The Land You Never Leave

by Angus Watson

  Morningstar stifled a smile. This would be interesting. Being a gift for a god could mean many things, but it always meant being killed, usually in quite an entertaining way.

  Clembur’s eyes skimmed over the Popeye then settled on the Mushroom Men for a good while.

  “They are horrible looking,” she said. “Cuguai will be pleased!”

  Finnbogi the Boggy looked at Erik the Angry. His father raised his eyebrows in return, which pretty much summed it up. What, by Loakie’s pointed cock, did it mean that one of them was to be a gift for a god? The only gifts the Hardworkers had given the gods were a couple of buffalo for Tor at the quarterly Things. Those, they burned and ate. It did not bode well. And what was that roaring noise, and the steam rising from the ground up ahead? The familiar feeling of sick dread returned to his stomach.

  They followed Chapa Wangwa, Clembur and the other buffalo riders. Finnbogi looked at Erik’s bandaged hand. He swore it didn’t hurt, but it was a nasty burn. Watching Chapa Wangwa hurt his father like that had made Finnbogi hate him more that he thought it was possible to hate another person. After Garth Anvilchin, that was really saying something.

  The Cuguai people dismounted and led them onto a rocky promontory, overlooking a strange river. The prairie grass gave way to an area of bare, pink-brown, stepped rock. The river didn’t so much flow through this rocky terrain as charge through it, careering down the stone steps in a series of waterfalls. Finnbogi had seen waterfalls. This was another level. It was several more levels. The two largest falls were mighty indeed, maybe ten paces high, raging down with a force that would surely pulverise the bones of any creature that was unlucky enough to fall in.

  On both sides of the river were more of the Cuguai tribe, dressed like Clembur in sleeveless leather jerkins, watching the newcomers expectantly.

  “Wow,” said Finnbogi.

  “Actually, I’m a bit disappointed,” said Sitsi Kestrel at his shoulder. “There’s a waterfall in the north-east that’s seventy paces high.”

  “This one’s still big enough to kill anyone who tried to swim down it. Or anyone who got thrown in …”

  Realisation hit Finnbogi like wet blanked dropped from a tree.

  “This is Cuguai, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It is,” Sitsi nodded.

  “So if someone’s going to be a gift for Cuguai …”

  “The most obvious answer is usually the correct one,” said Gunnhild, on his other side. “Look.”

  She pointed to Chapa Wangwa, who was corralling the Popeye four. He produced a bunch of grass and gestured at them to take a piece each. They did so reluctantly.

  ”Congratulations! You pulled the short grass!” the Badlander shouted on the third draw.

  It was Clogan, the oldest and possibly the buggiest eyed of the Popeyes. He stared at the short blade of grass in his hand. Finnbogi looked at the roaring, churning river and the ball of fear in his stomach became all the heavier. What a horrible way to go.

  “Kneel!” Chapa Wangwa shouted at the unfortunate man, pushing him down when he didn’t comply immediately. He did something to him that Finnbogi couldn’t see. When Clogan rose, his spider box was dangling from Chapa Wangwa’s hand.

  “Don’t try anything,” said Chapa Wangwa, pointing at the others. “Your friends still have theirs.”

  The man nodded meekly.

  “Now, follow Chief Clembur.”

  Clogan followed the chief and other Cuguai upstream. Ovets and the other two Popeyes tried to follow but Chapa Wangwa pushed them back with ease. The scrawny man was a good deal stronger than he looked.

  Meanwhile, more Badlanders were running up from the Plains Strider. Finnbogi guessed their tasks were done and they didn’t want to miss the entertainment.

  The chief strode out onto a wooden platform that protruded over the river. Further upstream was a wooden bridge, swiftly filling with Badlander and Cuguai onlookers.

  Clembur stood on her own on the platform, playing a tune on her flute. Finnbogi could hear only the odd snatch of phrasing above the roar of the river. He didn’t mind missing it. He hadn’t cared much for her warbling.

  The chief pocketed her flute and stood back.

  Four Cuguai lifted the captive by his feet and hands, swung him back and forth chanting words of which Finnbogi only understood “Cuguai,” then hurled him into the rushing river.

  He went under, popped up and struck for shore with a competent overarm stroke. The man could swim. Finnbogi wagered that the bastards hadn’t counted on that! Would he make it?

  He nearly did, very nearly, but he tired, paused for a heartbeat, and the current snatched him. He flowed over a moderately sized fall, then surfaced a little way upstream of the first of the two large falls. This first drop split into four waterfalls, stout crags of wet-dark rock in between each.

  Clogan went over the nearest chute backwards and cracked headfirst onto a rocky outcrop at its base.

  His fellow Popeyes wailed and shouted. Along with Badlanders, Cuguai, Calnians and Wootah, they craned their necks and scanned the churning water at the base of the falls. Finnbogi found himself praying to Oaden that he’d surface. There was no point praying to Loakie. He’d probably find it more amusing to let the man drown.

  Clogan didn’t surface. A short time passed—a short time for the onlookers, but a very long time to be underwater. Ovets, Walex and Sandea hugged each other. Finnbogi looked away.

  “He went the wrong way,” said Keef the Berserker, striding up.

  “What?”

  “He swam towards us, which is exactly what you should do if you want to get spun around like he did. You see that eddy,” Keef pointed and Finnbogi did see the eddy. “That’s what did for him. It spun him and dumped him on the rock that smashed his head. If he’d swum away from us, he would have made it to the next fall along, which is higher but smoother. He would have been fine.”

  Finnbogi looked at the second fall. “Fine” was probably putting it a bit strongly. There were no protruding rocks, admittedly, but the water still slammed down like a giant’s fist into a rolling and boiling plunge pool.

  If somehow a person survived that, the next falls looked even more treacherous.

  “I’m sure he would have been just tickety-boo,” Finnbogi told Keef.

  “Yeah, and if he’d struck as hard as he could and made that third fall, I think he would have had a better line for the final fall. I’m not sure, I’d have to try it.”

  “You might get your chance. Here comes the smiler.”

  Chapa Wangwa was striding towards them, clutching a handful of grass. The Badlander captain, Rappa Hoga, rode up on his dagger-tooth cat, leapt off and walked alongside. The cat followed behind him.

  “Gather round, all the Wootah, gather round,” cried the grinning Chapa Wangwa, “it is time to decide who’s going for a swim.”

  “I have something of a hum going on,” Wulf lifted an arm and sniffed his armpit. “Yup, that’s unacceptable. I should wash for the sake of you all. I’ll go.”

  “Oh no no no, that’s not how Cuguai likes it. You must be chosen by chance. All of you must pick a piece of grass.”

  “Not the children.”

  “Oh, you are a hard man, Wulf! And I am a kind one, so I will compromise. Your two racoons, they will not have to join the draw.”

  Wulf stepped forward and towered over Chapa Wangwa. “That’s a start, but neither will the children be involved.”

  The Badlander did not flinch. “Hit me! Please please please. When the spiders have done their work and you are a lump of useless flesh with staring eyes, I will kick you into place so that you can see whoever picks the short blade going down the falls.”

  “You will not send the children down the falls. They will not be picking a piece of grass.” Wulf smiled. If Chapa Wangwa’s smile put Finnbogi in mind of a snake, Wulf’s reminded him of the tornado that had killed Chnob the White and very nearly done for Finnbogi himself.

  “I can’t help,
” said Chapa Wangwa. “Is it not true that all must pick a blade, Chief Clembur?”

  “The Badlander is right. Once Cuguai has chosen a group, all must draw.”

  “Not. The. Children.”

  Chapa Wangwa beckoned one of the children on bighorn sheep forward. “Empty Child, Wulf the Fat’s spiders will bite him no—”

  “Hold,” said Rappa Hoga. If Rappa Hoga and Wulf were having a competition for who could look most heroic, it was a close-run thing. “The children will pull blades as Cuguai has demanded.”

  “Then you and I—” Wulf started towards him.

  “Wait. There is more. You will all pull blades. If a young one pulls a blade, one of the Wootah tribe may exchange with them.”

  “But—” Chief Clembur took a step towards them.

  “Cuguai will find this acceptable,” said Rappa Hoga. It was not a question.

  The large-chinned woman hesitated then nodded.

  “Thank you, Rappa Hoga,” said Wulf.

  There was a pause while the two men regarded each other. Finnbogi could feel the manliness crackling in the air.

  “Good, good! Then we can get on!” cried Chapa Wangwa, breaking the macho spell. “Come, then, and pick your blades.”

  The Wootah tribe gathered round the grinning Badlander.

  Gunnhild went first and pulled a long piece of grass. Then Thyri, then Sassa. Next were Freydis and Ottar. All took long blades.

  Wulf nodded Finnbogi forwards. He took a piece of grass between finger and thumb. He pulled. Chapa Wangwa gripped, the blade broke and Finnbogi was left with a short piece of grass in his hand.

  “You … He …” Finnbogi looked around. Nobody else had seen what the Badlander had done.

  “Good!” said Chapa Wangwa happily. “I’m glad it’s you. I don’t like you. You sat by while I hurt your father.”

  “But …”

  “Although I am surprised Cuguai has chosen you. But sometimes Cuguai chooses someone to remove a burden from others, rather than take someone impressive for herself.”

  Gunnhild looked horrified. Freydis smiled at him. Were those tears in Thyri’s eyes? The Owsla were all regarding him with something that seemed an awful lot like acceptance. Even Sofi Tornado was looking him in the eye for the first ever time. The three remaining Popeye were goggling at him with pity, the Badlanders and Cuguai with varyingly disguised degrees of glee.

  Finnbogi looked into the rushing, churning water and nodded. It was okay. Now it was him, he wasn’t as scared as when there had just been a chance it was going to be him. He was ready. He was terrified, he was going to die, but never mind. You die when you die.

  “I’ll go in his place.”

  It was Morningstar! Looking more heroic than Wulf and Rappa Hoga combined, warrior goddess, second most beautiful of the Owsla after Paloma Pronghorn in Finnbogi’s rankings at that time, and, equal with Sofi Tornado, least friendly. Had he heard correctly?

  There was a moment’s pause. It seemed everyone else was as surprised as Finnbogi.

  “I will go in his place,” she reiterated.

  “No no no,” Chapa Wangwa shook his smiling head. “Cuguai has chosen! The irritating boy will die.”

  “Rappa Hoga said that if a young one pulled the blade somebody could swap with them.”

  “He meant the children!”

  “You yourself just called him a boy. That makes him a young one.”

  “But …” said Chapa Wangwa.

  “Remove my spiders. I’ll throw myself in.”

  “No,” said Rappa Hoga.

  “You said—”

  “I decreed that if a young one pulled a short blade then one of the Wootah tribe may exchange with them. You are not Wootah.”

  “No, that’s not right. You—”

  “That is what he said,” said Sofi Tornado. “Stand back, Morningstar.”

  Morningstar stood back.

  “Kneel down, please,” said Chapa Wangwa to Finnbogi. “I’ll remove your spiders. We don’t want them to suffer such a nasty death. Remember, though, if you attack me or try and run, then I will have spiders bite … let me see … this one.” He pointed at Thyri Treelegs.

  Thyri raised a hand to her neck box and treated Chapa Wangwa to the same look that she’d given her brother Chnob the White when they’d discovered he was betraying them.

  Finnbogi looked at the river. He was scared again, much more so in fact than he’d been before Morningstar had offered to go for him. Hope is a terrible thing, he thought.

  “Okay, Chapa Wanker!” cried Keef the Berserker. “Get my spiders off and I’ll swim your stream.”

  He knelt in front of the Badlander.

  Chapa Wangwa’s grin faltered. He looked at Rappa Hoga.

  The chief Badlander smiled. “It’s not what I intended, but it does fit my decree. Keef the Berserker will take the place of Finnbogi the Boggy and be given to the goddess.”

  “It’s no goddess,” said Keef, “it’s a bit of river that flows downhill.”

  Rappa Hoga raised an eyebrow. “Keef the Berserker will not push his luck. In times of lower flow, sacrifices are hamstrung to ensure that the river devours them. You will be quiet, Keef, if you’d like to die with only an eye and an ear missing. You will also note that all rivers flow downhill.”

  “Sure thing! Sorry, I mean.” Keef nodded emphatically.

  The kneeling Keef lifted his chin to allow access to his spider strap.

  Finnbogi looked around. Everyone was looking at him. “No, Keef, you can’t. Thanks, but I pulled the short blade,” he said reluctantly.

  “I can and I’m going to. Tell him, Wulf.”

  “Are you sure?” Wulf asked.

  “Yup.”

  “In that case, Finnbogi, I order Keef to go in your place. The decision is nothing to do with you and nobody will hold it against you. Is that clear, everyone?”

  Finnbogi looked at Thyri. She looked away.

  Chapa Wangwa removed Keef’s spider box. Keef stood and handed his axe Arse Splitter to Ottar. “Look after it, kid.”

  “It’s too big for Ottar to wield,” said Gunnhild.

  “So? I’ll be back to get it in a minute.” Keef ruffled Ottar’s hair and the boy beamed.

  “Come then,” said Chief Clembur.

  Keef followed her to the launch platform.

  “Swim well, Keef,” said Wulf.

  Clembur played her flute again. The four Cuguai picked up Keef by his feet and his hands. Keef shouted instructions about where he should be thrown.

  They chanted and swung, then hurled the Wootah man into the rushing river.

  Chapter 13

  Bob

  Sitsi Kestrel teetered on the tips of her toes. Chogolisa Earthquake stood next to Erik the Angry, holding Ottar the Moaner on one shoulder, looking grim. Paloma Pronghorn had one arm around Freydis the Annoying and was holding hands with Sassa Lipchewer. And Morningstar—Morningstar!—had volunteered to drown in Finnbogi’s place.

  Sofi Tornado shook her head. She considered heading back to the Plains Strider to fetch the sword she’d taken from Finnbogi and get some practice in with the new weapon—she’d resolved to put their extraordinarily free captivity to good use—but thought on balance that it might be more interesting to watch the Mushroom Man drown.

  Keef the Berserker hung above the roiling torrent for a moment then splashed in, slapping down with his arms and legs to prevent himself dunking too deep. He flipped over immediately and started swimming in the same overarm stroke as Cuguai’s previous victim. The Mushroom Man, however, swam away from the bank, towards the centre of the river.

  Was he looking for a quicker death? Sofi wondered.

  Cuguai ignored his pathetic paddling and swept him speedily towards the first fall, a drop of maybe two paces. On the crest of the falls Keef spun like an aquatic acrobat and went over feet first, hands shielding his head.

  That, thought Sofi Tornado, is not the dumbest move I’ve ever seen.

  Keef flo
wed on like flotsam towards the first of the two large falls, head up to see where he was going, feet out front, hands paddling to keep him on course.

  The Mushroom Man was going to miss the rocks that had done for the previous swimmer. However, Clogan had never emerged at the base of the falls, presumably held under by the extraordinary weight of the cascade. This, Sofi had to admit to herself, was going to be interesting.

  Keef spilled over the falls’ glassy lip, shouted, “Woootah!” and disappeared in the curtain of white water.

  He reappeared a heartbeat later, leaping like a salmon from the foaming tumult of the plunge pool. For a moment it seemed like he must be dragged under again, but he put his head down, swung his arms, kicked his legs and powered himself clear.

  “Woootah!” shouted Wulf the Fat.

  “Wootah! Wootah! Wootah!” the Mushroom Men cheered. Paloma, Chogolisa and Sitsi joined in.

  Morningstar looked at Sofi, one eyebrow raised.

  Sofi resolved once again to improve the Owsla’s swimming skills. Keef the Berserker might have made a good teacher, if he hadn’t been a Mushroom Man and therefore marked for death, and if he hadn’t been about to tumble down significantly higher falls that would surely kill anyone.

  Keef propelled himself across the current to the far side of the stream—to line up with a rock-free section of waterfall—and swung round again, feet forward above the rushing surface, head raised.

  And then he was over.

  He disappeared. Sofi almost wanted him to leap up in the same way as before. She didn’t much like these Cuguai people and, if Keef survived, he’d beaten their god. The Mushroom Men might be hateful, but they were her Mushroom Men.

  She watched with the rest of them, Chapa Wangwa and Rappa Hoga included.

  He didn’t leap from the water. He didn’t surface at all.

  There was silence on the shore.

  Owsla, Wootah, Badlanders, Cuguai and Popeye scanned the churning pool. There was no sign of the man.

  Still nobody spoke.

  “There!” shouted Bjarni Chickenhead. “Woo—” Then he realised he was mistaken.