The Way of the Wilderking

by Jonathan Rogers

  “Pantherbane, I don’t mean no disrespect, and we all know you got what it takes,” Tombro began. “But ain’t a thousand civilizers with cold-shiny arms more’n you can handle? Even if your brother helps you?”

  “No, listen here,” Aidan said. “If I leave the Feechiefen—and if King Darrow knows it—he’ll never send his men into the swamp.” Aidan took a deep breath before he spoke the next sentence. “I’m leaving the Feechiefen. Right now.”

  The gasps of fifty feechiefolk sounded like the rustle of leaves before a thunderstorm.

  “Aidan,” said Tombro, “we can hide you as long as you want to be hid, and your brother too. And if you don’t want us whuppin’ your civilizer friends, or enemies, whatever they are”—here he looked around nervously, not sure if his fellows would agree—“I reckon we could resist it.”

  “Thank you, Tombro,” said Aidan, “but I won’t ask you to do that. If civilizers come into Feechiefen, there’s bound to be bad trouble. And even if you didn’t whip them, the alligators and the wolves and the quicksand would.

  “No,” he continued, “every hour I stay here, I’m putting the peace of this whole swamp in danger. And I’m putting those thousand civilizer soldiers in danger—and the five thousand King Darrow will send when they’re gone, and the ten thousand he’ll send after that.”

  “But, Pantherbane,” came the piping voice of a wee-feechie who had sneaked into the swamp council. “You gonna come back, ain’t you?”

  “No, Betsu,” Aidan answered, “I don’t reckon I ever will.”

  The stunned silence in the clearing was broken by a wave of wailing lamentations. Percy was astonished to see half the feechiefolk wallowing in the sand for sorrow at Aidan’s departure.

  Aidan couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to the people who had been his gracious hosts and faithful friends these three years. He knew if he didn’t slip away immediately, somebody would start organizing a farewell feast in his honor, complete with fistfights and feechiesings and probably a gator grabble. He just didn’t have the time. He grabbed Percy by the elbow, and the two brothers disappeared into the forest.

  Running for the north end of Scoggin Mound, Aidan heard the slightest rustle in the treetops, and he realized he and Percy were not alone. “Dobro?” he called. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” came the answer from somewhere in the treetop.

  “Go back, Dobro. We’re going to civilizer country.”

  Dobro slid down a vine and dropped to the ground beside them. “I know,” he said. “I been thinkin’ I might take up civilizin’ my own self. Maybe get me a horse to ride around on, marry me one of them pretty civilizer gals, and raise some civilizer younguns.”

  Aidan couldn’t help but smile at the thought. But he knew the swamp was the place for Dobro. “No, I think this is good-bye, friend. Maybe we can meet at the Bear Trail one of these new moons. But you’d better get back to the swamp council. Tell everybody good-bye for me.”

  “I don’t reckon I will,” said Dobro, in a very matter-of-fact tone. “And I don’t reckon you could make me. I’m comin’ with you.”

  Aidan didn’t have time to argue. “Maybe you could escort us as far as Big Bend.”

  “Sure, I’ll escort you to Big Bend,” said Dobro. “Then I’m gonna escort you across the river, and I’m gonna escort you wherever you go in civilizer country, and me and your brothers is gonna be big buddies, and your daddy’s gonna treat me like his own son. Your fights is my fights, Aidan.”

  Dobro among civilizers. Aidan didn’t see any way it could work. It had disaster written all over it. He had to think of something, and fast. So he lied. “Here’s the thing, Dobro. I don’t want you to come with me.”

  Dobro just shrugged. “Want me or don’t want me. It don’t make me no never mind. I’m comin’ with you.”

  Aidan looked at Dobro and sighed. He was one determined feechie. And the truest friend in the world. In truth, Aidan couldn’t bear the thought of parting ways with Dobro, whatever trouble he might cause among the civilizers.

  “Come on, then,” he said.

  “Haw-wee!” Dobro whooped, and he put one arm around Aidan’s neck and the other around Percy’s. “Let’s go get civilized!”

  Chapter Five

  To the Tam

  Percy, Dobro, and Aidan traveled north from Scoggin Mound by flatboat, then through the treetops. Percy, like his brother, proved a natural tree-walker, swinging and leaping with the easy rhythm of the feechiefolks. They saw neither soldiers nor signs of soldiers in the Feechiefen, in the bordering scrub swamp, or in the pine flats beyond. However, when they made it to the River Tam around dusk on the second day of their travels, it became clear they had nearly waited too long.

  On the south bank of the river—the feechie bank—five soldiers from King Darrow’s army were guarding a huge mound of supplies ferried over that day. In the failing light, Aidan could make out bundle upon bundle of steel-tipped arrows, piles of timber axes, two bales of extra uniforms, and stacks of shovels. A string of pack mules stamped and twitched nervously, seemingly aware that they didn’t belong on this side of the River Tam. The civilizer guards looked skittish themselves. From their perch in the tree directly above, Percy, Dobro, and Aidan could hear every word they said.

  “Look at them cooking fires,” one of the soldiers said. Across the river, fifty fires flickered beneath the sheltering trees of Last Camp. “They look cheerful from here, don’t they?”

  “Earl, everything looks cheerful compared to this place,” said one of the others. “It feels like this forest is gonna swallow us whole. We got no business over here.” The pitch of his voice rose with that last sentence.

  “Keep your leggings on, Hadley,” said a third soldier. “Things’ll look a whole lot better tomorrow morning when the rest of the force crosses over.”

  Hadley wasn’t satisfied. “You reckon we’ll even see tomorrow morning? I’m telling you, this place gives me the fantods. Ain’t nobody ever come back from this side of the river, Wat.”

  “Ain’t nobody ever come a thousand men at a time,” Wat answered.

  “I don’t know. It might be just nine hundred and ninety-five by morning.”

  “Hush that talk, Luther,” said Earl. “You’re as bad as Hadley. Besides,” he added, “Aidan Errolson came back alive once.”

  “Aidan Errolson!” a fifth soldier said. “I ’bout had a bellyful of Aidan Errolson. Weren’t for Aidan Errolson, I’d be home where I belong, mowing hay for my cattle, dandling my new baby on my lap in the evenings.”

  “It ain’t Aidan Errolson’s fault you ain’t home on the farm, Cordel,” said Luther. “That was King Darrow’s idea.”

  “I don’t care whose idea it was,” said Hadley. “We got no business this side of the river. The thousand of us ain’t going to catch him, even if he’s still alive— which I doubt.”

  “We couldn’t catch him in the Feechiefen even if there was a hundred thousand of us,” Cordel agreed. “Even if all hundred thousand of us actually wanted to catch him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Luther asked. “You don’t want to catch him?”

  “Aidan Errolson can go about his business, as far as I’m concerned,” said Cordel. “If I can just go about mine. I got hay in the field, and I got a baby needs dandling, and if King Darrow got a beef with Aidan Errolson, I wish he’d leave me out of it!”

  “Seems to me,” said Earl, “a fellow plans to invade my country, burn my crops, carry off my children, he deserves what he gets. King Darrow’s right, we ought to be taking the fight to him before he overruns all of civilization with a crowd of stinking feechies.”

  “Feechies!” Wat scoffed. “Feechies! This ain’t play nursery, Earl. Why you telling nursery stories?”

  “What?” asked Earl. “You don’t believe the Feechiefen’s full of feechies?”

  Wat snorted. “Only thing full of feechies is the minds of babies and half-wits. Feechies! It’s all hokeypoke
y. It’s all oogey-boogey.”

  Dobro couldn’t possibly resist such an invitation. He sailed from his perch in the tree and landed on the bale of uniforms where Wat was sitting. Then he flipped over Wat’s head and landed on the ground in the middle of the soldiers. “Hokey-pokey!” he yelled. “Oogey-boogey!” He whirled around the civilizers like a dust devil, his arms gyrating, his long hair flapping behind him, roaring and yodeling. Then he jumped on Wat’s back and rode the poor civilizer until he tripped over a cypress knee and planted himself in the mud. The rest of the soldiers scattered into Tamside Forest.

  Aidan and Percy, meanwhile, scrambled down the tree and climbed down the riverbank into a little rowboat that floated in the eddy. In a matter of seconds, Dobro sailed from the bank and into the boat in a single catlike leap.

  Percy nearly had the mooring rope loose when Aidan yelled, “Wait!” and scrambled up the root tangle and disappeared over the bank again. He returned in no time and jumped back into the boat. “Here,” he said, handing each of his companions a blue tunic he pulled from the uniform bale. “We might need these.”

  Percy rowed the boat a quarter league downstream, well beyond the last of the civilizers’ dying cooking fires, before rowing across to the north side, where they beached their craft on a sandbar.

  “Home again, home again,” Percy said softly. He seemed genuinely relieved to be back on the civilizer side of the river, in spite of the danger.

  Aidan’s feelings weren’t so straightforward. He was born and bred in civilizer country. He had spent fifteen of his eighteen years there, most of them happy. But the Feechiefen had begun to feel like home. It certainly felt like sanctuary.

  Dobro, of course, had been to the civilizer side of the river before, but he had always stayed in the forests and swamps. Soon he would get his first taste of actual civilization.

  Aidan stood in the river and squatted to wet himself all over. He grabbed a handful of sand and scoured his bare chest, back, legs, and face. A cloud of gray swamp mud—a feechie’s protective coating against bugs and sunburn—spread in the water around him and drifted downstream toward the Eastern Ocean.

  “Come on, Dobro,” Aidan said. “It’s time for you to get cleaned up.”

  Dobro took a step back, away from the water. “I don’t believe I will,” he said. “I done made it eighteen years without getting bathified, and I don’t reckon I’ll start now.”

  “Come on, Dobro,” Aidan repeated. “You can’t get civilized if you’re covered in mud.”

  “How’s that civilized,” Dobro asked, “to walk around all pink and shiny? Like a boiled crawfish? Naw, I’d sooner walk around nekkid.”

  Percy joined in. “How do you figure to get a civilizer girl to marry you if you smell like swamp rot and look like a lizard?”

  Dobro crossed his arms and looked just over Percy’s head with an air of exaggerated dignity. “Any gal don’t love me for my own self, she ain’t worthy of me.”

  Aidan’s tone betrayed his exasperation. “Dobro, we don’t have many hours before sunup. The camp will be waking soon, and then they’ll start crossing the river into feechie country. There’s the rowboat. You’re welcome to it if you want to go home. But if you want to come with us, get over here and let me wash you off.”

  Dobro walked slowly toward the water, holding his head down and looking at Aidan through his eyebrows. He put one toe in the water, testing it. This, the same Dobro who thought nothing of diving into the black, alligator-infested waters of the Feechiefen in pursuit of a muskrat. “Ooh!” he moaned. “It’s wet!”

  Growing impatient, Aidan grabbed Dobro by the arm and dunked him in the water. “Help!” Dobro spluttered, flailing the water to a froth. “He’s drownin’ me!”

  When Aidan began scouring Dobro’s muddy back with sand, the feechie wailed like a wounded animal. “Awww! Awww! He’s skinnin’ me alive! I’m ruint! Awww! Leave a little skin on me, you cannibal! You monster!”

  “S-s-s-h-h-h!” Aidan hissed. “If you don’t get quiet, a thousand civilizers are going to be down here to watch you bathe.”

  “Nine hundred and ninety-five,” Percy corrected.

  Dobro finally got quiet. Dripping and sulking, he had the look of a cat forced to submit to a bath at the hands of a child. Aidan finished the job in short order. Dobro, it turned out, was shockingly white under all that mud; his skin had never been exposed directly to the sun, after all. He looked like a second moon, like a creature made to be camouflaged on a sandbar. Aidan wondered if he would ever get used to a Dobro who wasn’t gray skinned. Dobro, for his part, looked mournfully at his arms and legs, as if they were the limbs of a foreigner.

  When baths were finished, Aidan fetched his side pouch from the sandbar and pulled out his prized possession, the steel hunting knife he had hidden there three years earlier. Out of respect for the feechies’ aversion to cold-shiny implements and weapons, he had never used it in the swamp; he had pulled it out only to clean and sharpen it every month or so. But now that he was back on the civilizer side of the river, he was glad to see it again. He handed the knife to Percy and pointed to the hair that draped down the back of his own neck. “Cut it off, Percy,” he said. “Make it look like civilizer hair.”

  Dobro sobbed quietly while Percy performed the same operation on his hair—his “mane” as he-feechies liked to call it. When the Errolsons weren’t looking, Dobro picked up a matted hank of his hair and put it in his side pouch, a memento of the life he had left behind.

  The three travelers all donned blue army tunics; Aidan and Dobro wore theirs over their snakeskin kilts. Only Percy’s disguise was halfway convincing, since Aidan and Dobro had neither leggings nor boots. Even by moonlight it was clear Dobro wouldn’t pass for a civilizer in the daylight. But he was a little less feechiefied, and for the time being that would have to do.

  Leaving the sandbar, Percy, Aidan, and Dobro entered the forest and tree-walked upstream, with the river on their left. Some thirty feet above the ground, they traversed Last Camp, where nine hundred ninety-five soldiers slept their last few hours before stepping off the edge of civilization and into the unknown—or so they thought.

  The cooking fires had all burned to ashes, and from such a height, Aidan, Dobro, and Percy could see very little. But as they passed over the center of Last Camp, Aidan saw the least glimmer of gold embroidery catch the moonlight; he knew it could only be the battle standard of King Darrow himself, the golden boar under which King Darrow led his troops. It almost made Aidan dizzy to think of his king down there, so far below him—and dreaming of what? Was he dreaming of Aidan’s destruction?

  The three travelers hurried across the treetops, in only a few minutes coming to the Overland Trail that led to River Road. Alighting on the ground, they agreed to hide in the forest and sleep until daylight. They would need to be as rested and as clearheaded as possible when the army awoke in a couple of hours.

  Both Percy and Dobro were breathing heavily and slowly mere seconds after lying on the moss bed they had found. But Aidan couldn’t sleep for thinking about the king who slept just a few hundred yards away. He quietly arose and shinned up a nearby tree. He swung and leaped from limb to limb until he was back at the center of Last Camp. He slunk to the lowest branch of the tree under which King Darrow slept. He could hear his king snoring.

  Sitting on that limb, Aidan thought over what Dobro had said earlier: “I don’t think you know what a enemy is.” It was time he decided: Was King Darrow his enemy, or wasn’t he?

  The morning star was rising. The camp would probably be up and stirring in half an hour, maybe even less. Aidan made his decision. He pulled the hunting knife out of his side pouch, clenched the blade in his teeth pirate fashion, and descended as stealthily as a panther toward the sleeping king.

  Chapter Six

  Last Camp

  The bodyguards surrounding King Darrow faced outward, their backs to the king, the better to confront whatever danger might come from any point of the co
mpass. It never occurred to anyone that danger might come from directly above. King Darrow stirred when Aidan touched down in the sand beside him. But the guards heard nothing and did not see the knife-wielding phantom who stood over the man they had sworn to protect.

  Darrow stirred again when Aidan’s cold blade touched his collarbone. But Aidan was sure of his purpose and unflinching in its execution. He lifted the leather strap that rested against King Darrow’s neck. When the king was in Tambluff Castle, he wore a medallion of a golden boar, his badge of kingship, on a thick chain of gold. Here in the field, the badge of kingship hung from this leather strap around his neck. Aidan cut it with a single swipe of his knife. As deftly as any thief, he palmed the medallion and dropped it in his side pouch. Then he shinned back up the tree trunk before being noticed by either Darrow or his guards.

  Aidan hadn’t been back in his treetop perch five minutes when the river mists that covered Last Camp lightened from gray to white in the first rays of dawn. The camp came to life in the morning light. The men were making their final preparations, checking their gear one last time before lining up to cross on the ferries. No one relit the cooking fires. No time for breakfast on such a day as this. The men drank water from their canteens and gnawed stale flatbread, not even sitting down to eat.

  King Darrow was up with the rest of the men. He had been a warrior even longer than he had been a king, and he wasn’t one to lie about while a campaign was afoot. His hair had gone almost completely white in the years since Aidan had last seen him. That was a shock to Aidan, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been; the king was nearly seventy years old. Nor did King Darrow still move with the manly grace of his younger years. A night sleeping unsheltered on the ground had left him stiff in his joints. He was too old to be leading a military expedition into the Feechiefen Swamp. He was too old to nurse the sort of grudge that would drive him to do such a thing. But there he was, giving orders, hearing reports from lieutenants, pointing at maps.