rowed out to help the unfortunate creatures and rescue what could be saved of the cargo. Helga thought it was a miracle that more boats did not swamp, so amazingly overloaded were they.

  Creatures came down out of the isolated bayous and lakes twice a year, loaded with all the things they had grown, made, stolen, or caught. King Stuppy operated ferryboats that he sent up some of the largest bayous—to the North in the Spring and to the south in the Fall—picking up passengers along the way, bringing them to his trading post. Since there was only one ferryboat trip, out and back, each year, they packed every possible passenger aboard. And the cargo! Piles of ornately woven grass mats, hats, and bags. Sacks of meal and grains. Barrels of candied berries and ciders. Finely-made and rustic furniture. Crates of dried mushrooms. Cases of pickled roaches and beetles. Baskets of turtle eggs. Vendors hawking brightly colored pants and shirts from the boat—small canoes coming out to buy as the boat moved along. Sometimes, the ferries would have racks of huge catfish hanging, drying by the dozens in the sun, as Barge Goats poled the vessel along.

  The smells and sights were so intense that it made Helga woozy. Although she’d lived a hard life and endured great hardships, she still could not comprehend the dirt and filth at King Stuppy Marit’s. Drooping moss overhung everywhere, giving the place a damp, half-rotted feeling. Inside the public house, the walls and ceiling were caked with layer upon layer of residue from cooking fires and pipe-smoke. Rough tables were smeared with spilled food and littered with dirty tin plates piled high with gnawed bones and gristle, crusts of coarse bread, and the scooped-out skins of baked lizards. The floor was wet and slippery from many spilled tankards of Drownlands Grog. Piles of filthy burlap sacks were scattered here and there with creatures lounging on them smoking long clay pipes and drinking Ale.  King Stuppy’s establishment did not impress her.

  Though she had been raised from age five by Roundies—and had seen many different kinds of life—Helga retained the cleanly manners of her native Wood Cow folk and found King Stuppy’s Trading Post revolting.  She was a Wood Cow at heart. Although she would never forget the Roundies who had rescued her, loved her, and cared for her, she did not expect to ever see them again.

  A Certain Cantankerous Wood Cow

  So many urgent problems pressed on Helga’s mind now, that the Rounds were only a distant, but fond, memory. A stronger memory was the vicious attack she had suffered from the Cougar bandits. The edge of this memory cut through any musing Helga might have had about the Rounds as they tied up their canoe at King Stuppy Marit’s dock—it was crawling with Cougars!

  Helga felt that everything about the place was like a bad dream. The Trading Post was a series of dilapidated, cobbled-together sheds and docks. Made of scraps of lumber, rotting logs, dirty rope, and molding canvas, the Trading Post did not look promising—it smelled of long-dead fish and dreadful carvings of hideous faces were hung everywhere, leering down from walls and posts. “Trees were tortured to make those carvings,” Helga muttered darkly to Ola, “those faces show the frozen screams of trees...” Wood Cows made their life among the trees and, over generations, had found ways to know what trees were thinking and feeling.

  “Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola replied, “the Cuoog’ers that run the post are a bad-bad lot!”

  “Cougars run this trading post?” she asked, looking urgently at Ola.

  “Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola affirmed. “King Stuppy is a Cuoog’er that is only free because he was sentenced to the Drownlands instead of bein’ hanged by the Grizzlies! The Grizzlies allow Stuppy to run his Tradin’ Poost if he stays out of trouble—and remains in the Drownlands.”

  As Ola and Helga climbed the rickety wooden ladder from the dock up to the Trading Post, suddenly a cutlass was sticking in Helga’s face! There was wild, screeching laughter; then many cutlasses, swords and pikes bristled in front of them. Soon, the short, extremely fat Cougar that had been holding his cutlass in Helga’s face lowered it and looked at her with his fierce, red eyes.

  “So, cow, get up here and welcome!” From then on, Ola and Helga were never alone. Being led into the Trading Post, they entered a dark gloom where it was hard to see anything distinctly, but it always seemed that there was some beast in the shadows with a cutlass at the ready.

  Ola explained quietly that there was “nothin’ to be wooried aboot.” Helga found this hard to believe but soon realized that Ola was right. Despite King Stuppy’s terrifying look and the foul collection of riff-raff that constantly watched them, they were not harmed. Ola explained that the ‘cutlass in the face’ greeting was the customary welcome that King Stuppy gave to every unknown visitor. “Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola said, “that’s his warnin’ that he’ll be watchin’ yor. Yor tooch his stuff, and yor be loosin’ yorn fingers!”

  In such a desolate, isolated spot, Helga would not have expected such traffic, but there were constantly arriving canoes and boats carrying all kinds of trading goods. “And a good bit of stoof that yor don’t want to be askin’ aboot!” Ola confided. Stuppy was “on to the shadowed work” Ola observed, with a knowing wink at Helga. “Just yorn not be askin’ questions,” Ola directed, “and we’ll be livin’ to go on.”

  Thus warned, Helga silently observed the frenzied buying and selling. Even before the boats and ferries reached doc
k, buyers were throwing pieces of their clothing on to the goods they wished to trade for or buy. She saw one large Otter throw his sweat-soaked shirt onto a basket of corn he wished to claim, as was the custom in the Drownlands. Creatures threw shoes and sandals on to piles of fish, a filthy hat onto a barrel of pear butter, and so on.

  Most of the creatures at King Stuppy’s got their meals from him. Bayou bread and steamed crayfish, bog-greens and catfish, fried marsh mushrooms and turnips. The food was reasonably good, Helga thought—but she avoided the Drownlands Grog that was the beverage of choice. She noticed some elderly Cougars sat playing checkers in a back room. As they played, they chewed a mixture of moss and leaves, and then spit it out into a vessel. They did this until a large vat was full of the mixture. This was mixed with water and marsh honey and left to ferment into the popular Drownlands Grog. Ola said that he had heard the blue-green drink tasted quite good, but it was against the Gateless Wolf diet to eat or drink prepared foods, so he had never tasted it.

  Then there were the Cougars that were everywhere. Their rotten-smelling breath—even worse than the decaying fish—made the entire trading post reek with their presence. Yet, they were considered the “Royal Court of the King,” for Stuppy considered himself King of his realm. When the Grizzly Bear judges had spared his life years before, Stuppy had taken this as permission to make a Kingdom for himself. And so he had done.

  His ‘Royal Court’ was made up of the foulest-looking bunch of Cougars imaginable. Stuppy dressed them in the finest clothes, but these they never washed. Dried food, nose-drippings and other such slop and dirt covered the ruffled collars and fancy, embroidered coats and leggings of the Cougar courtiers. Except when he ‘greeted’ unknown visitors with his cutlass, King Stuppy spent most of his time swinging lazily in his woven-grass hammock. With one eye carefully watching his domain, he ate marsh honey and bayou bread all day long.

  Helga thought the odor of the marsh honey was unpleasant, but Ola told her that it had medicinal properties needed by King Stuppy. Marsh honey and bayou bread where the only things that King Stuppy could eat. His nerves had been damaged for life by poison darts Grizzly Bear trackers had shot from their blowguns to capture him. “The marsh honey keeps the King’s hand steady on the cutlass,” Ola remarked.

  At first glance, as he lay in his hammock, Helga mused that King Stuppy looked like a very fat and sick old Cougar. “Only a fool would treat him like that, however,” Helga thought, “he would doom you without a moment wasted.”

  And everyone who came and went from King Stuppy’s domain knew this basic fact. The honest traders, the dockworkers, the scullery folk, the thieves and bandits. No one challenged Stuppy Marit in the Realm of the King. No one, that is, except a certain cantankerous Wood Cow.

  No Jokes About Cougars

  Burwell Oswego was snoozing hard—or at least trying to—as he jostled along in the running-wagon. Burwell, and several other passengers, rocked side to side with the motion, tired and stiff from the long ride. They would soon reach the last rest station, where Burwell knew most passengers would be getting off. It was rare for passengers to go on to the last stop, the station at the Drownlands Cutoff. Usually only cargo was carried on the last leg of the trip to the Cutoff.

  But Burwell and his wife, Bwellina, were going on to the Cutoff. They were Bayou Dogs that had been on holiday, visiting relatives at the Rounds of Deep Springs, as they did every year. Burwell hated the busy trading season in the Drownlands—the folk got so obsessed with money and goods, he would almost break out in a rash to be near it. So, Burwell and Bwellina packed up and left for the Rounds. Now, they were on the way home. “Yep, by time’s we git back to our shanty,” Burwell said happily to Bwellina, “all them money-dazzled fools will be done with their binge, and things will be peaceable again...Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  Bwellina, however, gently reminded Burwell that this year, the running-wagon schedule had changed. “Remember, Burwell, we had to come back a day earlier than usual. That means we’ll have to pass through the junction at King Stuppy’s Trading Post on the last day of the season. It will be an absolute frenzy at King Stuppy’s. So take your rash medicine, Burwell.” Bwellina gave her husband’s hand an understanding pat. Burwell, remembering that there was no escape from going into the thick of the trading crowds, muttered glumly, “I never understand it...they’ll be a spendin’ the money they just got faster than they got it. They know they have to go back out to the wilds, so they go to King Stuppy’s and sell their stuff, then they spend all the money they just got right there, and go home empty-handed. It’s the durn foolest thing I ever saw! King Stuppy likes it, though, I guess.”

  From the Drownlands Cutoff, Burwell and Bwellina would catch the cargo pirogue to King Stuppy’s. There was usually room for them to throw their packs and bedrolls down on some cargo boxes and catch some shuteye on the ride to the Trading Post. The ride on the pirogue was free if Burwell helped unload the cargo at the other end of the trip. That was the way Burwell like to travel—light and cheap, just like he and Bwellina lived. Once they reached King Stuppy’s, one of their neighbors would be waiting for them and they’d catch another ride back to their shanty. Burwell would paddle the canoe on that leg while his neighbor got some rest. The system worked pretty good as Burwell considered it. It was the Bayou Dog style.

  The Drownlands Cutoff was the most isolated of the running-wagon stations. Because of its remoteness, the station-master was rotated out once every two months. “Stay longer than two months at the Cutoff,” Burwell had often been told, “and you risk going stark raving mad.” Passengers and cargo came through only once a week and other than that, the station-master seldom saw any other visitors. So, when the wagons came, the night was filled with talk. News was exchanged, stories told, lies and gossip created, and contests held to see who could tell the biggest whopper. Burwell knew that on these nights at the Cutoff, you never could tell where truth left off and whopper began. But that did not bother him, because he always learned enough new tales to last him until the next trip through the Cutoff station.

  That night, Burwell heard a story he knew he could tell over and over again for the enjoyment of his friends. “Yep, I seen it myself,” Zeke, the station-master, was saying, “I seen Cow and Cougar travelin’ together like they was the best friends in the world...never seen anything like it. Cows and Cougars together? Friendly like? It’d never happen, unless...unless they were drugged or bewitched or something! Yep, you mark my words,” Zeke said with a knowing nod of this head, “them two’s smuggling cactus sap or they found a gold mine or something like that. It ain’t natural I say. Something fishy about a Cow and a Cougar being together like that.” Then Zeke lowered his voice as if he were afraid someone might overhear him, “and you tell me why they came from the Bone Forest...you tell me that. No creature lives in the Bone Forest. There’s no food, no water, and the sun will fry you in no time. Anyone says they’re from the Bone Forest, you know they’re liars. But they just looks me in the eye and says they’re from the Bone Forest, like it was just a nice little place you went for vacation or something! It ain’t natural, I tell you. The Bone Forest ain’t nothing but dust and sun. Nothing can live there. I tell you, it gave me the willies!” Zeke stopped and leaned forward to Burwell, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “And to top it off,” Zeke continued, “when I asks them where they was going, they says, ‘to the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still’...Now don’t that beat all? It ain’t natural, I tell you.”

  Burwell filed this away in his memory for later use. His friends back home would love it—especially once he embellished it a bit more and polished some of the details, maybe say the Cow made everyone laugh telling Cougar jokes, or something like that.

  Poor Burwell. King Stuppy doesn’t like jokes about Cougars. Somebody should warn Burwell. Oops. Too late...

  Bad to Worse for Breister

  Breister’s lungs felt as if they were about to burst. He had been holding his breath for wh
at seemed like forever. But he dared not breathe. He was still many feet underwater, being tumbled and tossed with ferocious power by the raging torrent of the river.

  He had barely caught a glimpse of the Cougar that was ambushing him before the attack began. Raising his arm, he had begun to swing his only weapon—the weighted fishing line—when the large, wild-faced Cougar flew into him. The force of the attack carried Breister backwards off of the ledge where he was camping.

  SPLOOSH! Breister and the Cougar hit the water, tangled together with the fishing line that had wrapped around both of them. The Cougar, who had been swinging a machete at Breister as the attack began, now found his arms useless. The sheer brute force of the rapids slammed them into boulders in the river with such power that his arm was crushed, the machete falling free and gone forever in the surging torrent. The attack was forgotten as both Breister and the Cougar battled to save themselves. It was hopeless. With their arms immobilized by the tangle of fishing line, their bodies slammed again and again into rocks and boulders. They were at the mercy of the river. Breister could barely remain conscious to fight to hold his breath. He must hold out. To breathe now would fill his lungs with water and that would be the end. SLAM! Breister felt his body suddenly hit the rock canyon wall with tremendous force, enough to kill even a powerful Wood Cow like himself.

  But, fortunately for him, Broken Eye’s body had cushioned the blow, being sandwiched between Breister and the wall. The protecting shield had saved Breister from death...but the force of the impact crushed the Cougar. Breister, and his now lifeless attacker, caught on the rocks by tangled loops of fishing line. The sturdy cord had hung up on a piece of broken rock. Breister felt the sharp fishing line beginning to cut into his body as the force of the water tore at the mass in its way.

  At last, the power of the river won out. The tangled line snapped and they surged free from one another back into the current.

  Battered, gasping for breath, choking on swallowed water; Breister struggled to keep his head above the torrent as it carried him down through the ferocious rapids. Then, the river became less tortured. Although the pace of the current did not slacken, the water became smoother and the boulders fewer. Breister could now keep his head above water and gather some fresh air in his lungs. But, as he was taking a breath, he saw a Skull Buzzard diving towards him. Not having time to duck, Breister braced for the impact—but it never came. The Skull Buzzard had gone for the body of Broken Eye, preferring the ease of an already dead prey. Other Skull Buzzards joined the first, and they lifted the body out of the current and carried it to the riverside where they feasted on the carcass.

  Breister turned his head away. His eyes fell on a massive whirlpool that inexorably pulled him into its yawning maw...

  The Mountain Moves But Stands Still

  Burwell Oswego was a mild-mannered, sober Bayou Dog whose life of hard work, homespun fun and quiet living was a source of deep contentment for him. He loved to sit on the porch of his shanty, deep in the bayous, listening to the humming of the locusts and ‘tendin’ his home,’ as he put it. He avoided the ‘gross pleasures’ of the trading season, which was why he normally planned his travel to avoid it.

  The last day of trading season was especially wild. Most Drownlands creatures had no use for money at home, so they spent it before they left. Crayfish cakes flew off the griddle and Drownlands Grog flowed like water. Burwell steadfastly avoided Drownlands Grog, because of its tendency to make the rough and foolish even worse. But he did drink considerable amounts of Bog Fizz. The sweet drink, named for its tendency to furiously fizz with bubbles, was a favorite with small beasts—and with Burwell.

  Although Bog Fizz was a soft drink, it had a strange affect on Burwell. Its natural, fizzing bubbliness tickled Burwell’s nose so much, and made him hiccough so much, that he lost control of himself. “Hoo, hoo, hoo, ha, ha, ha...Woooeee...Hic! Hic! Hicccc-Hooo-Yip!...Wooooeee that tickles!...Hoo, hoo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hicccc-Hooooo-Yip!” That was Burwell when he drank Bog Fizz. Especially if he was in a happy mood, and most especially if he was telling stories, gossip, or jokes that he thought were hilarious—Burwell completely lost control. He became totally silly...out of his mind...momentarily insane with glee. No one could talk to him. He just went, “Hoo, hoo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic, WOOOEEEE!” Every once in a while, he would try to blubber some part of a joke, or repeat some snatch of a funny tale, or make up some wild new piece of gossip...and then off he’d go into gales of laughter.

  Burwell had long ago promised Bwellina that he would not drink Bog Fizz when they were at home or anywhere in ‘polite company.’ So, when they arrived at King Stuppy’s Trading Post, and Burwell said he was tired and thirsty, Bwellina knew what was coming. Throwing their bags up on the dock, Burwell gave a Dock Squirrel a coin and told him to “carry the bags over to Stram Noggbet’s barge and tell him we’ll be there as soon as I wet my whistle with some Bog Fizz.” Bwellina calmly picked up her straw knitting bag, fixed her flowered hat firmly in place, and set off to find a quiet place to knit.

  Burwell walked up to the Bog Fizz vendor’s cart, standing tall among the crowd of small beasts gathered there. “A pint of Bog Fizz,” Burwell said to the vendor.

  Bwellina, meanwhile, moved down the dock to where an elderly Opossum was selling tea and donuts. Bwellina ordered a cup of sizzle-tea and a pecan-crusted donut. “One sizzler and p-wheel comin’ right up, dearie,” the old Opossum smiled. She worked a bellows on her cart to fan a small fire, heating a bed of smooth round stones to red-hot. Deftly picking out one from the fire with tongs, she placed it into a thick crockery mug and sprinkled it with a mixture of herbs and dried flower petals. The herbs and petals began to toast instantly, giving off a pleasant, warm fragrance. As soon as the fragrance began to waft, the Opossum poured boiling water over the stone. Even boiling water was cooler than that super-heated stone and an explosion of steam poured out of the mug. Sizzling steam threw clouds of strong fragrance into the air. The beverage never failed to have a calming effect on Bwellina.

  She settled down with her steaming mug, nibbled a piece of her donut, and put a few stitches on the new sweater she was knitting. Sighing happily into her mug of tea, Bwellina closed her eyes, letting the fragrant steam fill her nostrils. How calming it was. She was vaguely aware that Burwell was ‘hitting his stride’ nearby, but she was determined to ignore it until...

  Above all the noise and hubbub, she could clearly hear Burwell laughing and hiccoughing. He was wheezing with delight. She could pick out snatches of what he was saying: “Hooo, Hooo, Hooo, Ha, Ha, Hooo...Hic-Hic-Hic-HooooYip!...Yessiree...Hooo, Hooo...and the minstrel band had a Cougar lady playing an accordion and harmonica and...Hooo, Hooo, Hooo...Oh, I can’t stand it...Ha, Ha, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip...and the Cougar was all peaceable and kind and she was with a Wood Cow...Hooo, Hooo...Ain’t seen one of those ’round here before...Hoo, hooo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...Hoo, Hooo, Hooo...And what beats all, is they said they were going to the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still...Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip...who ever heard such stuff!”

  King Stuppy, who had been dozing lazily in his hammock, leaped up and stormed over to where Burwell was wheezing with delight, letting Bog Fizz bubbles break on his nose, happily oblivious to the furious king now standing beside him.

  “What did you say about the Cougar?” King Stuppy demanded.

  Burwell, still not conscious of his danger, and thinking that his wild story was making the crowd happy, replied by making the story even wilder: “Hooo, Hooo, Hoooo, Ha, Ha...I said she was a Cougar dancer wearing a tutu, and playing a banjo, harmonica and accordion all at the same time...Hoo-Hoo-Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...HoooooWEEE!”

  King Stuppy was not amused. “Stupid Dog,” he said, slicing a button off of Burwell’s coat with his cutlass. “You insult the Cougars, for which I condemn you,” he continued. “But before I decide how to deal with you, I give you the chance to live.” Lowering the point of his cutlass away from Burwell’s belly, where it
had been poking, King Stuppy pulled Burwell close and whispered harshly in his ear: “What did you say about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still? Where is it? Tell me how to find it and you will live!”

  “Listen to the Place Inside You”

  Helga walked from one end of the Trading Post to the other, again and again, talking to creature after creature, always asking the same question: “Have you seen any Wood Cows?” She knew from Ola that Wood Cows were almost never seen in the Drownlands. The Forever End had cut off their homelands for centuries, and only those of the ancient stock lived beyond the Forever End. If any creature had seen a strange Wood Cow, it could be a clue to the fate of her father. Again and again she asked the question, looking earnestly into the faces of each creature, searching for a hint that they knew something that would help her find her father. Again and again, the answer was the same. No one had seen a Wood Cow.

  Then, as she passed the Bog Fizz vendor, lost in her thoughts, she heard the phrase, “Wood Cow.” It was like a splash of cold water in the face, cutting through the accumulating dust of despair. Helga was instantly alert and electrified. Her mind replayed what it had heard:

  “Oh, I can’t stand it...Ha, Ha, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip... HoooWHEE...and the Cougar was a talking like a WooSheep, all peaceable and kind and she was with a Wood Cow...Hooo, Hooo, Hooo...Ain’t seen one of those ’round here before...Hoo, Hooo, Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...”

  Scanning the crowd around the Bog Fizz cart, Helga saw King Stuppy holding a Bayou Dog by the coat, apparently angry and threatening the unfortunate creature. King Stuppy had the poor Dog’s shirt and suspenders in his powerful grip, lifting him up on his tiptoes. She could not hear what the Cougar was snarling in the Dog’s ear, but every instinct of pity and justice urged her to his assistance. Helga charged toward the place where King Stuppy held Burwell in his grip. She never reached them. Tough Cougar thugs—King Stuppy’s bodyguards—instantly surrounded her, cutlasses drawn, fingers sheathed in ugly, sharply-spiked brass knuckle rings. Helga stopped. Some other tactic would be needed.

  “You claim not to know about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still,” King Stuppy said quietly in Burwell’s ear. “So be it. I believe you, Dog. But perhaps you only forget. King Stuppy is a generous and fair ruler. He will give you a chance to remember anything you might have forgotten. You insulted the Cougars, which is punished by death. But if you soon remember anything you have forgotten about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, you will be spared. I sentence you to ‘Ride the Log.’ You will not die instantly, so you will have time to remember. If you remember, I will free you. If you do not, you die. Guards! Bind him to the log!”

  King Stuppy was furious. Here was yet another fool telling of the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, but who, when confronted with the majesty of King Stuppy’s questioning, turned into a mere blubbering idiot. He was nearly crazy with his desire to find this mysterious Mountain. Each year he sent out explorers to search for the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still, but it had never been found.

  The mythical mountain was said to have castles of light with golden walls, and limitless sparkling gems. It was said to be so dazzling that those who beheld it could not speak of it. But King Stuppy knew better. He knew that those who had seen this marvelous place were greedy for its fabulous riches and did not want others to share in the wealth. So King Stuppy would find it himself. And when he found it, he would take all the riches.

  The problem was, he could not find it. Each year a traveler would drop a hint, or tell a story, that seemed to give a lead to the location of the Mountain. Each year, he sent out explorers in a different direction. The searchers never returned. Sometimes, a straggler would stumble back to King Stuppy, arriving half-starved and in rags, having lost his mind wandering in the wilds for months with little food or water. The straggler, if he could speak coherently about his experiences, always reported the same thing: the King’s explorers had perished, not by attack from enemies, but by becoming so completely lost, in such remote wilds, that they simply starved or died of thirst.

  King Stuppy was not deterred by these unpromising results. None of his subjects knew the fate of his exploring parties. So far as anyone in the Drownlands knew, King Stuppy was sending criminals into exile. For anyone in King Stuppy’s realm that transgressed against his rule, there were only two possible punishments: either become one of the King’s adventurers, or Ride the Log. Except for those poor creatures specifically sentenced to Ride the Log, most who angered King Stuppy chose to go exploring. The king promised them freedom and a share in the riches if they found the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still and brought proof back to him.

  That King Stuppy had no intention to honor his promises did not matter. He was a patient Cougar. He would keep sending out explorers. If they did not return, it did not matter—it disposed of troublemakers. If, however, they did return one day with proof of the location of the Mountain...Well, then he would have a special reward for those brave beasts who had brought him his fondest wish. They would Ride the Log. Only King Stuppy would know that secret.

  Helga surveyed the menacing ring of King Stuppy’s thugs. It did not look good for Burwell. In her injured condition, she could not use her Yeow-Yeow skills. Physically, she could not fight her way through King Stuppy’s guards. Yet she could not bear the thought of a poor, innocent Bayou Dog being made to Ride the Log. She must do something.

  Unhappy creatures condemned to Ride the Log were tied to logs and set adrift in the Drownlands. Floating with the currents and unable to help or protect themselves, the poor condemned creatures died slowly, or sometimes were quickly picked apart by hungry insects and fish. It was not a pretty way to die. Piteous pleas for mercy and help were said to echo through the Drownlands when such a punishment occurred. Fear of riding King Stuppy’s logs made few creatures wish to oppose him.

  Helga could not allow it to happen. The punishment was brutal and against all justice. The poor Bayou Dog had done nothing terrible as far as Helga could see. And he might know something that would help her find her father. She must save him. The ring of cutlasses surrounding her was threatening, but not advancing. The guards wanted only to stop Helga from interfering with the King, not capture her. The ways of the Wood Cows were unknown in the Drownlands. They were so rare that everything about Helga was seen as interesting and exotic. She could use this curiosity about Wood Cow ways to her advantage.

  Lifting up the flicker-pole she used as a walking stick, Helga began to work it with skillful, fluid movements. As the unusual staff began to produce it’s melodic humming, her guards, at first, looked on in amusement and interest. They had never seen such a sight! Helga’s beautifully fluid movements as she furiously worked the pole, were astonishing. She observed the amazed, unsuspecting stares of her guards with mingled amusement and hope.

  Gradually at first, then in torrents of wingbeats, the sky filled with every type of bird residing in the Drownlands! Large and small, noisy Jays and reserved Robins, rough-talking Hawks and genteel Eagles—all came in to find roosts at the Trading Post. Dozen after dozen they dropped from the sky, covering every available inch of roosting space—on buildings, fences, hats, heads, shoulders, arms—anywhere they could lock their feet.

  As the birds began to rain in from the sky, panic seized the crowd and chaos ensued. Helga, well aware of what was to happen, took advantage of the turmoil and panic to grab Burwell and Bwellina, who had also tried to come to Burwell’s aid, and led them to safety. Ola jumped in his canoe and helped the others board. The small canoe rode very low in the water under the heavy load of passengers, but Ola pointed out, laughing, that “overloaded boats is the Drownlands tradition!”

  Ola shoved off hurriedly, and he and Burwell paddled furiously away from King Stuppy’s Trading Post. All were grateful to be leaving. Burwell wheezed with joy of a different sort.

  As they paddled away into the backways of the Drownlands, Helga asked Burwell many questions. “Have you a
ctually seen a Wood Cow? Where? When? What did he look like? Did you talk with him?” The questions burst from Helga like a torrent. Unfortunately, she learned that most of what Burwell had said were his fibbing embellishments of a story he had heard from the station-master at the Drownlands Cutoff.

  Helga was disappointed, but not discouraged. Consulting with Ola and her new friends, she decided that she must go to the Cutoff station. She would find out if a Wood Cow had actually been there. As she shared this decision, she looked at the faces of her friends. Gazing at each, one by one, she asked the question without speaking it: Did they wish to go with her?

  Ola was the first to speak: “Misst Helgy, tha’is friend of yorn is forever yorn friend and loyalist. But tha’is friend of yorn bein’ a Gateless Wolf, and he can’t but help bein’ a wanderer. Just as I found you in need of a friend, other travelers bein’ in need. I must remain in the wilds. But the enigma is that if we part, we will surely be close forever.”

  Burwell and Bwellina, on the other hand, urgently pleaded to go with Helga. The thought of being left in the Drownlands without either Helga or Ola caused Burwell to burst into pathetic cries. “Oh, woe or mercy, woe or mercy, that’s my choices! If I stay in the Drownlands, King Stuppy will hunt me, and he’ll hunt me until he brings me to woe! Helga the Merciful is my only hope! Oh, please, Helga, have mercy on a poor, poor Bayou Dog! I don’t want to Ride the Log! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  While not ignoring the real danger Burwell would be in if he stayed in the Drownlands, Helga burst out laughing at his dramatic pleading. “Oh, Burwell, you know I couldn’t leave you and Bwellina here...I don’t have a clue how to get to the Drownlands Cutoff. You know the way, I presume?” Helga furrowed her eyebrows, giving Burwell a very solemn look. “Without your help I would be a  lost creature that Ola would have to come rescue!” Helga laughed.

  “Well, yes, Helga, I have been to the Drownlands Cutoff station...Oh, about three dozen times. Bwellina and I have been going that route every year for more than thirty years.”

  Ola was not joining in the joking talk. He appeared to be in deep reflection. Helga knew it was best to leave him alone when he was in such a mood. She gave Burwell a quieting look, and they paddled on silently, going in no particular direction, but staying to the concealed, lost bayous away from the main routes. Ola used a paddle as a rudder, moving it slightly from time to time as if with his swaying, meditative mood. Where were they going? Helga, Burwell and Bwellina had no idea. Helga guessed that Ola was simply doing his best to keep them away from King Stuppy’s search parties.

  At last, they floated into a lake, well protected by trees and thick reeds on all sides. Once on the lake, Ola lay his rudder paddle down, and let the canoe drift aimlessly. Helga and Burwell waited to hear his plans. Instead, he began playing his flute. Helga, although puzzled, was grateful for the break in the solemn mood.

  The Wolf played for quite some time as the canoe drifted gradually toward the far shore of the lake. As night began to fall, the Locusts began their evening chirruping, seeming almost to harmonize with Ola’s music. Stars came out as the sky darkened—billions and billions of stars, dazzling across the night sky.

  Finally, as the canoe bumped against the shoreline of the lake, Ola put away his instrument. He pointed to a large tree with wide spreading branches slightly down the shore. “We’ll be stoppin’ there tonight,” he said. “There’s a traveler’s lean-to on the back side.” Taking up their paddles once more, they pushed down to the tree Ola had indicated.

  “We can camp here in safety,” Ola announced. “I’ve been asking the Locusts to watch out for King Stuppy’s boats. I learned to play my flute by listenin’ to the Locusts and following their tune. I learned to be talkin’ with them. They’ll be lettin’ us know if they see anything.”

  Guiding the canoe to the bank, Helga and Burwell were grateful to stretch their cramped muscles. As soon as the canoe touched the bank, Ola leaped up and grabbed a low-hanging branch of the tree. Pulling himself up on the branch, he called to the others, “Don’t step out on the bank, friends, it bein’ quicksand. I’ll droop yor down a rope and pull yorn up. Then we’ll walk along the branch and climb down on the back side, where the ground bein’ firm.”

  A vine rope was lowered and Bwellina tied it around her waist. Then hanging on tight, Ola hauled her up in the tree. Burwell and Helga followed. Ola showed them the way to follow a well-worn path across some low branches. He helped Helga, still a bit unsteady on her injured legs, to navigate the route safely. The branch reached a solid hillock at the rear of the tree that rose above the lower, wet ground. The creatures did not even have to jump to step off the branch where it reached the hillock. A rough shelter was built there.

  “Tha’is will be ‘Welcome to Ola’s Retreat,’” Ola smiled. “Tha’is will do for tonight. We’ll eat catfish, soon as I catch some. Tomorrow, I’ll show yor the way toward the Bone Forest, and then I’ll be leavin’ yor.”

  “The Bone Forest!” Helga exclaimed. “But we need to go to the station at Drownlands Cutoff, Ola,” she continued urgently. “There’s a chance the station-master may know something about Papa...I’ve got to do it...I miss him terribly...” Helga felt confused and somewhat angry with Ola. Why didn’t he understand? Burwell also protested.

  “Friends, friends,” Ola smiled. “If yor go to the Drownlands Cutoff, yor will all be Riding the Log. King Stuppy will be watching that route with his spies. There’s not a chance you could get there safely. It’s likely that he might even send some Cougar raiders to ransack the station. Yor cannot go to the Drownlands Cutoff.”

  “OK, Ola,” Helga replied. “I see your point, but why go to the Bone Forest? How can that possibly help?”

  “Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola said, “yorn not be understandin’ this soon. I don’t even understand it myself yet. Boot, from what we know, the Bone Forest may hold some meanin’ for yorn search, and it may help yor elude any pursuers King Stuppy sends after yor.”

  “Ola! Are you sure? I thought no one could live in the Bone Forest?” Helga was deeply puzzled, and with a hint of impatience, she added, “From all we have heard, the Bone Forest is a horrible wasteland, with no food, no water, and nothing but burning sun and dust! I lost Papa on a surging river, which, if anything, may come out somewhere around the Drownlands, but certainly not in a desert.” She grimaced in dismay. “I think you’re nuts to even suggest such a ridiculous idea.”

  “Aiean, Misst Helgy,” Ola nodded, “I ain’t been there myself—and don’t know much aboot it. Boot, it bein’ better than meetin’ up with King Stuppy for sure, and what other leads do yorn have? Sometimes the place we’re lookin’ for isn’t a place.” At this curious statement, Helga gazed into Ola’s face searching for his meaning. She saw only the usual happiness of her friend. If there was any other intent in his speech, it was only to give her an enigma to consider.

  Helga’s head was spinning. The Bone Forest! A dry, desert wasteland, rumored to be filled with the bones of creatures that had died there. A horrible place to be avoided at all costs. Now Ola thought she should go there. As they made camp for the night, Helga had much to think about...

  Ola worked quickly, but without haste, as was normal for him. Pulling out a coil of fishing line he carried in his pack, he soon pulled several catfish from the lake. Cleaning them, he pressed them with wild blackberry juice, wrapped them in wild onions and grass, and roasted them between two Y-shaped sticks over a small fire Helga had made. Soon, they had a modest but very pleasing meal.

  Helga loved fish and ate greedily. Then, after eating she sat for a long time, thinking. The deep darkness of the Drownlands wilderness made the sky seem especially brilliant with stars. Billions of points of light glistened overhead. Each one seemed more dazzling than the rest. Which one was brightest? One surely must be brighter than the others. Wasn’t that the way the world was? She wondered.

  “Countin’ the stars, Misst Helgy?” Ola asked, sitting down beside her.
r />   “No, just wondering if there’s one that is the most brilliant of all. Pretty silly question, eh?” Helga replied, grinning sheepishly.

  “Niean, Misst Helgy,” her friend responded, “don’t yor worry aboot that. If there bein’ not the brightest, there bein’ not the dimmest. We’d all bein’ lost without seekin’ the brighter stars to follow. Niean, there’s always bein’ a star that’s the brighter. Yor just got to find it.”

  “Ola, I know what you’re saying. I know that me deciding what to do now, which way to go, is like trying to find the brightest star in a sky full of brilliant stars. But how will I find it, Ola?” Helga asked. “There are so many stars. How is it possible? I sit here first thinking one thing, then thinking another. I feel so confused.”

  “Well, Misst Helgy, there bein’ a star that’s sayin’ right to yor, I’m the brightest. Listen to that place inside yor that nobody can see. The brightest star is there, where no one can see it.” Ola gave Helga another of his gentle grins as he watched her puzzle over yet another enigma.

  “G’night, Misst Helgy,” Ola said as he turned to retire, “don’t let the enigmas keep you up.”

  Helga, feeling full and safe, dozed off, still pondering her questions.

  Toward the Bone Forest

  “Pssst! Helga, are you asleep?” Burwell was kneeling beside her, as Helga groggily opened her eyes. “I’m sorry to be bothering you,” Burwell apologized, “but I can’t stop thinking about what Ola said. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  “What do you want to say, Burwell? I’m listening,” Helga replied. Helga could see that her friend was troubled.

  “I don’t know what to think, Helga. It looks like craziness to head off to the Bone Forest. We’ll die for sure. We can’t go to the Drownlands Cutoff. We’ll die for sure. We can’t stay in the Drownlands. We’ll die for sure. I don’t like our choices...” He grew silent.

  Helga said nothing. She shared Burwell’s concerns, but she also trusted Ola’s judgment. He knew the wilds better than anyone—but she also respected Burwell’s opinions. Although he was, in some ways, a silly and undisciplined fellow, Helga could see that underneath his silliness, he had a sincere kindness toward all. She also knew that a Bayou Dog did not survive in the Drownlands without a quick wit, courage and perseverance. Burwell was more than many might think. And Bwellina was like a rock, unwavering, unafraid, and unflappable. Her soft snoring was a perfect indication of how worry affected her.

  “What should we do, Burwell?” Helga asked.

  “I think we should try for the Cutoff station,” Burwell replied. “We probably have at least a little head start on King Stuppy’s thugs. We have a chance if we go that way. Going to the Bone Forest is suicide. You have as good a chance finding a trace of Breister at the Cutoff as in the Bone Forest—and perhaps we might have a chance to live. The Cutoff is the gateway into the Rounds of Deep Springs. If we can make it there we will be safe. You will have a life there. But in the Bone Forest, what will you have? Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  Helga was silent for a time. Burwell had some excellent points. Yet her answer was not delayed long, and it was firm.

  “Burwell, I appreciate your good-spirited desire to help me. I know you worry about me. I treasure that—and I love the thought of going to the Rounds again. I grew up there. I would truly love it there. But I want a chance to regain my Papa. Somehow, I think Ola is right. The place I am seeking is not a place. My heart tells me that both my affection for the Rounds and my hate for the Bone Forest may blind me to the true path.” Burwell understood her meaning.

  “So, we are going to the Bone Forest.” Burwell observed. It was not a question, but a statement of conviction.

  Helga looked at her friend. “I am going to the Bone Forest,” she replied. “You and Bwellina should also follow your hearts. Go to the Cutoff and escape into the Rounds if you can.”

  “No, we go to the Bone Forest with you,” Bwellina declared, coming up to join the talk. “After what happened at King Stuppy’s Trading Post, we have no life here in the Drownlands any more. And after meeting you, we who have never before had a family, now have one. If you will have us, we are united in our quest to find Breister. What is a Bone Forest among family?” Bwellina finished, looking at her comrades with mock solemnity.

  “Well, other than the Bone Forest being a death sentence, it surely is a wonderful thing to share!” Burwell observed dryly. Helga looked at Burwell, and chuckled. “My plan is to share everything with you except the death sentence,” Helga replied with a grim smile. “And I think, to see Ola’s face, we are about to depart.”

  The first pink streaks of dawn were beginning to light the sky as Ola spoke. “Pick up yorn things quickly,” he whispered. “We’ve got to be movin’—the Locusts have stopped singin’. That’s the signal we’ve got visitors from King Stuppy! We’re warned in time to get away, but we can’t dally. I’ll load into the canoe and head out of here. I’ll lead the King’s men on a merry old chase, then I’ll slip away and they’ll never find me. Yor lay low, and then hike to the Bone Forest, safe and sound!”

  “You’re taking the canoe and leaving us here, Ola?” Helga said incredulously. “You want us to walk out of the Drownlands? This place is nothing but water and quicksand!”

  Ola smiled. “Yorn follow this sand-ridge line. It’ll lead yor all the way to the Bone Forest. Don’t leave the ridgeline, it’ll bein’ quicksand on all the sides—that’ll be yorn protection. The King will be thinkin’ yor will be paddlin’ out of the Drownlands,” Ola concluded, “but yorn be walkin’ right through the swamps. He’s not be thinkin’ that way!”

  Helga looked at Ola in amazement. “Ola, you’re a genius!” Helga enthused.

  “Niean, Misst Helgy,” Ola replied grinning. “It bein’ the power of the Enigma!”

  Giving a quick hug all the way around, Ola was soon in the canoe, paddling off into the dawn. Soon the lovely notes of a flute could be heard. As if led by a magical piper, several massive canoes filled with rough-looking Cougars, Boars, and Weasels, glided past Ola’s hidden retreat, where Burwell, Bwellina, and Helga waited. The evil-looking pursuers wore heavy, gold-braided uniforms and were armed with cutlasses and pikes. They also carried the trappings of the King’s royal court: elaborate banners and huge ensigns of solid gold.

  As soon as King Stuppy’s canoes had passed, and they felt certain they were far gone, the friends shouldered their packs and began following the sandy ridgeline, heading toward the Bone Forest.

  In the Path of the Gateless Wolf

  Ola paddled skillfully through some of the most tangled parts of the Drownlands swamps. Weaving his canoe in and out among the enormous trees, following an endless maze of bayous, Ola confused his pursuers and soon felt certain that King Stuppy’s thugs were hopelessly lost somewhere to his rear. Despite feeling safe, Ola paddled on and on, at last heading into the Everlost region of the Drownlands—a trackless area of thick reed forests. Thin, resiliant reeds towered eight to twelve feet above the surface of the water. Flexible and light, the grasslike reeds moved in the breeze like waves. Ola loved the Everlost because of the great enigma it represented. “Now, if yorn be’in Ever Lost, the creature must o’known he’s not lost at least once, or he wouldn’t know he be’in lost!”

  But Ola also knew the Everlost was a dangerous place. With no solid ground or trees to be found, a creature had to stay in a boat. But in the boat, nothing could be seen except gently waving reeds on all sides. In places, the reeds were so tall and dense that they obscured most of the sky, leaving the traveler to ‘burrow’ through the reeds in a canoe. Ola freely went in and out of the Everlost, relying on the power of Enigma: “If yor be’in in the Everlost, follow the way of those that not be’in lost! Follow those on the way to somewhere!”

  Ola listened and observed the signs of flocks of birds overhead. The patterns of flight that he could glimpse through the reeds and the sound of the bird calls gave him a direction to follow. “The birds know wh
ere they be go’in,” Ola thought, “so I can go the same place they be go’in.” By such a method Ola always successfully traversed the Everlost, although he never knew exactly where he would come out! But, being a Gateless Wolf, Ola typically did not care where he ended up. It was an adventure to explore new places. Living in his canoe for as long as it took to leave the Everlost behind, Ola did not mind the slowness of this progress through the reeds. There were plenty of fish and fresh water to sustain him until he found his way.

  When he at last did emerge from the Everlost, he was in unfamiliar terrain. He saw rolling grassy hills before him, mottled here and there with small fields of corn and vegetables. Pulling his canoe up on dry land for the first time in several days, Ola slowly worked the cramps of the long confinement in his canoe out of his legs, arms, and back. Spying a tall oak tree nearby, he took his flute pouch and headed off to hang by his feet and play his flute for a while. It was that time of the day when the sun is just beginning to set. Ola planned to hang and play his flute until just before dark and then make a simple camp for the night.

  He had just climbed the tree and was stepping out on a branch to get settled into position, when he saw something off in the distance that startled him. A large male Wood Cow was working in a corn field! Could it be Breister? Ola was so overjoyed at the possibility that he dropped from the tree clumsily and ran off to investigate.

  As he approached the muscular creature busily hoeing weeds, he could see that he was definitely dressed in a manner and style similar to Helga. Clearly, he was of the same clan. Grinning widely, Ola called out, “Yor be’in Breister? Yor know’in a Wood Cow named Helgy?”

  Dropping his hoe, the beast ran to meet Ola. “Breister? Helga? Do you know such creatures, friend? Have you seen them?”

  Disappointed that the Wood Cow obviously was not Helga’s lost father, Ola still retained his happy smile. At least the stranger seemed to know who Breister and Helga were.

  “Who yor be’in?” Ola asked. “Yor be’in a friend of Breister and Helgy?”

  “Aye, my friend,” his new acquaintance answered. “My name is Emil. If you are talking about Helga of the Hedgelands, then that is a Wood Cow I know. She is my sister.”

  “Breister’s son!” Another member of Helga’s family! Perhaps he might know how to locate Breister.

  Unfortunately, however, Emil had no news about Breister. In fact, Ola knew more about Breister and Helga than Emil did. Emil had not heard the news of the expulsion of the Wood Cows. After he had escaped from Maev Astuté, he had been completely unable to steer the balloon and traveled far beyond the Hedgelands.

  “I tried desperately to pilot the balloon,” Emil explained, “but I had no time to learn. When I jumped on the bicycle in the High One’s Throne Room, I had no idea it was a launch vehicle! The launch completely surprised me, and with my Coyote friend draped over my shoulders, I could not handle the controls. I attempted to direct the balloon, but failed.”

  Emil shook his head in disbelief as the memory of the balloon launch came back. “The wind was ferocious. It threw the balloon wildly this way and that. All I could do was keep us from being tossed overboard! Although I felt nauseous, I did manage to accidentally flip a lever that popped open an enclosure to form a passenger basket around the bicycle. With that small shelter available, we both collapsed in the bottom of the basket and rode the winds. It was very cold. The basket enclosure was fairly well closed at the top, but at the bottom there were so many gears, wheels, and other machinery that it was quite open. I had no idea where we were carried. Low-hanging clouds made it impossible to see the ground, and we sailed far past the limits of the Forever End. The balloon traveled on far into the night, in what direction I could not guess.”

  “Yor came down near’s about, I take it?” Ola inquired.

  “Aye, the balloon landed not far from here,” Emil replied. “I tell you, Ola, that balloon just suddenly dropped like a rock! A seam split open. We were fortunate that the split was relatively small. We dropped rapidly, but the balloon lost gas slowly enough that, although we crashed hard, we were not badly hurt.”

  “Yorn Coyote friend is here?” Ola asked.

  “Aye,” Emil answered. “His name is PorNart-1604. He’s with me at Mar-Marie and Ord’s house.” Noting Ola’s quizzical look, Emil continued. “Mar-Marie and Ord are Norder Wolves who live with their four daughters and three sons in a house just on the other side of this cornfield. 

  “Norder Wolves!” Ola exclaimed. “Here?”

  Emil looked at Ola with a pitying look. “And just exactly where do you think ‘Here’ might be?”

  Ola did not reply. He realized that he could not be sure where he was, but he was very surprised to find Norder Wolves. His wide wanderings in the wilderness gave him a broad understanding of where the homelands of different folk lay, and what patterns of movement different adventurers, traders, and rogues tended to follow. Norder Wolves near the Everlost? He had never heard that. He was puzzled. Then he realized the problem. “Enigma!” he breathed softly to himself. “The more a creature be’in sure he knows stoof, the more likely it be’in that he don’t know it all.” Drawing on the power of Enigma, Ola regained his composure. He was ready to meet the Norder Wolves.

  “Come on, Ola,” Emil invited, “I’ll introduce you to Mar-Marie and Ord.” Picking up his hoe, Emil motioned for Ola to follow. As they walked around the cornfield, Emil related more of his story.

  “See that low hill right over there? That’s where the balloon crashed. When we came down, it wasn’t easy for us. PorNart-1604 was in terrible shape—frostbite, maybe some broken bones, shallow breathing. I was very worried. But from the hillside, I could see the faint light of the farmhouse and felt hope. Although very weak and exhausted, I picked up PorNart-1604 and carried him to the farmhouse. When we reached it, I managed to knock once. When Ord opened the door, I toppled over into the house. Mar-Marie nursed me and the Coyote back to health.”

  Ola was fascinated by the story. His mind raced. Norder Wolves were distant ancestors of Ola’s folk. So, there was some special interest in his anticipation of meeting Mar-Marie and Ord.

  As they approached the farmhouse, Ola could see a heavy set female Wolf in a plaid apron sweeping the dirt path in front of the house.

  “Hullo! Mar, we’ve got a visitor! Call Ord! It’s a friend of my sister!”

  Mar-Marie stopped her sweeping and looked curiously at Ola. She, too, was apparently surprised to meet another Wolf. She gave a warm and welcoming smile.

  The beautiful weather, warm and mild, and the bright red and green plaid Mar-Marie wore made the welcome seem especially lovely to Ola.

  “Nar, sweets! Just hold there a moment,” Mar-Marie greeted them. “The dust is deep in the path. It’s not fitting as a welcome. Hold just there a moment, while I finish my sweeping.” The female Wolf swept the dirt path furiously, setting up great clouds of dust, stripping off every speck of dust that could be removed.

  When she stopped sweeping at last, she smiled again at her visitors. “So sorry, sweets, but you caught me in my evening sun-making. I dare not delay it,” she said, as if they would certainly understand. “Nar, sweets, forgive me a bit more, if you would. Stay there while I get Ord and bring you some water to drink.” As friendly as the Wolf’s welcome had been, she still made it clear they were not to approach the house yet.

  Ola looked to Emil questioningly. Emil, understanding Ola’s bewilderment, grinned at him. “Aye, it seems odd, does it not?” he remarked. “But there’s a beautiful reason that we are asked to respect.”

  Soon, Mar-Marie returned with a crockery pitcher of water and cups. She offered some to Ola and Emil. “If you’ll be so kind as to sit over there while you drink your water, I’ll finish up my sun-making in a stitch. Ord is down in the root cellar doing some work. Now, if you’ll just excuse me a bit, I’ll finish up and we can welcome you proper.”

  Carrying the pitcher and cups over to a bench Mar-Marie had
indicated, Ola and Emil sat down to wait. Ola noticed that the Wolf was now sprinkling the area she had swept with water, making it damp but not muddy. Then she came back with her broom and swept the sprinkled area furiously. Ola had never seen such a thing.

  “It’s a kind of ritual that Mar does every day just at sunset,” Emil explained. “She calls it sun-making. She believes that if she does not leave the path in front of her house spotless and easy to travel in the dark each day, that the sun will not be able to find its way to her door...Mar says that the new day will not come if her path is not clean and easy to walk in the dark.”

  Ola gave Emil a broad smile. He liked Mar already! She understood the power of Enigma! “Emil, Mar be’in a wise creature. Yor find’in the brightest light only by clean’in the places that can’t be cleaned! Yor mak’in a path in the dark for the brightest light!” Emil, still not fully acquainted with Ola, gave his new friend an appreciative, but uncertain look.

  When Mar-Marie had finished sweeping, the path in front of her house was extremely smooth; the dirt surface hard-packed and clean. Without a doubt, Ola could see that the stretch of path going past Mar-Marie’s house clearly stood out from the rest of the path. He found it hard to imagine the sun walking along in the dark and needing a special surface to find its way, but he respected the belief of his host. If nothing else, her efforts did make the path beautiful and easy to walk. And who really knew what made the sun rise? He certainly didn’t. Maybe she was right!

  “So, come on into our house, sweets,” Mar-Marie invited. “You’ve found a lost traveler, I see, Emil?” she said, looking at Ola.

  Walking into the house, Ola saw a male Wolf, dressed in rough dark clothes; like legends Ola had once heard of voyagers on the distant seas. The Wolf had long ashes-gray hair. Ola judged that he was perhaps forty years old, similar to what he guessed Mar’s age to be. The Wolf was heavy set, like his wife. Although his rough coat bulged with a bit of a paunch, he was nevertheless strongly muscular, with thick arms, broad shoulders, and clear eyes circled by wizened rings.

  “Ord,” Mar-Marie said to the Wolf as he ascended the last stair or two out of what was apparently a cellar under the house, “you must leave your work and welcome a new friend.”

  The Wolf walked quickly over to Ola, holding out both his paws to him. “Greetings, take peace in our humble house,” he said, grasping Ola’s paw in both of his own in a warm pawclasp. “What business brings you?” he asked.

  “My business?” Ola repeated, pausing. “I am a Gateless Wolf, a follower of the path of Enigma.”

  “Seeing your outfit, there’s no question what you are,” Ord replied. “We’re well-acquainted with the path of the Gateless Wolf. But what’s your business?”

  “I be’in a wanderer in search o’ the lost and trooubled,” Ola answered. “I roam the wilds hop’in to find travelers need’in help. I be’in in yorn lands in service to a missing Wood Cow, late of the Hedgelands, family of Emil, and now unknown.”

  A shadow passed briefly across Ord’s happy face. “This Wood Cow—the Hedgelands, you say? There’s many a missing beast that’s n’er seen again in the Hedgelands,” he said, looking grim. “You came out of the Everlost,” Ord observed, “that means you’re likely either escaping from someone, or hunting someone. No one goes into the Everlost on a lark. So, what’s your business?” Ord’s words were now cool and hard.

  Ola was confused. “Why, I be’in a wander’in beast, no moore, no less. A help’in creature. I be only escap’in King Stuppy’s rouges and cutthroats. Why do yor welcome a stranger with such questions? Yorn own good beast sense knows well that what I say be’in true.” Ola suddenly leaped up and swung into the rough-hewn rafters of the farmhouse. Hanging by his feet he looked at Ord with twinkling eyes. “If yor need’in more proouf that I be’in a true Gateless Wolf, I’ll just be’in play’in yor a tune on my flute,” Ola said, putting this flute to his lips.

  “Now, you're a feisty one,” Ord returned, shaking his head with a renewed affection. “I'm glad you’re full of spirit, a feisty one! But don’t hold it hard against me...I had to test you. We’d be sorry later if you weren’t what you say.” Then, to Ola’s astonishment, Ord himself swung up onto the rafter and hung by his feet too!

  “Yor be’in a Gateless Wolf!” Ola exclaimed. “No other creature knows how to be hang’in like that.”

  “And what did you think?” Ord replied. “Did you imagine that all the Gateless Wolves are wandering youngsters like yourself?”

  There was no need to say more. Ola and Ord both dropped to the floor and embraced like long-lost brothers. Pulling up chairs before the fire, they fell into animated conversation. Talking far into the night, they barely stopped for the dinner that Mar-Marie and Emil prepared.

  Emil listened with interest as he and Mar worked on the other side of the room. Much of the talk bore no special interest for him. But a change in his manner of disinterested attention occurred when Ord explained how he and Mar had chosen to settle in the remote unsettled lands along the crest of the Everlost.

  “We are pioneers of a sort,” Ord said. “Mar and I made our homestead here nearly thirty years ago. I grew up in a clan of sea-faring Norder Wolves, and for a long time the wanderlust of that life carried me along. I sailed for some years as a young rip,” he continued. “But later I grew tired of the sea, and followed the Gateless Wolf path. Although I loved the practice of Enigma and the rest of the Gateless Wolf ways, the lonely life of wandering from place to place did not satisfy me. I could not ignore the promptings of my heart that something was missing. Especially when I first laid eyes on Mar-Marie! Seeing her made me feel like the Gateless Wolf life would be so much more wonderful if she would go along with me. So, I asked her to take to the Gateless Wolf path with me.”

  “Yor did what?” Ola exclaimed. “Yor asked Mar to take to the Gateless Wolf ways?” Ola’s head was spinning. Such a thing had never been heard of before. A female following the way of the Gateless Wolf?

  Seeing that Ola was speechless, Ord continued. “Calm yourself, Ola,” he said. “Keep listening! If you wonder at what I did, I hope you see how it might be possible to be even stronger on the path, even though I have left the path.” Ord paused, looking fondly at Ola, as if waiting for something.

  Ola looked puzzled for a moment, then exploded: “Enigma!” he laughed. “Yor an old Gateless Wolf still!” Ola cried.

  Ord told Ola that Mar-Marie had said that the Gateless Wolf path was not for her. “She said that the Gateless Wolf life was fine for me, but she wanted to do something that helped more folk than one traveler here or there.”

  “Now, don’t get me wrong,” Mar chimed in from where she and Emil were preparing dinner, “What I actually told him was that wandering around helping creatures you happen to stumble over is fine, but what I wanted was to help the masses of creatures you know are in trouble without waiting to stumble over them!”

  “And how are yor do’in that?” Ola asked.

  “We’ve been farming here all these years,” Mar replied. “We’re about the only creatures out in this land, but a few other pioneers are beginning to come.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Ola responded.

  “Oh, don’t be too glad of it,” Ord said. “Our whole service to the Gateless Wolf path depends on not too many people being around. We’d rather not have too many neighbors!”

  “How does farm’in—here all by yorn lonesome—follow the Gateless Wolf path?” Ola asked.

  “Well,” Ord replied slowly, looking to Mar to see how far he should go in his explanation. Seeing her nod, he went on, “Well, you see, Ola, we help slaves escape from the Hedgelands!”

  “How?” Ola asked in astonishment.

  “Ah! Well, that’s a long story,” Ord replied. “The sort of story where you end up hanging on the gallows if you happen to tell the wrong person.” He sipped some hot tea that Emil had poured for him, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with his heavy paw on
the mantel.

  “Could I make a guess, I wonder?” Ola asked. Ord allowed as how Ola could guess all he wanted.

  With his heart beating rapidly, Ola rose out of his chair, and walked over to where Mar-Marie’s broom rested in the corner of the room. Holding the broom like he had seen Mar do when she swept the path in front of their house, Ola began sweeping as he had seen Mar do earlier.

  “Say, for instance,” Ola said slowly, as he continued the sweeping motion, “that a group of escaped slaves happen’in to be pass’in down yorn path under cover of darkness. Say they carry’in no lamps for fear of call’in eyes upon them. Say they are stumbl’in along in the dark and need’in a place of refuge. Say they find an unusually clean and smooth place in the path.” Ola paused, looking from Ord to Mar with excitement in his eyes. “Say that such an unusually clean and smooth spot in the path is a signal that yorn house is a safe-house for those same escaped slaves!”

  Electrified looks passed between each person in the room. Ord smiled. “Well done, Ola!” he said. “You are now eligible to swing on the gallows with the rest of us.”

  “Well, some honors depend on the company,” Ola laughed. 

  “Yes, Ola, dear friend, we’ve made a way for crowds of troubled creatures to find their way to safety. This is our lifework in the path of the Gateless Wolf!” Again he took both Ola’s paws in his own. Mar-Marie and Emil came over and joined with Ola and Ord. Ola’s eyes filled with tears as he realized the extreme danger these dear friends were surely in each day.

  “Don’t you mind us, Ola,” Ord said, sensing his concern. “We’ve carried on these thirty years by ourselves and will carry on as long as we can. Don’t fear for us.”

  “Is there no one else?” Ola asked.

  “Oh, there be others, all right,” Mar replied. “But it’s that line we will not cross with you tonight. Too many count on our silence about them. We trust you completely,” Mar continued, “but even the most trusted of us make mistakes. The more people, the more possibility of mistake. We cannot risk it with you. At least not yet.”

  A new thought suddenly occurred to Ola. The Coyote was missing. He had not seen a sign of PorNart-1604 or any of Mar and Ord’s children since he had arrived. “I thought yor had a Coyote guest,” Ola commented, “and some reputed children as well.”

  No one responded to the question, so Ola answered his own question. “Yorn don’t really have all those children. Those are yorn helpers. Creatures who lead the escapees along to freedom. PorNart-1604 is one of them.” Ola looked to Ord and Mar for confirmation.

  “Close to the mark, Ola, but wide of the heart of the matter,” Mar smiled. “We do have children, but they are all grown. We are not young anymore. Yes, some lead those escaping to safety. Some have other reasons to be gone just now. Some live elsewhere. PorNart-1604 is not an escaped slave. Emil no doubt told you how he came to be here.” Mar paused, looking fondly at Ord. “We’re better people than when we came here. We’re better because of the creatures that have visited. We learn from each of them. PorNart-1604 is rebuilding the balloon. He thinks he can repair it and improve it. We hope to use it to carry on our work!”

  “How do you mean?” Ola asked.

  “Well, let’s just say it’s a very long walk from the Hedgelands,” Ord said with a wink. “PorNart-1604 is up in the hills for a time. He’s building a workshop and forge to make new parts.” Mar put a finger to her husband’s lips.

  “No more just now, Ord. We’ve trusted this new friend with a great deal tonight. Let us see how it goes on for a while. Caution is necessary.”

  So saying, the talk on this subject ended for the night, with conversation moving on to happier topics. All told jokes and laughed until their jaws hurt. Gradually the night slipped away. Ola was thoughtful. He resolved to stay with Mar and Ord for a time to see what other new things he might learn.

  Welcome, Woonyak!

  “AYYYIEEEE!” Breister was surprised to hear the long scream coming from his mouth. He was supposed to be drowned, dead, submerged in a watery grave. Yet he was aware that he was screaming. “AYYYIEEEE! YAAAAHHHHH!” He was tumbling, falling, spinning head over heels, falling, falling, screaming...

  How long he fell he did not know. It seemed like a very long time, yet could not have been very long. The river poured through a massive hole in the rock—the whirlpool leading into a tunnel through the rock that sent the surging river deep underground. The rock tunnel opened out into a huge underground cavern, spilling and spraying the watery flow out of an opening at the top. The water fell from the high ceiling of the cavern like a waterfall. The cascade of water fell from such a height that, by the time it landed in the lake, it was dispersed into mist and a powerful rain-like downpour.

  KERSPLOOSH! With a tremendous splash, the burly Wood Cow plunged into the cold water of the lake. In the pitch-blackness, Breister’s eyes were so useless that it was as if he had lost his sight. From the sound, he sensed he was in a huge cavern. How far underground he was he could not guess.

  The lake was deep enough that Breister could not touch the bottom. Exhausted, deeply chilled by his long exposure to the frigid waters, and struggling against despair, Breister paddled out of the direct fall of the water. Gasping for breath, he was grateful that there seemed to be no strong current in the lake to fight. He floated quietly, sculling only enough to stay afloat, catching his breath for the first time since the Cougar had attacked him. Breister did not know where he was, but he was deeply grateful to simply be able to rest.

  “Ahhh, to rest...beautiful rest...sweet, blissful rest,” he thought. “So tired, so very, very tired...can’t move my arms and legs...so tired...too tired...need to rest...” The fight against the Cougar, the brutal pounding by the water and rocks in the river, the lung-ripping, gasping struggle to breathe, the numbing cold of the water—all this punishment had left him limp with fatigue. His strength ebbing away, Breister lapsed into unconsciousness. As the muscles of his neck relaxed, his face pitched forward into the water. The biting cold of the water had no effect in reviving him, but rather dragged him deeper into icy rest.

  “Hunjah! Woonyak!” Breister heard the strange words as if they came to him from a far away place. They seemed friendly and inviting. He turned to look in the direction of the voice and found that his eyes were closed. Forcing them to open against a powerful desire to sleep, Breister saw a frightful-looking Sheep bending over him. The Sheep wore the hair around her head close-cropped, and had brightly-colored designs swirling around her eyes and ears. She was robed in an intricately embroidered caftan, which emphasized her startling appearance. Fantastic animals leaped and pranced in the designs and a large, many-colored bird with two sets of wings clutched a sun in its talons. Sharp bone needles held her clothing together, and long curling bone hooks, painted with stripes, were laced through her cheeks.

  Was this another wild hallucination? It did not seem terrifying. Breister’s confused thoughts struggled to make sense of it, but could not, and he lapsed back into sleep.

  Awaking some time later, Breister found himself lying on a pallet of soft feathers. Several brilliant shafts of sunlight cut long, sloping beams through the semi-darkness. He realized that he was no longer wet. Somehow, a soft, bright green sheet of cloth that wrapped across his body and tied at the shoulder had replaced his wet clothes, toga-style.

  “Hunjah!” The apparent greeting announced the reappearance of the strange Sheep, accompanied by a servant, who brought a steaming drink to Breister. He gulped the hot beverage greedily. A sharp, but not unpleasant, spicy sweetness had a stimulating effect, making him feel refreshed and warmed after his long immersion in the frigid water.

  “Hunjah!” the strange Sheep repeated, kneeling down by Breister. “We welcome you, Woonyak,” she continued. “It has been a long time since we have had such a great Woonyak among us. Hunjah!”

  “Excuse me, friend,” Breister replied, “but I don’t understand you. Why do you call me Woonyak?” Breist
er was very grateful for his apparent rescue and the care that the friendly Sheep was showing him, but he was also curious.

  The Sheep looked kindly at Breister. “You are a ‘fallen one’—a Woonyak in our tongue—one who has fallen through the OmpotoWoo. You would say it was the ‘Great Tear’ or ‘Place Where the World is Torn.’ Few of your kind have ever fallen. It is an honor and privilege that you came to us. Hunjah!”

  “There are more of you?” Breister burst out excitedly. He realized how much he wished to know. There were others? Who were they? Where was he?

  “I am WooZan, chief of the WooSheep. I pulled you from the OmpotoWoo and brought you here. I thought you were dead when I found you. I brought you to the Golden Grotto to heal and recover. Hunjah!” Sweeping her extended arm with royal dignity, she drew Breister’s gaze around the large cavern where he found himself. Light streamed through skylights—variously sized jagged openings in the rock—scattered across the high vault of the grotto. A wondrous, ethereal lutescence sparkled here and there with a deep golden glitter as the light played on the mineral formations. The effect was otherworldly, unlike anything Breister had ever seen. The sparkling glitter...Was it real gold? He wondered without speaking.

  “No, it is not what you call ‘real gold’...” WooZan commented, smiling at Breister. “You are surprised that I read your thoughts?” she continued. “Woonyaks are all the same. They think that what they call ‘real gold’ is so dear and precious that they think only of that,” WooZan said shaking her head. “This Golden Grotto sparkles with the light from above that gives its loveliness to the simple, plain rocks of the Grotto. Without the light, the rocks are very simple and humble. Yet see what glory they gain from the light!”

  Breister looked about in astonishment. Far above their heads, the cavern had several openings to the outside. Shafts of sunlight beamed into the cavern through the ragged holes in the rock. He had never seen, or imagined, such a thing. The cavern, far underground, was open to the world outside! Breister felt a surge of delirious happiness course through him. He could escape the underground! He could search for Helga!

  “You are thinking about the other world,” WooZan observed. “Your eyes are fixed on the LuteWoo, and you are thinking about escape.” Breister looked at WooZan with surprise. She had once again seemed to read his thoughts.

  “No, I do not read thoughts,” WooZan said. “You think because I know what you are thinking, that I can see inside your mind. No. No. I only know the feelings that you feel so well that I need not be told what they are. Since the first day of the WooSheep, our folk have known these feelings. No Woonyak that has joined the WooSheep over the ages has ever had a different thought than you. I know exactly what to expect from you. Hunjah!”

  Breister looked at the WooSheep chieftain with curiosity. “There are many Woonyaks?” he asked.

  “Yes, but it is still a great occasion for us when a Woonyak comes,” WooZan replied. “Over a thousand, thousand lifetimes, there is time for many Woonyaks and each one brings something new to the WooSheep. Their coming is a great event among our folk. The first of our people were Woonyaks. Our stories tell about them. And the fall of each Woonyak is a great event—a renewal of our story and our people. There will be a story about you, also. As you become an elder among the WooSheep your story will be honored, it will be drawn on the walls of the Deep Caves, where all our great stories are recorded. You will be buried there also...your story will be with you forever.”

  “Whoa there, WooZan...Now, wait just a minute!” Breister protested. “You may know the Woonyaks you have seen in the past, but I’m a different case. I’m not staying here. I’m leaving to find my daughter. You’ve been very kind to me and I’m very grateful to you for saving my life, but—”

  “—but you have seen the LuteWoo, and you think you can escape from this world?” As before, it was less a question, than a statement of fact.

  “That’s exactly right,” Breister replied. “I’m getting out of here, just as soon as I learn the way.”

  “No one leaves the WooSheep, friend,” WooZan said quietly.

  “What do you mean?” Breister said, feeling a new sense of anxiety.

  “There is no way out,” the WooSheep explained. “There is no way to leave here. There are only the OmpotoWoo, which gives us our way of living, and the LuteWoo which reminds us of the promise of the afterlife.”

  “But the LuteWoo is open to the outside!” Breister exclaimed. “Surely there is a way—”

  “To climb out of this world?” WooZan completed the sentence. “See how well I know your feelings? All Woonyaks think exactly alike. Hunjah! There is no way out. But there is the promise of the life to come.”

  Breister’s mind was reeling. Could it be true? Was he condemned to live here to the end of his days?

  Breister sank into thoughtful silence. After a short time WooZan observed, “You are thinking that I must be wrong—that there must be a way to leave this world. Am I right?”

  “Yes! Yes! That’s exactly right!” Breister exploded. “You think you are so smart. You think you can sit there and know what I am thinking. Well, you’re wrong! I’m getting out of here, and you can think whatever you want about that!”

  “It’s not what I want to think, friend; it is the reality of things. Our stories tell that ages ago, the folk we now know as the WooSheep lived in the high, high mountains. We were simple Planting Sheep and happy with our life. But a time of great sickness came over that land and our folk became very sick. Many died. At last, the sickness was so great that our chiefs said it was best to leave our homes. Many of us loaded our belongings onto boats and tried to float down the river. Many died in the rapids. Many more fell through the OmpotoWoo and lived. Those became the WooSheep.”

  Breister was silent for a long time. WooZan honored this silence. After some time, Breister said, “Why can’t we ascend through the LuteWoo? Has anyone tried?”

  “The LuteWoo is the home of the Fire Beetles,” WooZan responded. “The Fire Beetles excrete an acid that covers their bodies. Touch it and your skin burns like fire for days. Over the thousands of years the Fire Beetles have lived there, the small bit of the acid clinging to their feet has gradually dissolved the rock, making the natural skylights above our heads. That, and the fact there is no way to reach the openings, makes it impossible to leave, even should one want to go. Hunjah!”

  “Should one want to?” Breister repeated. “Why would one not want to leave?” Breister asked incredulously.

  “Woonyaks are all the same,” WooZan observed again. “A Woonyak falls through the OmpotoWoo and, if they survive, they have been so near death that they have seen the end of their lives before them. Then, those that survive eventually find their way into the Golden Grotto, where they can, at last, get out of the water. As you have seen, the Golden Grotto is incredibly beautiful, even otherworldly. The combination of magnificent beauty and the joy of simple survival gives Woonyaks the sense of having been saved by a miracle. Is that not what you, yourself, believe?”

  Breister had to admit that he did have some of that feeling. The despair of being utterly lost, the struggle against the river, the fearsome whirlpool and the certainty of death, the long fall into the darkness not knowing what might be at the bottom, the sense of immediate, inevitable doom...all this created an almost insane sense of release when one did not die.

  “Surely your survival was a miracle, yes? Isn’t that what you believe?” WooZan spoke softly, yet with an unsettling conviction. Breister did not know exactly what to think about the WooSheep chieftain.

  “You have been delivered by the Great Power, saved from extinction,” WooZan continued. “When Woonyaks see the LuteWoo they think of escape. Then they learn that there is no escape and they rage against that. Then they gradually realize that there truly is no escape and they come to love the life of the WooSheep. They come to the Golden Grotto and worship the Great Power that saved them. They find peace in the promise of the afterl
ife here. The WooSheep have all that is needed. All Woonyaks come to see this. They learn that they have no further need for the other world. WooSheep do not even believe they can reach the other world before death. All Woonyaks come to see this. Hunjah!”

  Breister said nothing. He saw there was no reason to argue with WooZan further.

  “Come. Come with me and we will eat with the WooSheep brethren. It is the time of Common Bowl.”

  WooZan showed Breister a small boat, just large enough for the two of them and her attendant. They boarded the boat and the servant began to paddle through the darkness. Leaving the Golden Grotto, WooZan explained: “The Golden Grotto is a place for retreat and reflection only. I, WooZan, come here daily to reflect on my duties as chieftain. Woonyaks are also brought there immediately after being rescued. It assures them that they are truly safe and delivered after their terror. The entire community of WooSheep comes here on the Days of Great Light—the days when the light is brightest from the LuteWoo. Hunjah!”

  “But how do you live down here?” Breister wanted to know. He could not believe that beasts could actually survive in such a place. As they left the Golden Grotto, the darkness gradually again became so intense that Breister could not see WooZan, although she sat just a few feet away. “Surely you can’t just live...”

  “Just live here like ‘normal’ beasts?” WooZan said, shaking her head. “Woonyaks are all the same. You do not believe, yet. But you will believe when you see! Hunjah!”

  Although the complete darkness left Breister unable to see anything, WooZan’s servant seemed to paddle with a purpose toward a definite destination. Then, they apparently rounded a corner and Breister saw a dazzling sight. Thousands of lanterns glittered within a huge, water-filled grotto. “Welcome, Woonyak, to WooPeace,” WooZan said. “Hunjah!”

  Breister was astounded. Hundreds of houses were carved into the rock. Wherever he looked, lanterns twinkled in rock-hewn windows. The rock-houses were built at all heights. Some were just above water level. Others were far up the sides of the grotto, reached by narrow, winding stairways carved in the rock. “The OmpotoWoo gives us our life,” WooZan observed. “Wood and other items from smashed boats, other kinds of driftwood, fresh fish, and new Woonyaks who join and refresh our folk!”

  Breister had lost all sense of time. How long had he been below the surface of the earth? What day was it? What time was it? Such questions seemed not to matter to WooZan.

  Tying up the boat at a landing, WooZan stepped out of the boat and said, “Come, join in the Common Bowl; you are welcome among us. Hunjah!”

  Breister followed WooZan up several flights of stairs onto a large landing where many creatures were gathered to eat. The WooSheep, Breister saw, were not all Sheep. There were many other kinds of beasts as well—Foxes, Cougars, Coyotes, Goats, Badgers, and Rabbits.

  WooZan watched Breister’s reaction to what he was seeing. “Yes, the WooSheep are a diverse folk,” she commented. “Woonyaks come from many clans. But any who join the life of the WooSheep become one of us. The WooPeace is for all. Our life is for all. Our hospitality is for all.”

  And the hospitality was, indeed, marvelous, Breister discovered. He feasted with the WooSheep until his gut hurt. The WooSheep used fire in their candles, oil lanterns, and a few other ways, but not in their cooking. All food was eaten raw, usually marinated in a vast array of tasty sauces. Fish was the basic staple of the WooSheep diet, but the array of fish dishes was vast. On his first plateful, Breister had Shadowgrass and Smeed Smod Salad, Spicy Salamander Soup, Thick Cave Bass Frumplets, Deep Grotto Bat Cream Sauce, and Rawski Booglehead Filets with Moondles. Breister would not have believed such scrumptious foods could exist underground. His stomach was definitely impressed with the WooPeace!

  Breister learned that the WooSheep used almost every element of the underground world for something. In a world that Breister had thought was limited, the WooSheep had found great abundance. As Breister ate happily and laughed with his new friends, he felt a deep sense of love and acceptance. The WooSheep warmly opened their life to him. He felt accepted and happy. Yet, one question kept puzzling him.

  “The river pours so much water into the underground,” Breister asked. “Where does it all go? The water level does not rise, although there is constantly new water pouring in through the OmpotoWoo...The water is getting out somewhere. Your folk are brilliant, WooZan; surely they have explored this question. Surely, the water must somehow flow out. Isn’t there a way to follow the water out of here?”

  “All Woonyaks think this way at first,” WooZan replied. “They constantly fight against the reality of our life. Until they discover that the only peace is to become part of the WooPeace. There is no peace apart from the WooPeace. Hunjah!”

  “Has any beast ever tried?” Breister asked again.

  WooZan looked at Breister solemnly. “There is no peace apart from the WooPeace. It is the only way. All Woonyaks come to see this. So, too, will you,” WooZan repeated.

  “But has anyone tried?” Breister asked with firm resolve. “Has anyone tried to find a different way than just sitting here accepting the story that there is no way out?”

  “It is not a story, friend,” WooZan replied sharply. “There is only one way and that is the way of the WooPeace. To go apart from it is to die. Hunjah!”

  “But, WooZan, I keep asking you if any beasts have tried?” Breister said.

  “There is no peace apart from the WooPeace. To go apart from it is to die,” WooZan repeated. “This is the truth you must find. You will find it for yourself. The water flows out in a myriad of small springs and seepages, but there is no river flowing out. The only way to survive is the WooPeace. But you must find this truth for yourself. Spend some days and nights in the Golden Grotto. Meditate on its beauty and the bounty and fellowship you have found here. Rejoice in the miracle that saved your life. Reflect on the reality of the situation. You will find your way into the WooPeace. We will warmly welcome you. You will become family to us. All Woonyaks feel the same. We show them the Golden Grotto and the WooPeace and give them time in the Golden Grotto to meditate. They all come to understand the truth. There is no peace apart from the WooPeace. Hunjah!”

  “Thank you, WooZan,” Breister said. “I appreciate your kindness, but I already have a family. Tomorrow, I will begin my work of finding my daughter.”

  Later, as WooZan and her servant conducted Breister back to the Golden Grotto, neither said anything. In this instance, both knew what the other was thinking.

  Before turning in to sleep in the Golden Grotto, Breister sat gazing out through the LuteWoo. One by one, he saw stars begin to twinkle in the night sky. They passed before his gaze, as the turning earth brought different stars past the LuteWoo ‘window.’ It seemed to Breister that the ‘other world’ was spinning past him as he lay helplessly alone, deep within the earth.

 

  Slasher Annie Meets WooZan

  Water from the OmpotoWoo fell in a downpour on the figure of Slasher Annie. Sprawled across a piece of debris from her smashed boat, she struggled out of the main flow of the waterfall. Dazed and hurt by the fall through the whirlpool and the destruction of her stolen boat, Annie felt a little uncertain whether she was dead or alive. As she considered her situation, she realized that she seemed to be alive, but she wasn’t sure what that meant at that moment.

  “Where am I?” she thought to herself. “Am I dead and this is the gates of the underworld? Or is this some underground lake?” In the complete blackness, her eyes were useless. The downpour from the waterfall was deafening, making it impossible to hear beyond the closest sounds. It was as if everything she had known before had vanished.

  Panic-stricken, Annie slashed at the water, paddling with all her strength. Unable to see where she was going, she had no direction or goal, except to escape the unending sound and flow of the cascading water. The terrified Cougar swam with insane intensity. Trying to get...where?

  At last, finding not
hing but water and more water, unable to escape the roar of the falls, crazed with the terror that perhaps this was eternity and there was no escape, Annie sank into exhausted immobility, sobbing with the terror of one completely without hope of safety and deliverance.

  “Hunjah! Woonyak!” Peering into the intense blackness with eyes closed to narrow slits by fear, Slasher Annie could see nothing. Then a strong grasp pulled her into a boat. Feeling a strange sense of peace flood over her, Annie did not lash out with her claws as would usually have been her instinctive response to such a situation. Instead she went limp with exhaustion and collapsed in the bottom of WooZan’s boat.

  In the Bone Forest

  Helga’s small party followed the sand ridge for several days. Gradually, the terrain began to change. The watery marshes and wetlands of the Drownlands gave way to firmer ground and drier country. With each step they left the Drownlands further behind and the land became sun-baked and harsh.

  The rugged land became more and more difficult to travel. When not strewn with rocks, hillsides were slippery with sand. Finding it too exhausting to climb the forbidding bluffs or sandy slopes, the tiny band followed an easier, but somewhat longer route along the lower, more level ground.

  The lush marshes of the Drownlands gave way to bare, yellow-brown sandstone as far as the eye could see. Except for scattered patches of dry grass, there was no vegetation. With each step they took, there was less evidence of water. The provisions they had carried with them would soon be gone. Especially, their dwindling water supply was of great concern.

  Ominously, they came upon what appeared to be the remains of one of King Stuppy’s exploring parties. Strung out across the treeless waste, one by one, they came upon the skeletons of the King’s explorers sent to look for the Mountain That Moves But Stands Still.

  “Look at these fools!” Bwellina commented as they walked past the gruesome remains. “They died rather than leave their banners, golden ensigns, uniforms, and weapons behind.”

  “It’s true,” Helga replied. “Although they were dying of thirst, they never discarded their heavy uniforms and still carried along their useless paraphernalia!”

  “And still dragging their canoe!” Burwell observed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Miles and miles from water, dropping dead one by one, yet even to the last beast, carrying King Stuppy’s golden ensign...” Burwell’s voice trailed off as he stood looking down at the eerie remains. “This poor beast staggered a few more steps beyond the last of his comrades, clutching the heavy gold, and then collapsed with it wrapped in his arms. Poor fool—”

  “There, but for the blessing of the Ancient Ones, go we,” Helga replied grimly. “We may well be fools in other ways. Just because we avoid one road to folly, does not mean we will not take another. If we do not find water soon, we will perish just as surely.”

  “Well, the Ancient Ones are all about us,” Bwellina exclaimed, pointing ahead. “It is no wonder they call this the Bone Forest!”

  Massive bones poked out at all angles from eroded hills and bluffs. An ancient graveyard of giant beasts was being revealed by the erosion of centuries.

  “The Bone Forest!” Helga breathed, feeling for the first time real hope that perhaps she could find her father. The astonishing sight of ancient fossils, and the recent reminder of how deadly this land could be, left Burwell and Bwellina in solemn silence. It seemed hard to be hopeful. But Helga’s heart was truly happy for the first time in many months. Had her father been here? Had he gazed at this landscape she was now seeing? Would she find clues here that would help her find him? Somehow, she sensed she was on his track.

  Helga’s band of stalwart friends trudged onward, moving deeper into the Bone Forest. Burwell lagged behind, awe-struck by the fossilized bones. He began climbing up an eroded hillside.

  “Burwell!” Bwellina called. “Where in the name of good beasts are you going?”

  “This is the land I have always dreamed about,” Burwell yelled back, excitedly. “Since I was a wee beast, sittin’ on my Mama’s lap, I’ve been hearing stories of the Ancient Ones, the greatest beasts that ever lived, the giants of old! Here they are! All around us! I want to pay my respects. I want to imagine what it was like when they ruled the earth! I want to sit a while among them. Just a little while, my dear...Just a little while on the hill taking it all in. Yep! Yep! Yep!” Burwell kept climbing.

  Helga looked at Bwellina and sighed. “Well, I guess we could sit a spell and rest,” she mused.

  “But, Helga,” Bwellina protested, “every second we sit, I become thirstier, and my life ebbs away. If we don’t keep moving, we have no hope of finding water. We’ll sit here and become dusty bones ourselves! We’ve got to keep moving.” She called after Burwell again. “Burwell! Now you come back here. You can look at the Ancient Ones anytime you want—just as soon as we find water! Get back here, you sun-silly scalawag!”

  “No, my dear,” the old dog wheezed back, as he continued his scramble up the hillside. “I’ll not just walk by the remains of the Ancient Ones without remembering them with due respect. I’ve waited my whole life for this chance, which I never thought I’d get. I’d rather die of thirst than move on just now! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  “Let’s do wait a bit,” Helga said to Bwellina. A few minutes cannot hurt us that much...and Burwell is right. I have so often called on the memory of the Ancient Ones to help me...I want to do what is proper.” She stopped and reached for the water pouch slung over her shoulder. “Here, Bwellina, wash your mouth out with a sip of water...Just a small sip, we have to make it last as long as we can.”

  Taking a sip for herself, Helga swished it around in her parched mouth, savoring it. Slumping down by a boulder, which provided some shade, she gazed across the expanse of the Bone Forest. She felt an overpowering sense of gratitude. “Oh, thank you, Ancient Ones, thank you,” she breathed. Helga’s reliance on the help of the Ancient Ones had never failed her. Surely, somehow they would assist her.

  WooSheep Bottoms

  “Lookee out ya big galoop! Here I come! YAHOOOO!”  KER-SPLASH! Winert Otter landed in the swimming hole, creating a tremendous wave, right beside Ferrker Coyote. Both of them laughed as the huge splash washed over them. It was almost the end of summer and Winert, Ferrker, and their other best friend, Snorrnt Sheep were among the several dozen other youngsters enjoying the swimming hole at WooSheep Bottoms.

  “WheeZEEE! LOOOK AT ME!” Snorrnt screamed happily as he swung on a long rope out over the shady pool and let go. KER-SPLOOSH! He was followed by others swinging on several other ropes from other directions. KER-SPLASH-SPLASH-SPLASH-SPLOOSH! Happy little beasts ran to swing again, pushing and shoving to get in line.

  Swimming back to the bank, Snorrnt was about to yell, “You can’t make one like that, you big galoop!” when he stopped. “Who in the world is that?” he wondered, seeing a dusty old Dog standing on a hilltop not far away. The stranger’s clothes were worn and dirty, and he looked very tired.

  But, he soon learned the old beast was not too tired to run. In a flash, he was running full speed down the hill and diving, clothes and all, into the pool! Burwell Oswego had never felt such a glorious feeling in all his life. His worn, tired, parched body was immersed in the most wonderful cool, clear water! “YAAHOOOO! GOORGLE-OOOO! SPLASH! SPLOOSH!” Leaping and diving like some crazed monster fish, Burwell left all the young beasts howling with laughter at his antics.

  Finally, exhausted, he pulled himself up on the bank, gasping happily for breath. “Woooo, whew...That was so wonderful,” he wheezed with contented delight. Gazing dreamily out of his half-closed eyes, he might have simply dozed happily off into a nap, had he not seen a sight that made him burst out in wheezing laughter.

  Bwellina was running down the hillside toward him. Helga hobbled quickly after her, also heading straight for the swimming hole. KER-SPLASH-SPLASH! Clothes and all, she too plunged in with glorious joy!

  Winert and Ferrker looked at one another. “Wow!” F
errker said, “Hey, Cow-Lady, that was super!”

  Helga, spouting cool, clear water out of her mouth, laughed. “You haven’t seen anything yet! Just let me have a chance at that rope swing and I’ll show you some waves you’ll remember!”

  The travelers discovered that for many, many miles they had been struggling along within easy reach of water. The dry lands they had been traveling sat atop a wealth of underground water. Spreading out from the Drownlands, the huge aquifer was completely hidden in most places. What seemed to be a “barren wasteland” actually contained plenty of water, if you knew where to look. The top of the vast reservoir was deep underground in some places, but as at the swimming hole, it was at the surface in valleys between hills. Water so close to the surface produced a large number of lakes, “wet” meadows, and constantly flowing streams—in close proximity to large expanses of parched lands. WooSheep Bottoms, as residents called the area, had an abundant, but mostly invisible, supply of water.

  “Had we only climbed to the hilltops sooner...” Helga thought ruefully, as she sat on the bank splashing in the cool water. “But I guess the Ancient Ones had their own ways,” she reflected. “There probably is a reason that I should be here. That is the way of the Ancient Ones.” The happy yells of the young beasts swimming and splashing seemed to assure Helga’s heart that she, too, could again be happy.

  The travelers were invited to join in the annual community picnic that was being held that day. In a shady grove of cottonwood trees, all the beasts of WooSheep Bottoms were gathered. Helga was surprised to find that the ‘WooSheep’ were actually, for the most part, not Sheep at all.

  “WooSheep Bottoms is the home of all sorts of beasts,” Vernerdta Otter, the mother of Winert, explained as she led Helga through the serving line. “The Bottoms got its name from the first settlers, who were WooSheep. But over the years many other beasts of all kinds have settled here and been welcomed. We all came here for the same reason—so, even though we’re Otters, Sheep, Coyotes, Ducks, Foxes, Rabbits, we live together in peace. We’re all WooSheep, because it’s our home, not because we’re all Sheep. Nobody cares about that.”

  “Why does anyone come here?” Helga asked. “The land all around is so barren and forbidding. You must not get many visitors?”

  “We’ve seen only a few strangers in many years,” Vernerdta replied. “It’s very rare that anyone crosses the Great Barrens and survives. We are happy to have visitors, but we’re also glad they are rare. We like being protected from the outside world. Our life is happy and simple. We have all we need.”

  Helga was quiet in her reflections as she filled her plate with the luscious food, which was spread out on long tables. Sweet Meadow Greens Salad with Roasted Sunflower Seeds and Dried Cherries, Pecan-Crusted Pan-Baked Crayfish, Thrice-Whipped Cream Cheese Soufflé with So-Hot Pepper Sauce, Trumpet Rolls and Butter, Mulberry Pie, Apple-Pear Turnovers, and Watermelon. Everyone also took Glory Bars that were being distributed in beautifully wrapped packages to each person. The scrumptious sweet was unlike anything Helga had ever tasted before. A crisp, golden pastry crusted with nuts was filled with creamy nougat filling and blackberries at the center.

  Helga found a seat next to Burwell and Bwellina, who were stuffing themselves happily. Vernerdta was showing them how to extract the sweet meat from the hard shells of the crayfish. Helga was watching this with great interest, when her ears suddenly heard something that made her nearly drop her fork.

  Annie and Breister’s Search

  Breister lay in the Golden Grotto staring up through the LuteWoo, as the light gradually failed. Night was coming in the outside world. As the gloom deepened into the most complete darkness he could imagine, the only remaining light was the distant twinkling of stars he could see through the LuteWoo. They seemed so tiny and so few that the outside world was almost more a hope—even an illusion—than reality.

  “Hang onto your mind, Breister, hang on to your mind!” he urged himself. As he lay in the darkness, the eerie knowledge of how easy it would be to lose contact with the feelings and perceptions of the outside world touched him like a cold hand. “If I stay here, soon, very soon, that world will no longer exist for me. It will be a dream. Even now I feel its reality slipping away from me. WooZan is right. If I stay here, the only hope is to join the WooPeace. I will go mad living down here by myself. Either I escape or join the WooPeace...But the WooPeace is not a life. I must find Helga.”

  Breister sat gazing at the small patches of starry sky that he could see through the skylights far above. Most were too small to be more than dim pinpricks of light, but a few were brighter and could be seen passing across the opening. His mind returned again and again to the same question: “If the cave is open to the outside world through those skylights, why does no one find the openings? Surely over the years some beast must have seen them? If someone sees them, why does no one come here from the outside?” Muttering the question to himself over and over, Breister was baffled. Was there truly no way out?

  Immersed in these endless wonderings, he heard a faint swish. Breister could make out the eerie light of lanterns mounted on a boat. They glinted off of the water as the boat approached. Here and there the walls of the grotto sparkled in the glow of the lanterns. Soon WooZan had arrived with a passenger in her boat. A Cougar! In the faint light, it was hard to be certain, but it certainly looked like it might be the partner of the Cougar who had fallen in the river with Breister. Breister immediately stood up and took a coldly distant stance.

  “You know the Woonyak, I see,” WooZan commented. “You hate her. She has wronged you.” Again, the uncanny ability of the Sheep to anticipate Breister’s thoughts annoyed him.

  “Hunjah! Do not be annoyed with me, friend,” WooZan said. “It is not my fault that our folk have existed so very long that we know the feelings of the Woonyaks that fall from above. I see your look. I see your tense muscles. It can only be hate. Hate comes when one feels wronged or when one is ignorant. You are not ignorant. You see it is not so difficult. Hunjah!”

  Slasher Annie stepped out of the boat, looking around herself in amazement. Breister recognized the feelings of astonishment that he had also felt on first coming into the Golden Grotto. “You now see that you are not so different, yes?” WooZan observed, looking at Breister intently. “All Woonyaks are the same. Hate cannot last here. If you hate you die. There is life only in the WooPeace where hate is impossible. That is why we bring Woonyaks to the Golden Grotto and then to the WooPeace settlement. The true reality becomes clear.”

  Annie looked at WooZan with interest. “The fool,” she thought to herself with some creeping feeling of contempt, “this Sheep is nothing but butterflies and air between her ears.”

  “Be careful, friend,” WooZan said, turning and looking directly at Annie. “Ignorance is as dangerous as hate here. Those who have lived here in happy peace for centuries are not the fools. The fool is the one who thinks that the WooPeace is foolish. Hunjah!”

  Startled at WooZan’s seeming ability to know what she was thinking, Slasher Annie laughed nervously. “Oh, I wasn’t really thinking you were a fool...It’s just such a shock...to find...such a wonderful place to live!” Annie finished.

  WooZan sighed. “You cannot flatter us with empty praise. Your praise, today, is ignorant. You do not know your situation. You do not know the WooPeace. So, you praise out of ignorance. In a few days you will say the WooPeace is a wonderful place to live and mean it. Say such a thing then. Hunjah!”

  WooZan reached into the boat and pulled out a bundle of sticks. Slapping the bundle on her legs, the Sheep began to chant in a singsong voice. Sometimes she jumped from foot to foot in high arching leaps. Shortly the singing and leaping stopped and WooZan began to get back in her boat. “Farewell, friends,” she said, paddling away. “I have signaled the Fire Beetles that you are here and asked that they not harm you. You will be safe. You have food and fish-oil candles enough for two days. That is usually enough for Woonyaks to f
lirt with madness and come to the truth. I will return in two days. You will be ready to join the WooPeace then. Hunjah!”

  WooZan had hardly paddled out of sight, when Breister said, “I don’t know who you are, Cougar, and I don’t care at this point. I’m leaving this place. You may come with me, or you may stay here. But I’m leaving. So long as we’re here we’re as good as dead. This place is a tomb any way you look at it. It’s pointless for me to hate you in my own tomb. What good is it? I’m leaving. You coming or staying?”

  “Just as you say, this is a tomb,” Annie replied. “It is either a real tomb that we can never escape”—she paused and held a fish-oil candle toward Breister’s face—“or it is an illusion with no more reality than the shadows flickering on your face. We will find out which it is. Let’s go!”

  “But where do we go?” Annie continued a moment later. “There is water on one side; vertical, smooth walls on the other; and Fire Beetles above us, even if we could go up. Not promising.”

  “Wood Cows look to the virtues of the earth,” Breister observed. “Before you came, I was lying here meditating and listening to the sounds of the rock. I heard many openings in the rock. Let me show you.” Breister took a small pronghorn flute from his pocket. “This belongs to my daughter, Helga,” he explained. “She’s been teaching me to play it. I was playing it here a while ago and noticed that the echoes in this grotto are very interesting—at least to a Wood Cow!” he laughed.

  Breister played a series of rough, halting notes from the flute. “You see, I’m not very good,” he commented ruefully. “But listen to the echoes.” He played another series of notes.

  “I don’t hear anything interesting,” Annie said, thinking the Cow was perhaps a bit mad already.

  “It’s a Wood Cow art,” Breister replied, “and, if you know what to listen for, it is very clear. The echoes tell where there may be openings in the rock.” Breister played several more notes, listening intently.

  “The water is shallow over there,” he said, pointing. “If you don’t mind getting wet, I think we will find an opening a few feet below the surface.” That rock wall over there echoes like it is hollow. There are no openings on this side. But perhaps there are some below the water.”

  Although she looked at Breister as if he was, indeed, crazy, Annie smiled at him. “Cougars don’t like water,” she grimaced, “but I won’t count this as water—this is tomb juice, and we like tomb juice even less than water!”

  “Why don’t we wait for daylight,” Annie asked. “That will give us some better light to explore underwater. Our candles will be no use there.”

  “Daylight will not help us,” Breister responded. “The water has too many minerals in it. It is very cloudy. We will have to feel our way along anyway. I want to get out of here. We might as well try it now.”

  Reluctantly, Annie agreed and stepped toward the water’s edge.

  “No, you wait here,” Breister directed. “Let me explore first. I’ll come back and get you if I find an opening.” Slasher Annie looked at Breister doubtfully. “Trust me, Annie. I will come back. It may take me a while, but I will find a way and be back for you. Stay here.”

  Agreeing, Annie settled down on the rocky bank of the Golden Grotto’s lake as Breister dived under water. Over the next hour or so, she heard him repeatedly dive-surface-dive again. Then it was silent for a long time. Several hours passed. Annie grew worried, but realized worry made little difference. She was stranded in the Golden Grotto until either Breister or WooZan returned.

  At last, she heard a splash and Breister gasping for air! Swimming back to where Slasher Annie waited, Breister panted: “There are ten outlets leading in all directions from the lake, several of them large enough for us to go through. But this cave was hardly designed for travel,” Breister grimaced.  “Only one of the ten possibilities shows hope of getting us out of here,” Breister began slowly, before he broke into a broad smile. “But ONE IS ALL WE NEED! Come on, Annie, we’re getting out of here!”

  “There is one passage that works,” Breister explained. “We dive down, slip through the opening and then swim for a minute or so before the passage leads into another chamber.” He paused, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “You’ll need a big lungful of air, it’s a very long minute! Stay close to me. It’s easy to miss the passage opening.”

  Looking grimly, but hopefully, at each other, Breister and Annie slipped into the cold water. Swimming carefully along, feeling the stone wall, Breister guided Annie to the place in the rock wall where they would dive to enter the underwater passageway. Taking a deep gulp of air, they dived and headed into the passage.

  A long minute later, they surfaced gasping for air inside another chamber of the cave system. “This chamber is less open to the outside air,” Breister noted. “It’s cool and damp. The Golden Grotto was a little warmer and drier because it was open to outside air. Here the stone sweats and the air is musty. There’s much less fresh air. Our hope is that this chamber also has some exits that will allow us to go further. There must be some kind of passage...I feel deep sediment and sand on parts of the rock floor. That means it floods periodically from the outside! We’ve just got to keep looking.” Lighting the one fish-oil candle that had remained dry in its waterproof wrapper during their swim, they looked around the rocky chamber. It was much smaller than the previous one, and had no pools of water except for small puddles of water dripping from sweating rock.

  Breister settled down and, in the flickering light, again took out the pronghorn flute. Playing softly, he once again listened carefully for echoes in the chamber and considered what that might tell him about passages to freedom. Little did Breister and Annie imagine that some other ears were also listening to the music from the flute.

  JanWoo-Corriboo Knows Things

  The afternoon sun was warm and a dry wind rustled the cottonwood leaves as Helga strode through the bustling crowd to fill her plate again. But she soon stopped. The WooSheep were packed so tightly around the serving tables that Helga saw little hope of getting close soon.

  “Hmm, this might take us a little while,” she said aloud, thinking that Burwell was at her elbow as he had been earlier.

  A different, strange voice answered instead. “A little while? Well, at least it isn’t one of those huge monster ‘whiles’ that eat small children for breakfast!”

  Helga, startled by the strange answer, whirled around to see who had spoken. There were Burwell and Bwellina standing with bemused looks, and next to them a young female Fox dressed in khaki-colored shirt and breeches. Slightly built, and delicately-boned, the Fox appeared lithe and athletic. The reddish-blonde hair on her head was braided in rows of small cornrow braids running out from under the floppy cap she wore. Her eyes darted actively as she gazed at Helga through broad-lensed eyeglasses with wire frames.

  “JanWoo-Corriboo, and pleased to meet you, I’m sure!” the Fox said, speaking so rapidly the Helga could hardly keep up. Moving constantly, pulsating with some internal rhythmic beat, she continued, “You’re looking for the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’ I hear.” JanWoo-Corriboo paused, looking at Helga, then concluded simply, “I know where it is.”

  Helga’s eyes widened in surprise and then she looked seriously at the strange young Fox. “You do? Where is it?” she asked with cautious excitement.

  “JanWoo-Corriboo knows a few things,” she replied mysteriously. “She knows the hills and canyons all around. She knows the names of the Ancient Ones whose remains lie in the Bone Forest. She knows the story of the WooSheep. She knows how to make hot chocolate and brownies...” She stopped and grinned at Helga. “And she knows about the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still.’”

  JanWoo-Corriboo was a prodigy. Barely eleven years-old, she was a brilliant explorer and prospector in the lands around WooSheep Bottoms. “The Bottoms are boring,” she said, with a snort. “Too comfortable. Too nicey-wicey. Too safe. Not enough danger and adventure. I like Rattlesnakes my
self,” she said, noticeably twisting a necklace she was wearing. “This is made from the rattles of a twelve-foot-long Rattler I wrestled last summer,” she explained. “I didn’t hurt the poor old fellow, but he did lose a bet I made with him. I bet him his rattles that I could beat him at wrestling. I won. That’s the sort of thing I like.” She grinned at her new friends.

  “I’m not too partial to Rattlesnakes, especially big ones! Yep! Yep! Yep!” Burwell stammered. “How about you all go right ahead and tramp around with the Rattlesnakes and I’ll stay here and enjoy the nicey-wicey, boring ol’ Bottoms?” They all roared with laughter as Burwell spoke with a quaver in his voice. Helga knew that Burwell was a brave and reliable friend. The old Bayou Dog would be at her side whenever she was in danger.

  “But, Burwell,” Helga said, looking surprised, “I thought you were the one who wanted to see the Ancient Ones! I’ll bet JanWoo-Corriboo can take you to the best places.”

  “Yes, that’s all well and good,” Burwell replied, “but I just don’t want to join the Ancient Ones!”

  “Not to worry,” JanWoo-Corriboo commented. “Where we’re going, there will be plenty of adventure without any Rattlesnakes!”

  Burwell looked soberly at Helga. “Uh, Helga, do you think that’s good news, or bad news?” he asked.

  “It’s neither,” JanWoo-Corriboo was quick to reply, “whether it’s good news or bad news depends on what we find. That’s the adventure part that I like!”

  “Ohhhh...I’m not going to like this!” Burwell sighed.

  The three friends learned a great deal about the WooSheep that afternoon as they planned their trip to find the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still.’

  JanWoo-Corriboo told them that the WooSheep had lived in the Bottoms for untold generations. The WooSheep were descendents of refugees escaping from another group of WooSheep that lived deep underground in caves.

  “The other WooSheep claim to be the only WooSheep,” she said, shaking her head. “They don’t acknowledge that we even exist! The first stories of our folk tell of a great whirlpool in the far off mountains that sucked all things in its power into underground caves. That was the origin of the first WooSheep. Finding themselves unable to escape, the early WooSheep learned to survive underground and made a life for themselves there. They still searched for a way out, but gradually became more and more content with their lot. As the years went by, the WooSheep society became increasingly close-minded. A few brave and free-thinking WooSheep managed to find a passage out of the caves—through the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’—and they tried to get the other WooSheep to follow them out. But the traditions of the ‘WooPeace’ as they called it were, by then, too strong. No one would listen.”

  Helga and her friends were amazed. “There are WooSheep living below the ground?” Helga asked incredulously. “How can that be possible?”

  “Oh, you can live there, all right,” JanWoo-Corriboo responded. “There is plenty of fresh water because the big river up in the mountains flows through there. There are fish, crawdads, frogs, and salamanders to eat, and they have bred flightless birds for eggs and feathers and long-haired mice that they shear to make wool for cloth. They are quite self-sufficient.”

  “Isn’t there any contact between the WooSheep in the Bottoms and those that live underground?” Helga asked. “Don’t you communicate, at least?”

  “Not in the least!” JanWoo-Corriboo said fiercely. “They are lost souls...fools who allow their WooZans to rule over them like tyrants! They get what they deserve. Once in a while, some beast will find an escape route and reach the Bottoms. We welcome these refugees, but beyond this we don’t care what the WooSheep underground do. We do not exist to them, and they do not exist to us!”

  Helga’s head was spinning. It was too astonishing to comprehend.

  “O.K...Well, let’s see...” Helga looked at Burwell in bewilderment. For once, Helga was speechless.

  “What about the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still?’” he asked. “Where is it and why does it have such a strange name?”

  JanWoo-Corriboo was silent. Thinking that perhaps she had not heard him, Burwell repeated the question. “Where is the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’?”

  “I cannot tell you,” JanWoo-Corriboo said.

  “What?” Burwell said. “But you said you know where it is!”

  “I do know where it is,” JanWoo-Corriboo replied, “but I can’t tell you where it is—it is the WooSheep law that no one talks about it. All contact with the WooPeace clan is forbidden. They are a dead people to us. And besides, they have Venom Bats guarding the entrance to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still.’ No one goes there, it is too dangerous.” JanWoo-Corriboo smiled happily, as if she were excited about something.

  Burwell, Bwellina, and Helga looked at one another. They knew why she was excited. “And that’s exactly why you’re so happy and excited to take us there!” Burwell sighed, looking at JanWoo-Corriboo. She smiled back, nodding her head happily.

  “Ohhh...Woe is us!” Burwell moaned. “No Rattlesnakes, but now we’ve got Venom Bats. What an improvement! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  We’re Getting Out of Here!

  “Shoo-moo-loo...Shoo-moo-loo..La-ba-ta-da...La-ba-ba-ta-de...Shoo-moo-loo..La-ba-ta-doh...” The sound of a soft melodious humming caused Breister to nearly bite off the mouthpiece of the pronghorn flute! Jumping up, he and Annie peered through the darkness, looking for any clue to who could be there. The fish-oil candle flickered faintly, casting weird shadows of stalactites, stalagmites and other rocks.

  “Shoo-moo-loo...Shoo-moo-loo...La-ba-ta-da...La-ba-ba-ta-de...Shoo-moo-loo...” A paint-spattered Owl stepped from behind a rubble pile. The Owl, his grizzled feathers salt-n-pepper gray, wore a loose-fitting smock. Long shaggy feathers hung out around the smock in disheveled, wild tangles. He wore a baggy beret that drooped down on the left side of his head, and a large brass ring through his lower beak.

  “Shoooo-moooo-loooooo, troots!” The Owl said in a soft, mellow, and barely audible voice. “Ya speckin las Kinshy?”

  Breister and Annie just stared stupidly at the Owl, not comprehending a word he had said.

  “O.K. then, you airyheads, I’ll try again,” the Owl said, changing voice tone and volume. “What I said was, ‘Welcome, guests! Do you speak Kinshy?’ But you have already answered my question with your silence. Obviously, you don’t know Kinshy. Dadrot! And I was so hoping that I might at last have someone else who speaks Kinshy.”

  The Owl looked so sad and dejected that Breister said, “Now, don’t take it hard, friend. We’d be glad to learn some Kinshy if you could help us get out of here.”

  Perking up, the Owl said happily, “Loooste meooon minder, dast wiffert!”

  Breister, thinking the Owl was giving him something to practice, tried to repeat the same phrase. “Looooostemo nminerd astwiffter!”

  The Owl broke into uproarious laughter. “Hooo, Hooo, Hooo, Ha-ha-ha! Do you know what you just said...Hoooo, Hoooo, Hooo, Haa-ha...You said...Hh, Hoooo, Hooo...I can’t stand it...you said, ‘Eat my toenail phlegm balls!’ Hooo, Hooo, Hooo...oh, that’s great! I like you already! Hooo, Hooo, Hoooo!” The Owl fell to the ground and rolled in laughter, kicking his feet high in the air, and flapping his wings in all directions.

  Breister and Annie, feeling relieved to have met another apparently harmless creature, and infected by the Owl’s silly laughter, laughed too.

  Gradually, the Owl calmed down again. He stood up and adjusted his beret, which had fallen down over his eyes.

  “Well, we’ll have to practice that a bit!” he observed, chuckling. “But for now, tell me who you are and what you want.”

  Breister responded quickly. “We’re lost and trying to find our way out of the caves. We want to get to the outside world. Do you know the way?”

  The Owl pulled an artist’s paintbrush from a pocket of his smock. He swished it through the air in a wild series of lightning fast st
rokes—almost like a sword fighter. “Did you get that? I just drew you a map to the outside!” The Owl chuckled again. “You see, I do know the way and I just showed it to you!”

  “Now you wait just a minute, you wacko bag of feathers!” Annie stormed in fury. “If you know the way out of here, you’ve got to show us. You can’t just stab at the air and expect us to know where to go!”

  “Why not?” the Owl asked. “You already know the way out of here, or you wouldn’t be standing here talking to me.”

  “What?” Breister and Annie said, almost in the same breath. “What do you mean we already know the way out?”

  “You have come from the WooPeace. You have found a way to get out of there and come here. That is all you need. The only reason creatures don’t leave the WooPeace is they believe they can’t. They allow an illusion to control them. Break the power of the illusion and you’re out of there!”

  Breister and Annie were excited. “You mean we’re almost out of here? You mean it’s not much further? You mean it’s easy to get out of here?”

  The Owl shook his head. “I didn’t say it was easy. I only said that you knew the way out. The way out is to want to get out more than anything else and to use your mind to find the way. There are many, many ways out of the caves. But you have to look for them to find them. You want out and you’re using your minds—that’s the way out.” The Owl turned around and began to walk off.

  Breister and Annie followed. “No more clues, eh?” Breister asked hopefully.

  “No more clues,” the Owl replied. “But I will give you some food and some work to do while you figure out your next step. Come on to my place.”

  Breister and Annie followed the Owl, feeling dejected and angry. “I’d like to jump on him and stomp him!” Annie fumed. “He’s got a lot of nerve!”

  “Now, now, Annie, keep a lid on it. Stomping him won’t do any good. We’re in our own tombs remember? If we don’t get out of here, we’re dead beasts. At least we’re getting some help and encouragement from the old bird, even if he is a bit daft!” Annie, realizing Breister was right, subdued her anger into a sulking slow burn, which she kept to herself.

  Breister moved up to climb over the rough rocks beside the Owl. “So, you must live down here, eh?” Breister asked, panting, as they climbed up through an intricate series of stalactites and stalagmites.

  “No, I don’t live here,” the Owl replied. “I’ve got a little cabin in the woods. My art studio is down here, but I don’t live down here.” He gave Breister a whimsical look. “What do you think I am, daft?”

  “You live outside?” Breister again felt a surge of joy and hope. “How far is it? Which way do we go?”

  The Owl sighed, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “What do you mean, I don’t get it?” Breister howled, almost giving in to angry frustration. Then, seeing that the Owl was neither walking nor speaking, Breister calmed down again. “O.K., you win. I get the picture. We know the way out of here and can find it on our own.” Breister realized that his anger and frustration were wasted on the Owl, who was not going to help them beyond what he had already promised to do.

  “So,” Breister went on, “what’s this about Kinshy?”

  The Owl brightened up as they continued to scramble through passages. “Kinshy is an ancient, long-unused language,” he related. “I grew up among the WooSheep—first as a Woonyak in the WooPeace, and then among the WooSheep at the Bottoms. But I got so tired of the two clans hating each other that I decided to live alone. I built a little cabin in the woods, where I study Kinshy, play Tosht with an Otter friend that lives nearby, and paint in my studio.”

  “You play Tosht?” Breister exclaimed. “It’s my favorite game!”

  “They don’t call me Toshty for nothing!” the Owl grinned. “My real name is Pitinemon Asphodetalus T. Billpip—you can see why I prefer to be called Toshty.” Breister agreed that he also preferred the nickname.

  Turning and twisting over mineralized passages, climbing over a sea of fissures, and scrambling through seeming mountain ranges of stalactites and stalagmites, finally Toshty stopped and said, “Shoooo-moooo-loooo, fraggnob billmwee, troots!...Welcome to my studio, friends!”

  They had entered a large chamber lit with small lamps that glowed rather than burned. “I use a special kind of coal in my lamps,” Toshty explained. “I treat lumps of coal with a mineral bath and they glow brightly, but give off almost no smoke. It protects my work.” As he said this, he extended his wing to show off his work.

  And what a work it was! Breister and Annie gazed in astonished admiration. Bears, Deer, Sheep, Cows, Badgers, Otters, Ducks...All kinds of creatures were powerfully and beautifully painted on the smooth walls of the chamber. It was gigantic and astonishingly beautiful. The painting went on and on and on. It was perhaps 100 feet long altogether, counting all the different patches of wall that were used.

  “I’ve never seen anything so stunning! It’s gargantuously magnificent!” Breister stammered.

  “Yes, this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” Annie agreed.

  “This is the entire history of the WooSheep,” Toshty explained. “It’s my story of the WooSheep from the beginning of time to the present. Way at that end you see I’ve painted the Ancient Ones. That’s where we all came from, you know...” The Owl paused, gazing with contented eyes at his vast life’s work. My art makes me happy. The WooSheep are fools to hate each other. They can be fools if they want, but I don’t have to be. I have my art.”

  “Has anyone else seen your art, Toshty?” Breister asked. “Such a magnificent work ought to be seen by everyone, especially the WooSheep.”

  Toshty sighed. “No...No one else has seen it. Years ago, I tried to tell the WooSheep, both those at the Bottoms and at WooPeace, about my art and the story it tells. But those at WooPeace shunned me and the clan at the Bottoms treated me like a mental case. I finally just gave up and retreated to my cabin in the woods. Shweng, my Otter friend, would come, but he’s blind.”

  “Shweng plays Tosht, and he’s blind?” Breister asked. “Tosht is a very visual game. How in the world does he play if he’s blind?”

  “Shweng has very good sight in his heart,” Toshty replied. “He knows he can trust me, so he tells me how he thinks about his Tosht moves and I make them for him. He usually beats me soundly!” Toshty concluded with a smile. “It’s not about winning or losing, it’s about friendship. That’s also the way I am with him about my art. I tell him what I’m doing in my studio and he sees it in his heart. He often has good suggestions.”

  “Well,” Toshty continued, “as they say in Kinshy: Snethboodt matav lis mavert trooven! Roughly translated, that means, ‘Let’s eat!’—here, have some eggs and honeycomb.” Toshty reached into a crevice in the rock and pulled out two pots. One was filled with raw honeycomb and the other had many small blue-green speckled eggs.

  “So, go ahead and eat,” Toshty directed. “It is all fresh. I gathered the honey and eggs just today. There are many places where bees have hives and small birds make their nests.” Toshty smeared an egg with honeycomb and popped it into his mouth.

  Annie and Breister looked at Toshty doubtfully. “Er, uh, Toshty,” Annie began, “you eat these things raw? Shell and all?” Breister felt less hungry than he had a few moments before.

  “Surely do! And it’s a top of the day meal, too, I’ll be warning you! Now, you just go ahead and smear some honeycomb on an egg and pop it in your mouth! It’s delicious!” Toshty was not bashful about showing what he meant. He polished off a half dozen eggs in a short time.

  Seeing that Breister and Annie still hesitated, Toshty commented, “You’re letting your old way of seeing things blind you to a new reality, my friends. Let go of the old way of thinking and you’ll be surprised at what you can see.”

  Breister looked solemnly at Toshty. “So, this is a ‘top of the day meal,’ eh,” he chuckled. “Well, here goes the ‘new way of seeing things!
’” Smearing an egg with honeycomb, Breister closed his eyes, slightly grimaced, and popped the strange food in his mouth. Crunching the egg slowly, a smile spread across his face and his eyes opened wide.

  “That is marvelous! It’s truly delicious!” Breister burst out. “Why, who would have believed it? It’s entirely different than I expected.”

  Seeing Breister’s reaction, Annie tried one too. She also was enthusiastic about the new food. “Why, it’s...well, it’s...sweet in a spicy sort of way...or spicy in a crunchy, saucy sort of way...or, well, I don’t exactly know how to describe it, but I like it!”

  In a short time, the three polished off almost the entire stock of honeycomb and eggs. Toshty did not seem concerned. “I’ll be gathering some more tomorrow, not to worry,” he assured his friends when they noticed the provisions were gone.

  “I’m hoping that you’ll spend a few days gathering honeycomb and eggs with me,” Toshty said. “It’s hard and dangerous work. The bees don’t like to be disturbed and the birds are small and nest in the most difficult to reach places. One has to climb to some very precarious places. But, as you can see, it’s worth it!”

  Breister had been thoughtful for several minutes. Then he said, “Toshty, I have a question. If there are bees and birds, that might mean that they come and go from the cave. Is that what it means? Do the bees and birds come and go?”

  Toshty gazed at Breister with a warm and friendly look. “I’m proud of you, Breister. You are using your mind, my friend. You’re right. The bees and birds do come and go, but not in the way you think. To protect themselves, they use only the smallest openings in the rock. None are large enough for any of us. That is not a way out, as you are perhaps thinking.”

  Breister sighed and settled down with his head resting on his arms. Toshty could see that he was not discouraged, but thinking. “Breister,” Toshty said, “just because you were wrong about following the bees and birds out doesn’t mean they can’t help you find the way. It just takes...”

  Before Toshty could finish, Breister completed the thought, “It just takes a new way of seeing.”

  Toshty smiled at Breister. “Yes, my friend, yes...”

  The next morning, Toshty announced that he was going on a several day journey to gather honeycomb and cave bird eggs. “You are invited to come with me, if you would like, but I can do it by myself if you wish to do something else.” He looked at Breister and Annie with a loving smile. “I really do understand if you have something more important to do—don’t mind me.”

  Breister looked at his feet and shuffled from foot to foot, as if getting ready to say something difficult. “Well, Toshty, I really want to get out of here. I want to search for a way out of here. I’d love to help you climb around to all sorts of incredibly dangerous places where I could easily fall to my death, but I really want to get out of here...Which is exactly why I’ve decided to come with you! Somehow, I’ve learned a lot from you since yesterday...” Breister paused and looked at Annie. “I don’t know what this mangy Cougar wants to do, but speaking for myself, I think I’d love to learn how to risk my life to get some more of that delicious honeycomb and eggs!...I feel like helping you is the least I can do, even if it delays me a few days in getting out of here. There’s always time to help out a friend. Like you’ve been saying, it just takes a new way of seeing things.”

  “Count me in, too,” Annie added. “I can’t wait to see how agile a big, pot-bellied Wood Cow is climbing after bees and itsy-bitsy bird eggs! It should be a hoot to watch!...And besides, I like you, Toshty...You are, without a doubt, one of the weirdest birds I’ve ever met, but I like you. It’s a new way of looking at things, I guess.”

  “Well, my friends, let’s go get the bladder-canoe and be on our way,” Toshty said. Breister and Annie looked puzzled.

  “Oh, yes,” he told his surprised friends, “we will definitely need my bladder-canoe. The bees and birds are found all along the Deep Springs River, which runs from here straight down into the Rounds of Deep Springs. It’s the fastest way out of here. We’ll stop along the way and gather honeycomb and eggs enough to fill the canoe. When we get to the Rounds, I’ll trade some for artist paints, other supplies, and a ride on a running-wagon back to the Drownlands Cutoff, then I either go to my cabin for a while, or come back to the studio.”

  “Bladder-canoe?” Annie repeated dubiously.

  “It’s an inflatable canoe,” Toshty explained. The one bad thing about the Deep Springs River is that it runs too fast to paddle against, so you can only ride it one way. So, I ride my bladder-canoe down to the Rounds, then deflate it so it’s easier to carry back. When I get to the Drownlands Cutoff, I reinflate it and paddle to my cabin. My cabin is near the place where there’s an entrance to the cave system that leads to the Deep Springs River. I stay at my cabin as long as I like, then I ride the river back to my studio, gathering some more honeycomb and eggs along the way to eat while I’m at my studio. When I’m ready to leave my studio, I complete the circuit again.”

  “Mighty thunder!” Breister exclaimed. “That’s more than I would have ever dreamed when you invited me to help you collect a little honeycomb and some eggs! That is some system. ‘Seeing in a new way’ has taken on a whole different meaning! We’re getting out of here!”

  “Works for me,” Toshty grinned.

  Sailing the Ocean of Dreams

  Toshty led Breister and Annie through a series of chambers in the cave system. Leading the way with a fish-oil lantern, the eccentric Owl showed them that the path they were traveling was well-worn. “I’ve made this trip dozens of times,” he assured them. “It’s easy as pie. Just a few things to know, a few things to do, and few things to avoid, and we’ll be in the Rounds!”

  “So, what’s to know?” Breister asked suspiciously, sensing that Toshty wasn’t saying everything he knew.

  “Well, the first thing to know,” Toshty said, with a shake of his head, “is that the Deep Springs River is also known as the ‘River of No Return.’” Seeing the startled faces of his friends, he quickly followed with, “No, it’s not what you think. It’s called the ‘River of No Return’ because, like I told you, we can only go one way on it.”

  “Uh, thanks for the reassurance, Toshty,” Annie said. “But if that rumble I hear is where we’re going, my stomach is already queasy!”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Toshty replied, stopping and sitting down on his pack. “We’ll stop here for a few minutes and rest. Enjoy the freedom to stretch. It’ll be your last chance for a while.” Breister and Annie gave Toshty uncertain looks. What was this crazy old Owl getting them into, they wondered?

  “I need to tell you here what to do when we reach the river, while we can still talk,” Toshty continued. “Once we get near the river, hand signals will be our only way to communicate.”

  Reaching into a pocket in his pack, Toshty pulled out some small balls of cotton mixed with pine sap. “Here’s a pair of earplugs for each of you,” he said. “First instruction is always to wear them,” Toshty explained, showing them how to mold the earplugs to fit securely in their ears.

  Breister and Annie could already see how necessary the earplugs would be. In the closed caverns, the roar of the river would soon become deafening as they advanced towards it.

  Toshty’s instructions to Breister and Annie hinted at what lay ahead. “The Deep Springs River is like a maddened beast,” he began, “it surges and plunges through a tube-like channel through the rock. Riding in a canoe, we are completely unable to resist the power of the river, or control our ride. All we can do is wait it out.” He paused, looking with a slight hint of bemusement at his friends.

  “Now, now, I know that sounds terrifying and you wonder why anyone would take such a ride,” he continued. “Over the eons the surging water has worn and smoothed the walls of the channel to a glass-like smoothness. It’s like being blown through a reed!” He could see that the fears of his friends were not being soothed by his explanation, but he went o
n with his instructions nevertheless. Breister and Annie listened with apprehensive interest.

   “We’ll inflate the canoe when we get to the river,” Toshty directed. “Then we lie down in the bottom, one after another, with the heaviest beast in the middle.” He poked Breister in his considerable belly playfully, indicating that would be his place.

  Grinning at his friends, he continued, “Except for the stomach-turning twists and turns, and the ‘scream-like-you’re-going-to-die’ plunge through complete darkness, it’s just like being blown through a hollow reed.”

  Breister and Annie looked at Toshty darkly. “Don’t worry, friends,” Toshty assured them, “I’ve done it dozens of times.”

  “When we board the canoe, lie face up,” Toshty grinned, obviously understanding his friends’ discomfort. “You’ll have to raise your head to breathe sometimes because there’ll be water in the bottom of the canoe. You won’t need light to see anything, because your eyes will be closed as tight as you can get them! It’s an absolutely terrifying ride...But when it’s over, you’ll think it was great fun!”

  “Yeah,” Breister muttered, “when it’s over!”

  “Toshty,” Annie asked, looking worried, “you mean we just lie there on our backs, zooming along in the dark, with no way to control our ride or see what’s coming?”

  “Good question, easy answer!” Toshty replied. “You are exactly right! No paddling is possible. In fact, the worst thing you could do is sit up and imbalance the canoe. Remember it’s like being blown through a hollow reed,” he laughed. “Just lie back and enjoy the fun!”

  Breister felt his stomach beginning to churn. He was not looking forward to this. “How do we collect honey and eggs going along like that?” he asked. “You said we’d collect more during our trip?”

  “After about a day’s ride, zinging along without a stop,” Toshty answered, “we’ll reach a place called the ‘Ocean of Dreams.’ It’s a huge underground lake where the fast part of the river ends. The Ocean of Dreams has lots of fantastic rock formations all around it, and it’s fractured with many cracks that reach the surface. We’ll find lots of honey and cave bird eggs there.”

  “Why is it called the Ocean of Dreams?” Annie asked.

  “Just imagine a place with rock formations so fantastic that, if you can dream it, you can see a rock formation that resembles it! You won’t believe it until you see it. One day, you could have a pleasant dream or a frightening nightmare, and find its image in the Ocean of Dreams.” He nodded his head knowingly. “You won’t believe it!” he repeated.

  “So, after the Ocean of Dreams, what happens?” Breister asked.

  “We pick one of the streams flowing out of it and go on to the Rounds,” Toshty replied. “The river will be much calmer then and we can paddle normally the rest of the way.”

  “One of the streams?” Annie asked.

  “Yes,” Toshty replied, “there are dozens of outlets from the Ocean of Dreams...you have to know which one you want.”

  “Where do the others go?” Breister said.

  “I don’t know where they all go,” Toshty answered. “I really only know the one that goes to the Rounds. I know that one also goes to the Estates of the Norder Wolves, but I don’t know which one. I just know the Norder Wolves maintain a sentry patrol boat on the Ocean of Dreams. They don’t like outsiders and want to keep creatures away from the route to their Estates.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Annie observed. “They’re fierce warriors. I’ve encountered their soldiers. They have legions stationed throughout the northern foothills of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains. You can’t move in that area without running into their scouts and picket lines. They’re a fearsome lot. No enemy would dare mess with their Battle Stallions and Club Wolves,” she concluded.

  “What are they afraid of?” Breister asked. “There’s never been war that I’ve ever heard of,” he continued. “Who needs Battle Stallions and Club Wolves?” He looked at Annie. “There are some pesky bandits around that do some raiding and plundering, but you don’t need an army for that.”

  “I hear rumors that we don’t see the half of it,” Toshty replied. “No one knows much about the Norder Wolves. They keep to themselves. But I hear stories that we only see the ranks of their army in training down this way. They use the peaceable frontier to train new recruits for their legions. It’s a mystery why they need an army. When I come through the Ocean of Dreams I just avoid messing with their sentry boat. That’s all I want, or need, to know about the Norder Wolves. If you know how to handle the sentries, you’ll be O.K. You don’t make them suspicious and they won’t bother you. They aren’t aggressive, but they are nasty as can be if they think you’re trying to enter their lands.”

  “OK...” Breister said slowly. “So we just say, ‘Hello, and Good Day,’ to the nice little Club Wolves and go on, huh?”

  “Oh, no,” Toshty said seriously, “we want to answer them precisely. There’s a certain pattern of response they expect. If you don’t know the words they want to hear, they know you’re a stranger. That makes them instantly suspicious. When we run into a sentry, let me do all the talking.” The Norder Wolf commander in the Ocean of Dreams is a Colonel Snart—he’s nicknamed ‘Scream-seller Snart’ because they say he’s got a sideline in smuggling and slaving. If we encounter a Norder Wolf patrol boat, say nothing and let me handle it. Hope they won’t take us to Commander Snart. If we go to him, no one will see us again. We’ll be sold as slaves and that will be the end of us.”

  “Well, thanks, Toshty,” Annie said, with a wry smile, “you’ve invited us on such a pleasant little voyage!”

  “Oh, don’t mention it,” Toshty replied. “I’ve made this trip dozens of times. It’s not bad if you know the way.” Breister and Annie shook their heads, hoping that this crazy old Owl did, indeed, know the way.

  “Here,” Toshty said, offering the remaining honeycomb and cave bird eggs. “This is the last chance we have to eat until the Ocean of Dreams. The ride is too wild for eating until then.”

  Breister and Annie both declined. “I have a feeling that a full stomach wouldn’t be full very long on this trip,” Breister grinned.

  “I think I’ll fast, thanks.” Annie agreed.

  “Well, O.K.,” Toshty responded. “If you insist, I’ll be glad to eat your provisions!” He stuffed his mouth happily, smearing honey and egg yolk all over his cheeks in his gleeful snacking. “You’ll feel more like eating next trip,” Toshty said, as if such a promise would make his friends happier.

  “One trip at a time, Toshty,” Annie replied. “One trip at a time.”

  When Toshty had finished eating, the three friends walked the rest of the way to the ledge overlooking the river. They unrolled the bladder-canoe and took turns blowing to inflate it for use. Then they securely stowed all their gear, tying it down in well oiled satchels to keep things dry. Toshty connected the launch rope to a special pulley he had rigged up, directing his friends to put in their earplugs and position themselves in the boat.

  “Here we go!” Toshty signaled, beginning to pull on the rope. Pulling together, the canoe inched toward the edge of the ledge. One pull. Two pulls. Three pulls. On the seventh pull, the boat fell free of the ledge and plummeted 20 or 30 feet to the river below. SPLOOOSH! ZING! They were off!

  Breister and Annie, despite their earlier adventures and courageous natures, battled against panic. The river roared in their ears, and the earplugs were nearly useless. Gradually, however, their panic subsided. Although the canoe plunged and bucked with dizzying motion, they soon realized that the canoe would not capsize. The surging river carried them down the perfectly smooth rock tube, with a surprisingly small amount of water sloshing in the bottom of the canoe.

  Hours passed and exhaustion eventually overwhelmed panic and excitement. Breister and Annie fell into fitful sleep, unable to completely forget their troubles and fears. Toshty slept like a baby.

  At last, Toshty’s voice called to t
hem, as if out of some hazy distant place in their dreams. “Wake up, you landlubbers! It’s time to sail on the Ocean of Dreams!”

  The raging river had now flowed into a large, calmer body of water. The three friends sat up. Toshty unpacked the fish-oil lanterns and lit them. He directed Annie to light another and, in the warm glow of both lamps, they could see their surroundings somewhat.

  Fantastic rock formations rose all around them. The light of their lanterns illumined the shapes, making them cast weird flickering shadows. The lake actually flowed around the rocks as if there was a fantastic range of mountains rising from the lake. Paddling skillfully, Toshty piloted the canoe in and out around the formations. How he knew the way, Breister could not guess. Breister was astonished that some of the forms looked exactly like dreams he remembered from his periods of sleep coming down the river, and even far in his past.

  “These are the dreams and nightmares of my life!” Breister gasped, looking at Annie. She was turning her head slowly, looking around at the rocks. Her face showed a mixture of emotions: surprise, uncertainty, awe, fear. Breister recognized the same feelings in himself. A particular formation and its shadows would seem similar to a dream Breister had once had, and that memory would trigger new images among other shapes and shadows. It was a strangely beautiful and wonderful experience, but at the same time unsettling.

  “The more I see, the more I think I see!” Annie said. “It’s as if shapes and shadows trigger memories of dreams, and memories make me think I see more images!”

  “And dream follows dream,” Breister replied in amazement. “It’s as if we’re moving in a dreamworld where the real and the unreal play with each other...”

  As they paddled along in their surreal surroundings, here and there small painted boards were stuck up on the rocks to give directions. Some signs were warnings: “NO PASSAGE WELCOMED!” Toshty explained that these were posted by the Norder Wolves to warn the curious and lost away.

  Paddling through the Ocean of Dreams, gradually the rumble of the river was left behind and the eerie stillness of the great underground returned. They heard few sounds except the periodic sound of cave birds flitting about somewhere in the darkness and the soft splash of their paddles, until a voice called out: “Hullo, my frippers! What’s the lark?”

  Toshty, instantly alert, answered the inquiry, addressing a large Wolf wearing a heavy leather and iron uniform. The Wolf was floating nearby in a rowboat. “Stay there, friend,” he replied, “we are friendly frippers taking a lark to the Rounds. No cargo, no weapons, no money.”

  The Wolf, armed with an immense club, had a snub-nosed, flat-browed face that made him look dangerous. But he also had a strangely friendly manner about him. His ill-fitting uniform, and small red eyes peering through spectacles, made him seem more interesting than threatening. A leather helmet, perched precariously on his head, and tilting so badly over his left ear that it threatened to fall off at any moment, only added to this effect.

  “Hullo, my frippers! What’s for grubstake?”

  “No eggs, no honey, no dried fish,” Toshty replied. He obviously knew the routine.

  “Hullo, my frippers! What’s the game?” the Wolf asked.

  Toshty replied once again, this time with a strange look of steely courage in his eye, “No stopping, no more questions, no more answers.”

  The Wolf scowled at the three friends, staring at them over the top of his spectacles. After a long moment, during which Breister and Annie sensed a tense nervousness in Toshty, the Wolf said: “Forget the way, frippers! Stay away!”

  Toshty, letting out a slow breath of relief, began paddling again, guiding the canoe near the Wolf’s rowboat. Reaching in his pocket he pulled out a small package and tossed it to the Wolf. “I forget your face, I forget the place, nevermore to talk of it!” he called out to the Wolf as they passed on in the direction they had been going.

  “What was that all about?” Annie asked quietly when she thought they had paddled far enough to be out of the Wolf’s hearing.

  “The sentries always ask the same questions,” Toshty replied. “If you don’t know the answers they expect, they will haul you in to see Colonel Snart. If they’re in a good mood and you give the right answers, they let you pass. We were lucky that time. It was a new recruit. The young ones are lonely. It’s usually their first time away from home. And they’re assigned to one of the most lonely, forsaken posts imaginable. If they let you pass, you have to promise them that you won’t tell anyone they let you by. I gave him a pack of pine sap gum. It helps. He’ll tell the other sentries. They get to know me and let me pass. But it’s always a little tense when I meet a new sentry for the first time. There are some bad ones.”

  “You go through this on every trip down the river?” Breister asked in admiration of Toshty’s courage.

  “Yes.”

  “Ever feel frightened?”

  “I suppose if I thought about it—which I don’t.” Toshty said with a grin. Then he turned serious. “But I don’t take it lightly, either. It’s no joke. You get the wrong sentry and all the pine sap gum in the world won’t save you. They’ll have you in chains and hanging by your feet before Scream-seller Snart so fast your head will swim.”

  “It really puzzles me why the Norder Wolves would assign a mental case as commander down here,” Annie said. “I just don’t get it. He sounds like a bandit.”

  “Oh, no,” Toshty replied. “Scream-seller Snart makes your average run-of-the-mill thug look like a garden club member. But that’s why they want him here. He scares everybody off. He’s ‘solid gold’ security-wise, and...”

  “And what?” Breister asked.

  “And if everyone is afraid to go near Colonel Snart’s zone, he gets to run his smuggling and slave trade, no questions asked.”

  “How do you know about that?” Annie said.

   “I hear things. I see things. I hear that he’s in league with some beasts in the Hedgelands. Creatures disappear up there sometimes, don’t they?” he asked, looking at Breister.

  “Yes,” Breister replied slowly as his mind raced. New images crowded into his sight among the rocks and shadows. Terrifying images of a Wood Cow family in chains...Their house a shambles...“By the Ancient Ones!” Breister exclaimed.

  “What?” Annie said, looking at him.

  “I’m seeing images in the formations,” Breister breathed softly. “Images of our family being driven from our home by slavers. Helga does not remember what happened exactly, but somehow we were separated and she and my wife escaped. We don’t know what happened to my wife. Helga told me she has nightmares sometimes, but she does not remember everything that happened.”

  The friends were silent for a time.

  “Toshty,” Breister began. His face was drawn with sadness in the flickering light.

  Toshty looked at him sympathetically. “Yes?”

  Breister continued in a soft voice. “There was a dispute between me and an official. One night, ten years ago, slavers attacked our house. We were loaded on boats and taken down a river. We tried to escape and the boat capsized. I escaped, but could not find Helga and Helbara in the chaos. Later, Helga reached freedom and was rescued by some Roundies. That’s all we know.”

  “So, perhaps there is a connection between that experience and the Norder Wolves; is that your point?” Annie whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Breister replied. “I don’t know. I just wonder why I seem to have such a strange feeling about the images I see in the rocks and shadows, that’s all.”

  “Well, anytime you deal with someone named Scream-seller Snart, it’s going to feel strange!” Annie replied with a grimace. “Maybe there’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “Yes, maybe so,” Breister agreed. “Maybe so...”

  Close on the Trail

  Helga, as a young beast, had always been tall for her age and strongly-muscled. From her earliest years, her Wood Cow heritage had shown itself in her talents and interests. Sh
e worked for a master carpenter, Alao Barkword, during her years in the Rounds and won his admiration with her skill. Always overflowing with opinions, Alao would often loudly compare his apprentice to the legendary Ragebark, known all over as the best carpenter that ever lived in the Rounds. “I knew Ragebark,” Alao boasted, “he was no Helga—she is the best carpenter Cow that ever lived—and she’s only a youngster! What will she be when she is full-grown? It will be something to see, that you’ll be sure!” Standing at full height in her pounded barkskins, boots, wide-brimmed hat, and carpenter’s apron, Helga, even at age twelve, towered over most other creatures in the Rounds community. Her huge forearms rippled with the strength needed to lift and carry timbers.

  After completing her apprenticeship, the world seemed to be hers for the asking. Smart, strong, and talented, Helga hoped to find her fortune and make her mark. Just past her twelth birthday, Helga joined a running wagon team to provide some service to the Rounds while she decided what path she would next take into her future. Things did not go as she planned, however, and circumstances that, at first, seemed disasterous to her future happiness intervened to force her to leave the Rounds. What seemed fatal to her future, however, because of her courage and confidence in herself, ultimately resulted in her being reunited with her family at O’Fallon’s Bluff. Her confidence in the face of disaster created a future she could not have dreamed possible.

  Now, as she listened to JanWoo-Corriboo recount the story of the WooSheep, Helga recognized this same spirit in her new friend. She admired the energetic strength, fierce self-confidence, and snappy smartness she saw. How many of the emotions she had felt when she completed her apprenticeship and went with the wagon runners now came alive in JanWoo-Corriboo. She loved to listen to her, to watch the pulsating rhythm that moved her so constantly that she seemed never to be still. How much she admired her.

  How much Helga knew she needed JanWoo-Corriboo in this, the greatest challenge of her life. Her once powerful legs were weak from injuries. She hobbled along with the aid of a walking stick. She had lost both her Mamma and Papa. Would she be alone for the rest of her life? It almost seemed to be too much to bear. Where had the happy times gone? Where was her father? Helga, feeling herself sinking into a slough of self-pity and despair, closed her eyes to force back the tears that were gathering.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” JanWoo-Corriboo asked, interrupting Helga’s reflections. “We can be at the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’ by dark if we want. It’s a great place to visit at night.” She looked mysteriously at her friends. “Night is the best time to visit if you really want to understand the place,” she said excitedly. “That’s when the Venom Bats are most active!”

  “Ohhhh...Great!” Burwell shuddered. “I can’t wait to feel what it’s like to have a Venom Bat sink its teeth in me! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  “Don’t worry, Burwell,” JanWoo-Corriboo advised. “Venom Bats are so tiny you won’t even see them coming! They just sort of fly into your ears. You hear a little flutter, they zip in your ear, and bore into your brain. You die so quick, you won’t feel a thing.”

  Burwell, Bwellina and Helga all looked at JanWoo-Corriboo to see if she was serious. They couldn’t tell. She just stared at them with a look that said, ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

  “Well, O.K.,” Helga said at last. “There’s worse things than Venom Bats biting me on the brain. I want to find Papa. Let’s get going.”

  “Here,” JanWoo-Corriboo said, handing Burwell a pack. “This will be enough provisions for an overnight. We can come back tomorrow and fill up again if we need more.”

  “The ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’ is that close?” Helga asked with some surprise.

  “Oh, yes,” JanWoo-Corriboo replied. “It is very close. But sometimes, close is far away,” she added. Helga thought that she noticed a hint of sadness in her voice.

  Picking up the pack, Burwell settled it comfortably on his shoulders. Helga picked up her pack. JanWoo-Corriboo and Bwellina both slung water jugs across their shoulders. Looking delighted with her charges, JanWoo-Corriboo raised her arm and pointed toward a jagged gap between some hills in the Bone Forest. “Forward, ho! That’s where we’re going—the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’—but don’t tell anyone I told you that,” she grinned.

  They walked several hours heading back into the dry, barren lands of the Bone Forest, but not in the same direction as Helga and her friends had traveled before. Moving deeper into an ever more barren and forbidding terrain, at first they made slow progress. The bones of the Ancient Ones were everywhere and JanWoo-Corriboo delighted in telling about the fossils. Burwell loved to hear JanWoo-Corriboo rattle off the names of the Ancient Ones.

  “She’s fantastic,” Burwell exulted. “Show her a leg bone and she says, Tyrannosaurus! Show her another bone and she says Pterosaur! She’s amazing! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  Helga wanted to keep moving, but she tried to be patient. “Don’t worry, Helga,” JanWoo-Corriboo said at last. “I know you want to get there. We’ve got plenty of time. The ‘Mountain That Moves’ doesn’t really go anywhere,” she added with a friendly smile.

  As the afternoon was waning, they entered the jagged gorge that JanWoo-Corriboo had pointed out as they left the Bottoms. It was a ghastly place. The barren hills suddenly stopped in a ragged edge, as if torn off by some giant hand. An old, extinct volcano crater yawned open before them. The crater sloped steeply down to unknown depths below. Along one side, where the crater had collapsed in an ancient eruption, the ground was more level. Here and there steam rose from hot springs. The pungent smell of sulphur wafted strongly.

  “Welcome to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still,’” JanWoo-Corriboo announced.

  Burwell shuddered. “Where are the Venom Bats?” he said in a quavering voice.

  “They come out at dusk,” JanWoo-Corriboo said. “We’ve got some time before that. We’ll want to be in just the right place to see them. Come on. We’ll move down to where the best seats are!”

  “Ohhh...Thanks, you’re a real friend,” Burwell sighed.

  “You’ll like it, I promise,” JanWoo-Corriboo replied. “You won’t believe how cool it is.”

  “My heart is just leaping with excitement!” Burwell observed sourly.

  “Well, in any case,” JanWoo-Corriboo said, “we’ve got to get moving. Father will be waiting for me.”

  Helga and her friends were thunderstruck. They stared at JanWoo-Corriboo with saucer eyes. “Your father?” they exclaimed together.

  “What is your father doing in a place like this?”

  “Shhh...” JanWoo-Corriboo scolded playfully. “This is a secret. I’m taking a big risk in even bringing you to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’ in the first place. If anyone finds out I meet my father here, I’ll be dead meat.”

  “Ohhh...Don’t say ‘dead meat’ around me,” Burwell said. “I keep thinking I hear Venom Bats fluttering around my head already! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  JanWoo-Corriboo related her story. “I was born in the WooPeace,” she began, “my parents were Woonyaks. Mother became committed to the WooPeace. Father never liked the place but did not wish to leave Mother behind. Neither of them wanted me to stay in the WooPeace my entire life. ‘Do you want to stay in the WooPeace when you grow up?’ I remember my mother asking me many times when I was a young beast. The answer I was always supposed to give was, ‘Oh, no, ma’am.’ Mother herself did not know how to leave—or did not want to leave—but she wanted her daughter to have a life in the world above. So, from the time I was a small child, she would take me exploring. She never told the others in the WooPeace what she was doing. It was always just, ‘Oh, we’re just catching salamanders for our dinner,’ and such stuff. But what we were doing was looking for a way out...and we found one.”

  “Whew...” Helga whistled. “Do you mean that your parents are still down there?”

  “Yes,” JanWoo-Corriboo replie
d with a tone of sadness in her voice. “I have not seen Mother since I left. It is too dangerous for her to be too obvious about knowing where an exit is. But she brings Father every eight days. I meet him and help him take a bath in the hot mineral springs. He was injured when they fell into the caves. He’s crippled and can’t walk very well. But the hot mineral spring seems to help him. He’s getting better, I think.”

  “Doesn’t anyone follow him?” Bwellina asked. “Doesn’t anyone get suspicious?”

  “Oh, I imagine some in the WooPeace know. But so long as you aren’t obvious and don’t try to tell others and convince them to go with you, no one will bother you. It’s the fact that most people can’t live knowing they could leave. They’re scared of knowing. Most people won’t even try to follow Mother when she brings Father here, even if they know what she’s doing. Only if the WooZan sees her as a threat to WooPeace would there be trouble. Mother doesn’t want trouble. She’s very discreet.”

  Helga’s head was ready to burst. It was absurd. These WooSheep were all stark raving mad! She wanted to scream: “Why don’t you all just...just...well, why don’t you just...Fix it! This is nuts!” Despite Helga’s well-intentioned desire not to be critical, the last three words slipped out.

  JanWoo-Corriboo smiled. “Yes, it is nuts, Helga. But I don’t know how to fix it. Do you?”

  Helga was silent. She had to admit that she really didn’t know how to fix it. But that didn’t mean there was not a way.

   “No,” Helga said quietly, “I don’t know how to fix it. But I think I’ll go nuts if I really have to admit there is no way to change things. So, I’m not admitting that...Not yet at least. I’m a stubborn old Wood Cow in some ways. Mostly I just won’t admit that I’m too stupid to solve a problem until it has completely whipped me. I just heard of this, so I don’t feel whipped yet.”

  JanWoo-Corriboo grinned at Helga. “You know,” the young Fox said, “you remind me of me in some ways.”

  “Come on, we’ve got to hurry,” she urged. “Father will be waiting.”

  The friends climbed down the slope to a bubbling hot spring. A male Fox, with a checkered bandana tied over his head, and a matching shirt, was sitting on the side of the pool, soaking his legs in the hot water.

  JanWoo-Corriboo ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Father, it is so good to see you!”

  “And you, too, my Janty,” the older Fox smiled. “You have some new friends, I see.”

  Introductions were made all around. “This is my Father, TatterWoo-Corriboo,” said Janty, as her friends now knew her. “You can call him ‘Tatty’ if you want,” she said. “That’s what he’s called around the WooPeace.”

  Helga sat down and pulled off her boots. Her legs hurt. She began rubbing her legs as she always did at the end of the day. It helped to relax the muscles and bring relief from the pain of her injured limbs.

  “You should try the hot mineral water bath,” Tatty invited. “You’ll be surprised how good it feels, and how much it helps.”

  She accepted the advice gratefully. Rolling up her pants, she slipped her legs in the hot, bubbling water.

  “Ahhh, this is just what the doctor ordered,” Helga grinned. “I never want to leave!”

  “Sorry, friend,” Tatty responded, “twenty minute maximum. You’ll be baked like a potato if you stay longer.”

  Helga looked crestfallen, then brightened. “I’ll take my twenty minutes; maybe Venom Bats don’t like water.” She nudged Burwell playfully.

  JanWoo-Corriboo piped up, “That’s right, Burwell, the sun is going down. Won’t be long until the Venom Bats come out.”

  “Oh, Janty, for heaven’s sake, not that old monster tale again!” Tatty laughed. “Don’t listen to her, Burwell, she’s just teasing you. There’s no such thing as Venom Bats.”

  “What?” Burwell burst out. “No Venom Bats? Do you mean to tell me that this pirate pup has given me heart palpitations for nothing? She’s been fibbing to us? Why, I’ll throw you in the hot spring and hold you under! Yep! Yep! Yep!” He started after Janty in a mock rage.

  “Yes, Burwell, she fibbed, but it’s the biggest fib in these parts, since every WooSheep believes it’s true!” TatterWoo-Corriboo chuckled. “No one knows where the myth about the Venom Bats got started, but every WooSheep in the Bottoms learns it as a fact of life. Little beasts cut their teeth on the Venom Bat tale. The whole clan is terrified of them.”

  “Uh, excuse me,” Burwell said, “but the two of you say there’s no such thing as Venom Bats and every other creature says there is. We’re supposed to believe you two? Sounds like bad odds to me!”

  “Oh, there’s bats all right,” Janty spoke up. “We’ll be seeing them real soon. And the sight may scare the daylights out of you—but they’re not dangerous. I don’t know whether someone got scared of them once and the story just grew and grew, or if someone made up the story to keep the WooSheep away from here, but you don’t have to be afraid. Just take a look—here they come!”

  JanWoo-Corriboo pointed to a vast cloud of small bats that was pouring out of an opening in the rock not far away. There were so many that they completely blocked out the disk of the setting sun. “Why, there must be thousands and thousands!” Helga breathed.

  “Yes,” Janty replied. “You can definitely see how, if you were a little skitterish about bats, the sight could give you the shakes!” She looked at Burwell, who was noticeably shivering at the sight. “Don’t be scared, Burwell,” she continued. “These bats only eat flies and bugs.”

  “Well, that still makes them meat-eaters!” Burwell argued. Everyone laughed.

  “So,” Helga asked, “why don’t you tell everyone that the bats are harmless? Why allow the myth to continue?”

  “Oh, some of the WooSheep know the truth,” Janty responded, “or at least would consider the possibility. But most just won’t even listen to such an idea. They know that if there’s no Venom Bats, then there might be a lot of other things that aren’t true, too...”

  “Like what?” Bwellina asked.

  “Like the idea that the WooSheep who live in the caves are bad, evil beasts,” Janty answered, looking fondly at her father.

  Helga couldn’t take it any longer. “What a bunch of crazy, absolutely stupid, idiots!” she exploded. “This is nuts! We’ve got to do something! I can’t stand it anymore!” She stopped, feeling frustrated and flustered. She wanted to do something, but she didn’t know what.

  Then, too, she also desperately wanted to find her father. Was she even close to his trail? There was only one possible—but unconfirmed—report of him. She was going on pure hope. She might be wasting her time. Had he really come this way? No one had reported seeing him. It was very discouraging.

  “Whoa, Helga!” Janty exclaimed. “You sound just like Toshty when he goes off raving about the WooSheep.”

  “Toshty? Who’s that?” Helga asked.

  “Oh, he’s my art teacher,” JanWoo-Corriboo replied. “He’s a WooSheep who has lived at both the WooPeace and the Bottoms and couldn’t handle living in either place. So he stays away from both places. He thinks the way the WooSheep clans don’t acknowledge each other’s existence is nuts, just like you do. He’s kind of calmed down recently—just kind of retreated into his art—but he would really agree with you. He’s a fantastic artist and he’s teaching me and a few Otters how to paint.”

  “Well,” Helga sighed, “I’d like to meet him someday. It would be refreshing to meet a WooSheep that has some sense! Oops!” She looked at Janty and Tatty. “I mean excepting you two, of course!” Janty and Tatty grinned at her.

  “Well, we forgive the insult,” Tatty chuckled. “But, it does hit a little too close to home. The truth of what you say is pretty depressing.” He looked lovingly at Janty. “My wife and I wanted Janty to have a better life. Even though Janty’s mother really loves the WooPeace and, in a way, I like it too, we knew that Janty had more energy and talent than the WooPeace could absorb. We have a
good life in the WooPeace...Terrific friends, a comfortable life, a sense of peace. But it’s not for everyone...” His voice trailed off. “It’s just very lonely sometimes,” he continued, reaching out for Janty’s hand. “We really miss Janty.”

  “I know what you mean,” Helga replied softly. “I miss my father terribly, too.”

  “What happened to your father?” TatterWoo-Corriboo asked.

  “He’s a Woonyak!” Janty interjected. “He’s down in the WooPeace somewhere!”

  Helga looked at JanWoo-Corriboo. “What did you say, Janty?” she asked, looking intently at the young Fox. “You think Papa fell into the WooPeace?” The idea had never before occurred to her.

  “Sure!” Janty replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “From what you’ve said, it all points to Breister being a Woonyak. Why in the world would someone see him at the Drownlands Cutoff saying he had been at the Bone Forest and was heading to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’? It makes no sense, unless somehow he got mixed up with the WooPeace someway. No one has seen a Wood Cow at WooSheep Bottoms, and the WooSheep are the only ones who know where the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’ is. If Breister had been at the Bone Forest and was heading back to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still,’ it really can mean only one thing: He was a Woonyak and fell into the WooPeace. He found a way out and for some reason is coming back.”

  Helga grabbed Janty and hugged her tightly. “Oh, Janty, Janty! What a good friend you are! I never would have thought of such a thing. Why didn’t you mention it before now?”

  Janty, nearly smothered by Helga’s massive arms, gasped out, “I didn’t want to get your hopes up until we could ask Father if he’d seen a Wood Cow in the WooPeace...Have you seen a Wood Cow Woonyak, Father?”

  They all looked at Tatty. “Yes,” he replied with a smile. “We’ve had two Woonyaks lately—a Wood Cow and a Cougar. WooZan, our Chief, has been introducing them to life in the WooPeace. Most Woonyaks join the WooPeace eventually...unless they find a way out.”

  “Breister was seen at the Drownlands Cutoff!” Burwell observed excitedly. “He must have escaped!”

  “Perhaps,” TatterWoo-Corriboo replied, “but the odds are against it. It’s not easy to get out of the cave system. Most Woonyaks can’t do it. I have not seen the new Woonyaks lately, but that is not unusual in the WooPeace. Some of the beasts live in different caves in the system. Even on nights of the Common Bowl there are so many beasts, I don’t see everyone. They may be there and I just haven’t met them.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Helga agreed, “but Papa would never join the WooPeace. He would be like a wild beast to get out of there and find me. I know him. So, if he was seen at the Drownlands Cutoff, he was there. To me, it’s simple. He found a way out, and is coming back to see if perhaps I am here!” She closed her massive arms around Janty again and renewed her joyous hugging of the young Fox.

  “Gasp...gasp...choke...wheeze...breath...air...” Janty’s muffled voice was barely audible under Helga’s ferocious hug.

  “What? What’s that you say, Janty?” Helga asked, releasing her grip.

  Janty, looking somewhat dazed, smiled weakly. “I said, ‘Thanks for letting me breathe!’” she replied.

  “Oh, sorry!” Helga exclaimed. “Sometimes I forget my own strength. I just got so excited!”

  “Well,” JanWoo-Corriboo said, “if Breister is coming back to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still,’ he’s only coming back because he wants to get back inside the WooPeace for some reason! Maybe he thinks you’re there. He may have heard somehow that you were coming here, or perhaps he’s just grasping at straws. There’s no other reason he’d want to come here. I doubt he’s coming for a health bath in the hot spring.”

  The group chuckled at Janty’s flippant comment, but then she looked at them seriously. “If you want to try to find Breister, we’ve got to get a move on. If he is going to the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still,’ you’ve got to go there. It’s the one place that all Woonyaks know seems to offer a direct access to the WooPeace. ”

  Helga looked puzzled. “But I thought this was the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still!’”

  Janty smiled. “Yes, it is,” she replied, “this general area goes by that name because the ancient stories say the land around here used to tremble with earth tremors. But there’s also a specific place that really gives this mountain its name. And that is where Breister might go if he were going to try to enter the WooPeace again. That very special place is just over that ridge, on the other side of the mountain!”

  Burwell groaned. “Ooooo...Hike, hike, hike...That’s all we do! My poor little footsies have blisters on their blisters! And we don’t have enough food or water for a march. Where do we sleep? Do you want us to just lie on the rocks and starve?” He looked mournfully at his stomach. “I haven’t had anything to eat in hours! My bellybutton is rubbing against my backbone. Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  “Well, you’re in luck, Burwell,” Janty said. “You and Bwellina won’t be walking far. Its unlikely Breister would come here, because no one knows about this entrance to the WooPeace but our family. After we say goodbye to my father, we’re going to visit my friend, Toshty. He has a cabin just on the other side of that ridge. You and Bwellina can stay there while Helga and I look for signs of Breister. Toshty won’t mind having some visitors.”

  JanWoo-Corriboo looked lovingly at her father who was getting ready to go back into the WooPeace. “Good-bye, Father,” she said. “Please tell mother how much I love her. I miss you both so much!”

  Tatty hugged her. “Janty, I feel certain that the day will come when we will no longer be separated like this. It’s nuts!” he laughed, looking at Helga.

  After the group had said fond farewells to TatterWoo-Corriboo, Janty said, “O.K., folks, it’s time to head for Toshty’s. We’ll need to walk about two hours to get there.”

  “Uh, Janty,” Burwell asked, “it’s absolutely pitch dark. Do you really want to try to do this now? I don’t climb mountains well in the dark!” He looked uncertainly at Helga, who only gave her constantly worrying friend a bemused smile. She, too, was wondering how they would make such a trip in the dark, but Burwell’s worrying was also a bit of comic relief for her.

  “You know, Burwell,” Helga observed, “if we stay here overnight, your bellybutton will eat your backbone for breakfast, and then the Venom Bats will pick over your carcass. I recommend we go find a nice soft bed and a meal.” She smiled at her friend.

  “Aye, aye, Captain Helgy,” Burwell saluted. “That’s a march I’ll sign up for! Yep! Yep! Yep!”

  Janty had pulled out a small pronghorn flute from her pack, and was blowing it softly.

  “A pronghorn flute!” Helga exclaimed in surprise. “I didn’t know anyone played that sort of flute around her.”

  “No one does, except for me,” Janty replied. “I’ve always been a little off the beaten path, which is why my parents didn’t want me to stay in the WooPeace. They knew I would annoy WooZan so much she’d drive me out someday, if I didn’t go on my own! I was into too many things that would ‘disturb the WooPeace’ for me to stay there...” Janty chuckled. “Like pronghorn flutes—Toshty got this from a Roundie once and no one else could learn how to play it except me.”

  “Yes,” Helga agreed, “the pronghorn flute is not easy to play. Few beasts, other than Wood Cows, have mastered it. I’m impressed that you can play.” Helga’s respect for Janty had received another boost.

  “Well,” Janty said, “what I’ve discovered about the flute is that it has an amazing sound quality, that helps me to find my way in the dark!” She looked significantly at Burwell and demonstrated. “When you play the flute with a certain tone, like this...”

  “...you can listen to the echoes of the tones and see an image of the terrain!” Helga completed the sentence.

  Burwell looked doubtful. “Burwell, trust her,” Helga smiled. “It works. Wo
od Cows have always used the flute this way. I could do the same thing, but Papa—wherever he is—has my flute. If Janty knows how to use of the flute this way, I trust her. It is not easy for one to discover this quality of the flute alone. That Janty has discovered it means that she knows the flute very well.” This was a very special Fox, Helga thought to herself. A very special Fox.

  An Unbroken Circle of Friends

  Breister, stuffing himself with Bisonbread and honey butter, was a very happy beast. He, Annie, and Toshty had found plenty of cave bird eggs and honeycomb to eat on their way down the Deep Springs River, but as Breister put it, “Eggs and honeycomb kept my body glued together, but everything inside my body is famished!” He held out his pants to show how much weight he’d lost during their float down the underground river.

  Toshty laughed. “If you weren’t such a big galoot in the first place, you wouldn’t have such big pants to keep filled! Why, I didn’t lose an ounce.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Breister responded. “You’ve got so many feathers, and then so many clothes, it’s hard to tell how much meat you actually have at any given time!”

  Toshty, Annie, and Breister had safely completed their voyage down the Deep Springs River. After coming ashore at the Deep Springs Landing, they deflated the canoe and rolled it up for carrying. Then, Toshty took them to Elbin and Sareth Abblegurt’s dugout. When Sareth opened the door and welcomed them, Toshty walked in like he belonged there. Obviously he had visited many times before. Sareth and Elbin welcomed him like one of the family.

  Introductions were made all around. Elbin and Sareth were astonished and pleased to learn that one of the visitors was the father of their dear Helga. “It seems to be such a small world sometimes,” Sareth observed happily, embracing Breister. “We, who have never traveled more than a few miles from our home, now lay eyes on Helga’s father, who has come from a distant land. I can barely imagine how big the world must be that you have traveled so long and far to get here. Yet, how small the distance seems when we embrace.”

  “And all because of a crazy old Owl,” Annie scowled playfully.

  “I met Elbin several years ago,” Toshty explained, “when I traded with him for some corn and beans at the market.” He grinned. “Well, it was actually the smell of Sareth’s cookies that first attracted me to their stall. There were a lot of vendors selling corn and beans, but only one had fresh Bison coffee and cookies!”

  “Since then, we’ve become close friends,” Sareth said. “Toshty stays with us when he visits the Rounds. He’s a part of the family. Now, you are, too. You’re all welcome to stay with us.” Looking fondly at Toshty, however, she offered an apology. “Sorry, old friend, but you’ll have to sleep on a cot this time. We’ve only got two spare beds in the dugout. We need to honor Breister’s visit by having him stay in the guest room, and Annie can have Helga’s old room—we’ve kept it much as it was when she lived with us.” The three travelers gladly accepted the offer of hospitality.

  Somehow, although Breister had never been there before, it all seemed strangely familiar to him. Perhaps it was the fact that he had heard Helga tell so many stories about her years growing up with Elbin and Sareth. But he also remembered the vision he had had at the whirlpool. He didn’t understand it. He was welcomed with such warmth in the Abblegurt round that he felt completely at ease. He seemed to be one of the family.

  Breister appreciated the warm welcome, the hospitality, and the opportunity to get to know Elbin and Sareth. On the other hand, he also urgently wanted to continue his search for Helga. Thanking his hosts for their kindness, he mentioned his hope to leave the next day. Sareth would not hear of it. “You’re not leaving this house until you don’t look so pale and thin!” she declared. “You need at least a week of Bison bread, catfish, and greens! If you try to leave before then, I swear I will hide your clothes! Why, I might just burn them!” she exclaimed, giving Breister a laughing, but determined, look. Despite his protests, Breister knew he would have to stay a while. Country Bison were renowned for their hospitality, and equally known for their kind and humble, but absolutely unmovable, manner with guests.

  “Just relax, my friend,” Toshty advised. “Enjoy the food and friendliness. You’ve been through a lot. Sareth is right; you really do look thin. Rest up and renew yourself. You will feel stronger and be better able to continue your search.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “And besides,” he added, “they are Helga’s family, too, and they need to get to know you a bit.”

  Breister was thoughtful. He did want to honor the Abblegurt’s as the family who had raised Helga. Helga often told him how much she longed to visit the Rounds, but there had been no way to leave the Hedgelands until they were expelled.

  “How odd life is,” Breister reflected, sitting at the hearth listening to the happy chatter in the Abblegurt dugout. “Helga, who so longs to be here, is not; and I, who know these Bison only as fanciful stories now come to life, am here! Helga would choose to come here in a minute, if she were able, yet I find myself here by the most amazing forces of chance. The very household where she was raised! In my vision, it was almost as if I knew I would someday be here...I could see it...it was just like this.”

  Over the next few days, the travelers explored the Rounds with Elbin. He was an excellent guide, showing them places that even Toshty had never seen, despite his numerous visits. Breister found one of the places where Elbin took them especially interesting. They went to a rocky point overlooking a quiet pool along Hervy’s Trickle. “Roundies often come here to jig for perch,” he explained. The flat, overhanging rock was caked with smoky residue left by the fires and drippings of countless fish-frys.

  “Well, this is certainly a sight to see,” Breister said politely, wondering why they had gone on such a long walk to see a dirty, scorched boulder.

  Elbin grinned at his visitor’s puzzlement. “Look over the edge into the pool,” he directed.

  Breister, Toshty, and Annie did as had been suggested. Breister howled with glee. “HELGA!” The word was written with stones at the bottom of the clear, deep pool.

  “Yes, Helga placed the rocks herself,” Elbin explained, smiling fondly at Breister. “I knew this was a place you’d want to see.” Breister’s happy face confirmed this. “The rocks have been there since Helga left,” he continued. “A ferocious snapping turtle inhabits the pool—Grandfather Vicious they call him. Most of us just refer to him as Grandbub Vic. He’s said to be over 100 years old, but he’s still fit enough to take off toes with a nip of his beak. I saw him once and he surely weighs at least 400 pounds—he’s a terrible wonder to see! Why, there’s been hunters go after him and come back with chunks of their hide gone, and their pikes and hooks left nothing by splinters. So, everyone just leaves him alone. The Deep Springs River is a much safer place to swim.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Breister observed.

  “Maybe so,” Elbin agreed, “but, just before Helga left the Rounds, she wanted to say ‘Good-Bye’ in a unique way. You see the result.”

  “Well, it’s true to her brave and strong-willed nature,” Breister said with a tone of admiration. “Sounds just like something she would have done.”

  “And I imagine that no one is about to jump in there and change it,” Toshty laughed.

  “No,” Elbin chuckled, “even if Helga made friends with Old Vic, or whatever she did, it will remain something only she would do.”

  With Elbin’s help, the three friends became skillful at catching perch with a jigging pole. They pulled out 30 fish in just over an hour. “Grandbub Vic doesn’t eat fish,” Elbin explained. “The pool is full of them. But Hervy’s Trickle is picked clean of just about any other water critter around the big snapper’s territory—snakes, clams, frogs, mussles, crawdads, smaller turtles—you name it, and the old fellow eats ’em. But the fish just go along like nobody’s business. No one knows why. But it makes this a great place to catch them.”

  The delightful feast of fried fish they
shared gave Breister a deep feeling of contentment. He felt that he had gained some precious closeness to his daughter, which he would have missed had he pressed quickly on in his search.

  But, as the days passed, Breister’s desire to continue his search grew. Not wishing to offend his generous hosts, he enjoyed the happy fellowship of the household. His feelings of restlessness continued to increase, however. He had resolved to share these feelings, when one morning he noticed that Sareth was up extremely early, rustling in the kitchen.

  “Sareth,” Breister inquired, coming out of his bedroom and rubbing his sleepy eyes, “it is more than an hour before sunrise. Why are you up so early today?”

  “It is time for you to depart and I want to make some food for your journey,” she said, smiling at him.

  Breister began to protest that he did not want to leave, but Sareth put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t want to leave!” she exclaimed, giving him a look of mock outrage. “What kind of a father would you be if you were fit, healthy, and fully able to travel, and yet you laid around here like a rug?” she asked, grinning at him. “Why, your Helga might be at the mercy of thugs and thieves! Or she might be wandering lost in the wilderness! What a fool I would be to have such a lazy fellow laying around my house while his daughter perished!” she continued, shaking a spoon at him. “Don’t want to leave, indeed!” she sniffed playfully. “Why, you are commanded to leave. You must go find her! What do you think this is, a resort?” As the big Wood Cow’s nose turned red with a deep blush of embarrassment, Sareth could see that she had succeeded in teasing Breister sufficiently for him to know he could leave without offending her. She put her arm over his shoulder and added, “But you have to promise that when you find Helga, you will bring her back here!”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Breister stammered happily, “Yes, ma’am, you can count on it.”

  Later that morning, Toshty, Annie, and Breister caught the weekly running-wagon bound for the Drownlands Cutoff. “I have no way of knowing where Helga might be,” he explained, as the three comrades said goodbye and got ready to board. “She could be anywhere. But I can’t believe that Helga would have left me at the river. Either she was forced to leave, in which case I have no idea where she is; or she returned to the riverbank to look for me, and found me and our boat gone.” He looked knowingly at Annie, who could not meet his eyes. “Thus,” he continued, “the only possible lead I have, as opposed to just wandering around in all directions looking for her, is to return to the WooPeace. If she tried to follow me down the river, if she survived—” His voice trailed off and he covered his eyes. “If she survived,” he continued with a thick voice, “she is a Woonyak in the WooPeace. I at least have to see if she is there.” Breister was grief-stricken to think of such a fate befalling his beloved daughter. It was horrible to contemplate.

  “That’s why going to Toshty’s cabin is the only thing that makes sense,” he concluded. “The unused entrance to the WooPeace that Toshty says is near his cabin—what he calls the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’—I’ve seen it from the inside. The WooSheep call it the LuteWoo. I don’t care if it is forbidden to enter the WooPeace there. The fact that folk are afraid even to go near it is actually a good thing in this case. I hope to slip in there without being seen and without having to swim!”

  “And no way am I going to leave you two to face WooZan alone,” Annie declared, as she said goodbye to the Abblegurts and climbed onto the running-wagon. Annie reflected on how much she had enjoyed being welcomed into a loving family group. It was something she had never fully enjoyed in her life. It felt good. She looked at Toshty, who was sitting next to her in the running-wagon. “Toshty, do you ever get lonely?...I mean, living all alone and having no family?” she asked.

  “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...

   

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