The Way of the Wilderking wt-3

by Jonathan Rogers

  Aidan jumped off the platform to rejoin Percy and Dobro. “Let’s get out of here!” he still had to shout to be heard, even though he was standing beside them. “These people are all fools or traitors!”

  “That may be!” Percy shouted back. “But that doesn’t mean they’ve got it all wrong!”

  Chapter Nine

  The Boss of the Forest

  Aidan, Dobro, and Percy gave up on getting supplies for their journey to Sinking Canyons. Now all they wanted was to get away from Hustingreen; but that proved to be no easy matter. A group of boys noticed them trying to slip out of the village and followed them, whooping, capering, and pushing each other. Soon the whole village was following them north on the River Road, as if they were on a pleasure outing.

  “To Tambluff!” somebody yelled. They were, after all, headed in the direction of the capital city.

  “Hurray!” the crowd shouted in response.

  Aidan could hear the boisterous, happy conversation between several old men near the front of the crowd. “You gotta like his style,” said one of them. “Bold, determined.”

  “I’m with you,” said another. “We know the king ain’t there; he’s off at the swamp with our boys.”

  “Hee-hee,” laughed the first. “King Darrow’s in for a surprise when he gets home, ain’t he?”

  “But don’t you reckon he left somebody guarding the castle?” suggested a third man.

  But the other two seemed unconcerned. “Don’t you worry about that, old boy. If I know Aidan Errolson, he’s got a plan.”

  Aidan Errolson did have a plan, but it had nothing to do with storming Tambluff Castle. Taking the River Road was only a ruse. The last thing they needed was a whole village of Aidanites following them to their hideout in Sinking Canyons. Their true destination lay many leagues to the west and south, far from the River Road-far indeed from any road.

  On Dobro’s signal, the three disappeared into the forest on the left side of the road, clambering up a convenient tree and soaring through the treetops, hidden from the wondering eyes of the Hustingreeners.

  Dobro led the way to the banks of Bayberry Creek. They waded the creek, pausing to cool themselves and to drink of the black water before pushing on to the west and south.

  The tangled forest of the bottomlands opened up into a great pine savannah a few leagues below the Bayberry. Confident that the Aidanites couldn’t possibly have tracked them, the three travelers returned to the ground and continued their trek on foot, careful to avoid the few small farms, turpentine camps, and other tiny settlements that dotted the landscape in this part of the island.

  By midmorning on the second day after they had left Hustingreen, even those small, isolated settlements were nowhere to be found. Aidan, Dobro, and Percy were entering Corenwald’s Clay Wastes. Unlike most of the island, here the soil was too poor for farming. Even the forests looked thin and degraded. The stately old longleaf pines of the upland savannah were replaced by scrubby second-growth pine trees. A few trees were as tall as seventy or eighty feet, but even those were so spindly they looked as if a good strong wind might snap them in two. In some places the trees formed dense thickets. In others, they were so far apart that even a person with a strong arm could hardly throw a rock from one tree to the next. Without the protection of the longleaf overstory, the waving wiregrass was overrun by vines and briars. It was exactly the kind of vegetation that made tree walking necessary, but the trees were too irregularly spaced for that.

  “You won’t be finding no feechies in this part of the island,” Dobro grunted as he slashed through a briar bush with a pole he had cut from a turkey oak. “Can’t swim, can’t boat, can’t tree-walk.”

  “So we’re going to be living in a place that’s too wild for the feechiefolk,” Aidan mumbled.

  Dobro slapped at the back of his neck and danced with rage. His skin, so white after his first bath, was now an angry red from sunburn and splotched with the purple welts raised by mosquitoes and other biting insects that swarmed in all of Corenwald’s wild places.

  “These bugs is about to chaw me down to bones and tallow,” Dobro complained. “How can you civilizers go pirootin’ around without no mud cover and not go crazy account of the itching?”

  “We’re just tougher than feechies, I suppose,” Percy said, cutting his eyes over toward Dobro to see his reaction.

  Dobro slapped at another bug. “If I wasn’t so miserable,” he said, “I’d whup both of you and show you how tough a feechie is.” He gave a little wiggle, rubbing his knees together to scratch matching mosquito bites on the inside of either knee.

  Dobro moaned, “I don’t mind telling you, these skeeters done whupped and defeated me.”

  “Dobro, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Percy chided. “A full-grown feechie defeated by mosquitoes.”

  “There ain’t no shame in that,” said Dobro. “No shame at all. You know who’s the boss of the forest, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Percy. “A bear? A panther? Certainly not a mosquito.”

  Dobro gave another slap at his bare arm and launched into a story meant to educate his fellow travelers and keep his own mind off his troubles.

  “Mr. Wildcat and Mr. Alligator got to argufying about who was the boss of the forest. Up and down they had it, back and forth, who should and who shouldn’t. They got so aggravated till Mr. Wildcat finally reached back with his off-paw and fetched one across Mr. Alligator’s snout. Ker-blip! ”

  Dobro reenacted the blow, swinging his open hand in a sweeping, roundhouse motion.

  “Well now, Mr. Alligator was astonished that his old friend Mr. Wildcat would strike a blow against him. His eyes filled up with tears. He turned tail like he was headed back into the water, and Mr. Wildcat figured he’d made his point. He sat down on his hunkers and mewed out a song: None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the champeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

  “But Mr. Alligator’s tearfulness was just a trick he learnt from Cousin Crocodile. He didn’t even feel that cat’s furry paw against his bony snout. And he sure didn’t have it in his mind to skedaddle from such a fight as that. Naw, he turnt tail so he could reach that sassy wildcat better.

  “Mr. Wildcat was strokin’ his chin whiskers and feelin’ mighty bumptious when Mr. Alligator’s tail come whippin’ ’round like a harrycane. That poor cat was flung nearbout to the other side of the river. And by the time he’d paddled to the far bank, lookin’ droopy and bedraggled, Mr. Wildcat decided not to pursue the question no further with Mr. Alligator.

  “Wasn’t too much longer before Mr. Bear come by and seen Mr. Alligator looking biggety. He asked him, ‘What makes you hold your head so high, Mr. Alligator?’

  “Alligator given him one of them long smiles of his, and then he sings out, None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the champeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

  “Mr. Bear figured on that a while, and then he suggested maybe Mr. Alligator weren’t the boss after all, and they commenced to argufyin’. Up and down they had it, back and forth, who can and who can’t, who is and who isn’t. They got so aggravated that Mr. Alligator reached way back with his tail and frammed Mr. Bear across the hunkers.

  “That hurted Mr. Bear, you know. But mostly it made him mad. Mr. Bear’s a big feller and don’t fling so easy as a wildcat. He reached up high with his near paw and kerflunked it right down betwixt Mr. Alligator’s knobbly eyes just like he was swingin’ a hammer. Knocked all the bubbles out’n him. Sunk him all the way to the river mud. Mr. Alligator figured he’d had about all he wanted, and he moseyed a good piece down the river afore he knobbed his nose out’n the water again.

  “Mr. Bear couldn’t help bloviatin’ a little bit. He stood up on his behind legs and grumbled and growled so as to get his pitch, then he sung out: None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the cha
mpeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

  “Then Mr. Bear figured that if he was going to be the boss of the forest he better go ahead and start bossin’ some folks. So he gathered up all the critters in a clearing where he could give everybody their ’signments. The critters didn’t like it very much, and they all was grumblin’ in their goozlums, but they’d seen what Mr. Bear done to Mr. Alligator, and them what didn’t see it had heard about it. Nobody figured he’d be the first person to backchat Mr. Bear.

  “Mr. Bear said, ‘You folks probably heard already, I’m the boss of this here forest.’ That made the critters feel uneasy in their minds, but nobody said nothin’. They just kind of shuffled their paws around a little bit.

  “Then, when Mr. Bear was about to start with the ’signments, somebody hollered out, ‘I don’t reckon you the boss of me, old Bear.’

  “Mr. Bear’s brow went wrinkly and he stared from critter to critter. He asked, ‘Which one of you folks is givin’ me sauce?’ All the critters just looked down at their paws, afraid Mr. Bear would think it was them what said he weren’t the boss. Mr. Bear said a little louder, ‘Which one of you critters is givin’ me sauce?’

  “The voice hollered out again, ‘I’m the one what’s givin’ you sauce, Bear. That’s the way I like my bear meat-with a little sauce.’

  “Mr. Bear ain’t grumblin’ no more. Now he’s roaring: ‘Who said that?!’

  “The voice hollered out a third time: ‘It’s me, it’s Mr. Flea. And I don’t mind saying, I’m a better man than you, Mr. Bear.’

  “Mr. Bear squinched up his eyes and soodled down close to the ground and sure enough, he seen Mr. Flea standing on the top of a daisy flower with his chest poked out and his fists balled up. Mr. Bear give a snort, then he commenced to hee-hawing.

  “That just made Mr. Flea mad. ‘I ain’t a man to be laughed at,’ he told him. ‘You better ’pologize to me, and in a hurry too.’

  “But Mr. Bear’d done flopped down on the ground and was tee-heein’ and haw-hawin’ like he just couldn’t help hisself.

  “Mr. Flea poked out his chest farther and balled up his fists harder. ‘You stand up and show me some respect, Bear, or you gonna find out why!’

  “But it weren’t no use. Mr. Bear guffawed and rolled around like somebody was ticklin’ him in the short ribs. Well, Mr. Flea weren’t one to make idle threats. He was a man of action. He hopped off that daisy flower and onto Mr. Bear’s nose. Found a nice soft spot and got hisself a whole mouthful.

  “You can believe Mr. Bear stopped laughing then. He raised up a paw and swatted his snout so hard that he knocked his own slobber all over Mr. Possum. But Mr. Flea was long gone. He hopped up to Mr. Bear’s ear and got hisself another plug of bear hide. Mr. Bear ’bout knocked hisself cross-eyeded punchin’ at his own ear, but by that time Mr. Flea had done attached himself to Mr. Bear’s hindquarters.

  “Mr. Bear flopped on his back and wallowed around, but Mr. Flea already commenced to chawin’ on his belly. Then he got him up under the chin, then up under his left armpit.”

  Dobro paused for dramatic effect. “And do you know what that bear done then?” Percy and Aidan shook their heads, eager to hear the end of the story.

  “He sat there and took it, that’s what he did. What else could he do? Mr. Flea was gnawin’ the hide off’n him, and he couldn’t do one thing to stop him.

  “Finally Mr. Flea spit out a mouthful of bristle and gristle and hollered out, ‘How ’bout it, Mr. Bear? You surrender?’ And you can believe the critters perked up to hear the answer to that question.

  “Mr. Bear moaned, all humble-come-tumble, ‘I surrender, Mr. Flea! Mercy!’

  “Mr. Flea stood on Mr. Bear’s nose and looked him in the eye. He said, ‘I ain’t a hard man, Mr. Bear, but I ain’t gonna let nobody boss me or my people. You hear me, Bear?’

  “‘I hear you, Mr. Flea.’

  “And the flea sung a different song: I like my bear with a little sauce. This here forest got a brand-new boss!

  “And so,” Dobro concluded, “if a flea can be a better man than a bear, I ain’t going to feel so bad about getting whupped by a whole swarm of mosquitoes.”

  Dobro looked up and down his exposed arms and legs. He still couldn’t get used to them being any color but the gray of swamp mud. “I was plenty pink after you tried to scrub my skin off at the river,” he said. “But I keep gettin’ pinker by the minute. Next seep hole or stagnant pool we come to, I aim to wallow in it.”

  “No, you won’t!” Aidan and Percy said in unison.

  “If you want to live among civilizers, you’ve got to live like civilizers,” Aidan said. “You aren’t subjecting my family to that feechie stink. Your breath alone is going to be as much as most civilizers can stand.”

  “Besides,” Percy added, “we’re almost to Sinking Canyons already. Next water we see will be the little creek that flows at the bottom of the canyons.”

  Chapter Ten

  Into the Canyons

  The morning of the third day after leaving Hustingreen, the three travelers struck a little creek that was struggling across the plain. “This is it,” said Percy. “This is the creek that flows through Sinking Canyons.”

  Aidan took another look at the muddy stream. He could easily jump across it. It wasn’t even deep enough to support fish larger than minnows and shiners. He cocked his head and looked questioningly at Percy. “This little creek cut a canyon?” Aidan had seen a canyon once in the Hill Country. Through it roared the Upper Branch of the mighty River Tam, boiling white as it leaped over rocks and plunged into pools, swirling and thundering, cutting its own path through the canyon’s granite walls on its way to the sea many leagues away. Aidan could imagine the River Tam cutting a canyon. But this little stream? It didn’t seem possible.

  As they hiked up the stream, however, its banks deepened and grew farther apart. And soon the banks of the creek weren’t banks anymore, but the sides of a little valley through which the stream ran flat and wide, not even ankle deep, in muddy rivulets that crossed and recrossed one another like braided hair.

  “Watch this,” said Percy as he stepped into the braided stream. The water ran over the tops of his feet and flowed cloudier a little distance before the stirred-up mud settled out again. Percy pointed where he had just stepped. “Watch my bootprints.” The clear imprint of Percy’s boots melted away as the rivulets braided themselves back together in the soft mud. “A hundred men could troop up this streambed, and a quarter hour later there would be no trace of them.” The stream was forever shifting, constantly flowing into new patterns of its own design. There, out in the open, was a secret passageway of sorts, covering tracks almost as quickly as the travelers could make them.

  Before long the streambed had sunk more deeply beneath the level of the plain. The steep sides of the valley were noticeably higher than the three travelers’ heads, and Dobro was growing visibly nervous. “This ain’t no place for a feechie,” he said. “I got no business going underneath the ground.”

  “You aren’t underground,” Aidan said, pointing at the mud they were slogging through. “There’s the ground, and it’s under you.”

  “That ain’t the ground I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Dobro answered. He pointed up the valley wall to the grass and trees that grew well above them. “I’m talkin’ ’bout that ground.” He began moaning the warning chant that his mother had taught him about Sinking Canyons: Fallen are the feechiefolks, In a gully, down a hole. No more fistfights, no more jokes, In a gully, down a hole. To the river, to the woods, In a gully, down a hole. Time to leave these neighborhoods. In a gully, down a hole.

  By now the valley had deepened into a canyon. Its sheer walls were so high that not even Dobro could heave a rock up to the canyon rim. Aidan had never seen another place like it. The midday sun reflecting off the sheer canyon walls was almost blinding. Up near the rim, at the top of the canyon wall ran a band of the same red c
lay that prevailed throughout much of Corenwald. But below that, and all the way down to the canyon floor, the wall was a swirl of colors ranging from white to deep pink to lavender and every combination thereof.

  The farther they traveled up the canyon, the higher the walls rose above them, to fifty feet, to a hundred feet, even to a hundred fifty feet in places. On either side the walls folded themselves into fissures and crevices. In places they bulged out in rounded buttresses like the base of a swamp tree. On either hand numerous fingers, smaller canyons, connected to the main canyon like tributaries joining a river. They created a mazelike complex of caves and hidey-holes-a perfect place for lying low, an easy place to defend against a much larger force, if need be. Knife-thin ridges, some a hundred feet high, spurred out from the canyon walls. The canyon floor was dotted with great pink and white chimneys and towers, some round and boulderlike, some so high and spindly they looked as if they might topple over any minute.

  “Time to leave these neighborhoods,” Dobro repeated, remembering his mother’s warnings.

  But Aidan was fascinated with the place. “What is it made of?” he asked, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the scene. “Some sort of stone?”

  “Not stone,” Percy answered, leading his brother to the nearest spur. He swiped his hand across the surface of the wall, and a shower of sand cascaded to the ground. Then he held his hand up to Aidan’s face, showing him the layer of slick white clay that remained. “Sand and clay,” he said, waving his hand to gesture around him. “This whole canyon is nothing but clay and tight-packed sand.”

  A hundred strides up the canyon, Percy pointed up at a tree that dangled upside down against the canyon wall, half its roots still clinging to the red soil at the canyon’s rim. “That tree was still standing when we got here two years ago,” Percy said. “Fell in when the ground beneath it collapsed in a rainstorm last year.” He pointed at a second tree nearby whose roots snaked out of the clay and into midair. “That one is liable to go next.”