The Blood Jaguar
Page 26
Otters were leaping up everywhere, dropping their bowls into a pot of water, other otters grabbing them out, rubbing them over with scraps of towel, flinging them back toward the nearest wagon where an otter jumped and spun, catching them and shoving them into a box strapped to the wagon's side. Whoops rang through the morning, otters scrambling over the crates, tossing canvas over them, tightening ropes through eyelets and weaving them around the whole stack.
"Bobcat!" he heard Fisher shout. "Let's pack up!" He slurped down the rest of his breakfast, tossed his bowl to the wash crew, then hurried back to where Fisher was stuffing the stove parts into his pack. "Once otters finally get moving, I've never seen anything yet that'll stop 'em. Tie this off, will you? I've gotta get my own stuff."
He had the drawstring knotted when three high shouts drew his attention: Trec standing on top of the first wagon, his orange vest bright against the blue of the sky, a wrinkled fedora over his ears. Six other otters in orange vests rushed up, each with a hat crumpled in one paw, the other paw coming to rest on the haulers' yoke at the front of the wagon. For a moment, they stood, the only bit of stillness in the entire camp; then Trec gave a huge whoop, tore off his hat, and thrust it the air. The otters below yelled, jammed their hats on, and sprinted to the other wagons.
Fisher jostled Bobcat's elbow, her pack across her back. "You ready?"
"What? Oh, uhh, yeah." He slipped his pack on, got to his paws. "Where's Skink?"
"Here, Bobcat." The voice came from beside him, the lizard squatting in the dirt. "These preparation rituals are most intriguing. I wonder what studies have been--"
"C'mon." Fisher padded around, held out a paw to Skink. "You can ask all about them after we get our seats."
The otters were shouting back and forth, slipping under the carts and tapping the boards, greasing the axles and poking the shocks. Bobcat walked past staring, had forgotten how big the things were, each wheel wider than he was and nearly taller than he could reach standing on his hind legs.
They reached the front wagon, eight otters already in their stations at the yoke, four on each side of the thing, their front paws gripping the grab bars as they stretched into their warm-up exercises. Someone whistled above, and Bobcat looked up to see Trec grinning down. "All passengers aloft!"
Bobcat snapped out a salute. "Aye, aye, sir!" Fisher was already halfway up the rope lattice covering the sides of the wagon, so Bobcat leaped on, hauled himself to the top.
Three other otters lolled about in the early-morning sunshine. Bobcat recognized them all, but he only knew one by name. "Lally! How you been?"
"Can't complain." She slid over with a grin. "Bosun'd fire me if I did."
Trec was bent over the side, pounding on a few crates. "I could never fire a muscular lass like you, Lally. How'd we get through the hills east of Flatrock?" He looked over, blew her a kiss.
She clasped her paws. "Oh, sir, you make my heart race!"
"I should hope so." Trec rubbed his paws together. "So, passengers, prepare for departure." He rose up, grabbed his hat, lifted it into the air. The whoops everywhere died all at once, silence falling before Bobcat could even blink. Trec stood still, then gave a whistle that cut right through Bobcat's ears, whooped, and slammed his hat back onto his head.
Yells exploded all around, and the cart jerked under Bobcat's paws; creaking loudly, it rumbled forward, the shouts slowly taking on a rhythm, speeding up as the ride smoothed out. Bobcat looked over the side to see the ground sliding by, the haulers' chant starting to take shape in front of him, and when he glanced back, he saw the next wagon lumbering onto the road. The caravan had begun.
Trec was just starting his part of the chant, a deep melody line that wandered over the base provided by the haulers. These chants were the only times Bobcat had ever heard otters using their native language, and though he couldn't understand a word, he really liked the sounds, the clicks and squeaks and long, held notes all combining to give the sense of rushing to get somewhere without ever hurrying at all.
As the morning rolled along, the others got into it, too, Fisher humming first, then letting fly with a countermelody, twining around Trec's without ever colliding. A bit later, Skink began a whistling, wordless rhythm that darted in and out of the chant, highlighting one part, then scuttling away and playing around with another side of it.
The grasslands flashed by beneath, swaying all the way out to the horizon wherever Bobcat looked, but in what seemed like no time at all, he saw hills coming into view ahead, growing rapidly while the grass shrank. Trec changed the chant, slowing it down, reeling it in, and the wagon creaked to a halt, the grass dropping to dirt and the first bend in the road visible ahead there beside the little spring; with a whoop, the haulers leaped from the yoke, and dove into the water.
Bobcat smiled, uncorked his canteen, and winced at the smell of it. Trec and the other otters were clambering down, so he followed, figuring a little fresh water wouldn't hurt.
"Right," Trec was saying when Bobcat reached the spring. "It's two hours to Flatrock; then we've got the hills pretty much straight through to Ottersgate. Treps, Clobber, Mavis, I'm gonna need you then, so you take this shift topside."
The otters pulled themselves from the water and gathered around Trec, so Bobcat took the opportunity to lick at the spring. A moment later, a paw touched his back, and he looked up to see Trec. "Fancy a quick stretch in harness, Bobcat? Penn had a bit too much last night, and I wouldn't mind giving him a little sleep before we get to the hills." Trec turned and scowled over his shoulder. "Course, I also wouldn't mind strapping him in and making him run the whole way."
One of the otters, stretched out in the dirt, an arm across his eyes, let out a groan, and the others immediately lined up and began trooping past, wiping their snouts and saying, "He looks so lifelike," and, "Such an untimely end," and, "Somehow, I thought he'd outlive us all."
Bobcat couldn't help laughing. "Okay, sure. Tragedy always makes me soft in the head."
The otter on the ground rolled over. "Oh, bless you, friend. I'll never be able to repay your--"
"Yes, yes." Trec waved a paw. "Haul his carcass topside before the ants carry it off." He turned back to Bobcat. "All right. You can take port side third. Lally!"
"Who?" She broke away from the procession carrying the limp otter toward the cart.
"Help Bobcat get placed, will you? Port side third."
"No problem." Lally gestured to the front of the cart. "Welcome to the ranks," she said, Bobcat padding to join her.
"Thanks." Bobcat eyed the yoke, maybe four yards long, with crosspieces sticking out every yard or so at about shoulder-height. "What do we, uhh, do?"
Lally shrugged. "Grab on and run. Fairly simple." The others were coming up now, and she showed Bobcat to the third spot on the left side of the yoke. She took the space across from him, and the other otters filled in the rest. "At the whistle," Lally was saying, "you rear up and grab on. And when he whoops, you dig in and shove for all you're worth. Getting started's the hard part; then you just let the chant carry you." She smiled. "Easiest two hours you'll ever run."
"I'll keep that in mind." The whistle shrieked down from above, and the otters all snapped into place, Bobcat grabbing the bar and hauling himself onto his hind legs. He was trying to figure a good grip when the whoop sounded; the otters echoed it. Bobcat gritted his teeth and pushed. The cart pushed back, forced a grunt out of his throat, but then it was moving, slipping away from him, and he had to start trotting to stay with it. The chant began slowly, the pace picking up, till Bobcat was running, the song all around him.
And it wasn't that hard, Bobcat found, once he got into the rhythm; with these other folks pushing, he felt like he was just along for the run. The chant really helped, and after a while, he found himself sort of joining in, recognizing by the way the otters ahead of him straightened up and bent forward when certain sounds were going to be made.
Turning took some getting used to, the otters in front wrenching the yoke
over, Bobcat feeling the whole thing slide, shifting his weight to pull it one way, then push it back the other, and even though the hills were gentle, as the road flashed by under his paws and his breath started coming faster and faster, it got to be all Bobcat could do just to hang on.
Finally, the chant started to slow, the yoke pushing back at his paws, and he looked forward through hazy eyes to see a huge rock slumped off to one side of the road, buildings visible around it and against the hills farther on. The chant kept slowing, Bobcat straightening his back and arms the way the otters in front of him were, trying to imitate the way they skipped more than ran, the cart slowing till he was just trotting again, past the boulder and a few isolated buildings, then across the bridge and into downtown Flatrock.
Folk waved and shouted, the otters grinning and waving back, but Bobcat didn't think he could pry his paws from the crosspiece. Everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, and when the otters in front of him hauled the yoke over, the wagon rolling into the shady park where the festival had been, Bobcat guessed from all the folks in white shopkeepers' aprons setting up booths that it must be market day.
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The wagon trundled to a halt, and Bobcat slumped forward. After a moment, he wrenched his paws free, staggered around to the shady side of the wagon, and collapsed, sweat dripping from his whiskers.
Lally came scooting by and shoved something cold into his paw: a bottle, he realized after she grinned, waggled her thumbs, and swigged down her own. Bobcat got it to his lips, and it turned out to be some bubbly lemon-lime drink. He gulped it down as quickly as it would pour into him.
Above him, Trec and several other otters were casting lines off the wagon, some mice and a couple squirrels standing around watching. "So, yeah," one of the squirrels was saying, "got the packages wrapped after you came through yesterday. Everything's ready to head out."
Trec wiggled a crate free from the cart. "I understand we've got a couple cases of cola nut in here for you, Rits."
"Yeah?" One of the mice strode forward, took the crate from Trec, and set it down. "Can't beat that."
Bobcat lay back, concentrated on breathing, but then Trec said something that almost made him sit up. "So where's old Kechetnin? I didn't see him by the bridge prophesying doom as we went by yesterday or this morning. He all right?"
The mouse scowled. "He was never all right."
"True." Trec paused, wiped his brow. "Old squirrel's gotten to be a regular feature of the trip, though. Didn't fall in and drown, did he?"
"Nah." The mouse gestured vaguely toward town. "About a week ago, he just stopped, let his grandkids take him home." He shrugged. "I guess Doomsday's been postponed."
They both laughed. Bobcat almost asked if this squirrel always wore a weird red and purple hat, but he decided he needed his breath for breathing, so he stayed put in the cart's shadow.
The sounds of voices swirled around him, and the next thing he knew, Trec was shaking him awake. "We're all loaded up, Bobcat. Climb on, and we'll be off."
Bobcat shook his head, got to his paws, his legs feeling like chunks of wood, and somehow pulled himself to the top of the crates.
Fisher and Skink were there, and Fisher smiled. "Having a good time?"
Bobcat flopped himself down. "If I start to slide off, just toss a rope over me or something."
"Or something," she agreed.
Bobcat nodded, rolled over, and fell asleep again. The whoops and the whistles all echoed in his dreams, and he was strolling the decks of some riverboat down in the Gulf south of Beaverpool, Garson beside him, Fisher and Skink walking along ahead.
Then the water got choppy, the boat rising and falling, folk screaming, tossing Bobcat so hard he woke up...and found himself sprawling over the crates, one paw knotted among the ropes, the whole cart rushing downward at such an angle, for a second he thought they must've gone over a cliff.
But there was Trec perched in his place, Fisher beside him, and the screaming from Bobcat's dream became the whoops of the hauling crew. He raised his head as much as he could and saw trees flashing by, wooded hills stretching into the distance, the sun behind and settling into afternoon.
The hills. Between Flatrock and Ottersgate.
The wagon bottomed out, Bobcat's stomach lurching; then the front end rose, the ride slowing down. Trec gave three quick shouts, and the cart jerked, sent Bobcat tumbling toward the back, only the knot around his paw stopping him. He dug his claws in, rolled himself over, and when he felt secure, undid the knot with his teeth. He started to pull himself forward but stopped when he came across Skink clinging close to the canvas, his eyes clenched shut. Bobcat lowered his head and asked, "You all right, Skink?"
The lizard's eyes rolled open. "This sensation... They tell me the way will smooth the closer we come to Ottersgate, but they have been saying that for some time now."
"Well, hang on." Bobcat patted Skink's back, then continued to crawl. The chant was still going, but he thought he heard a different rhythm from the haulers, a different counterpoint from Trec. Bobcat clawed uphill, had almost reached the front when a whoop rang out and what had been uphill slowly rolled over to become downhill. He dug in, peered over the edge, saw the haulers all clinging to the yoke, pounding and whooping and laughing like loons, the road seeming to fall straight down into a wooded valley.
The cart teetered at the crest for an instant, then pitched over and down, started picking up speed, and Bobcat couldn't help but scream along with the otters, his sense of gravity going haywire, wind rushing into his face. Down and down and down it sped, trees whipping past, Bobcat's eyes watering, till again the tilt gradually lessened, flattened, and tipped back, the wagon slowing down. Trec gave his three shouts, and the otters tumbled down from the yoke, dug in at their stations, and the cart began moving up the next hill.
Bobcat took a deep breath, and the smell of home hit him so hard he almost lost his grip. He sat up sniffing, and heard Fisher call, "Bobcat! How could you sleep? It was incredible, all those hills! We're practically there by now!"
He looked across Trec, still perched at the edge of the crates, still chanting away, and saw Fisher looking back.
"How close?!" Bobcat called to her. "How close are we?!"
She shrugged, faced forward, and he saw a smile burst through her whiskers. "That close!" she cried, raising a paw.
Bobcat turned. They were coming to the top of the hill, and rising in the distance beyond the crest, Bobcat saw the crown of an enormous tree, an oak, branches spreading wide. The Bailey Oak. It had to be.
The otters whooped and leaped up onto their beam. The wagon topped the hill, the whole forest spread before him, the road running smack down through it, and they started down the slope, Bobcat letting his eyes rest on the roofs and windows of Ottersgate, nestled up under the Bailey Oak and shining in the afternoon sun.
The cart couldn't go fast enough for him then, and he leaned forward, trying to see it all, smell it all, let it all wash over and around him. Closer and closer the wagon sped, the Bailey Oak towering, the woods whipping by, till on his left Ree's Meadow opened up and Trec gave a huge whoop.
The otters rolled off, the wagon jerked, cries ringing out, the air full of creaking, and the cart slowed, turned off the road, settled snugly into a space between two of the Ottersgate Transport Service warehouses.
"All off!" Trec shouted, and the otters sprang from the yoke, disappeared through the warehouses, a splash reaching Bobcat's ears, but all he could see was the West Bridge crossing the Channel, the houses rising up the slope of Ottersgate island to the roots of the Bailey Oak, its branches broad and protective overhead.
He vaguely heard Fisher saying, "Well, thanks for the lift, Trec. Can we help off-load?"
"Ah, it's no problem, Fisher. I'll just let the crew cool off a bit, and they'll be happy to get to it. It's what they get paid the big bucks for, after all."
"Indeed," Bobcat heard Skink say next to him. "Hazard pay, I'd wager."
Bobcat shook himself, everything so quiet after a whole day of rattling along the road. "Right, yeah." He turned to Trec. "I'll see you, okay? And thanks."
"No problem," the otter said again, and he slipped down the side of the cart.
Fisher stuck out a paw to Skink. "Shall we?"
"Most certainly." Skink scurried up into her fur, she went over the edge, and Bobcat followed.
Somehow, the dirt felt different between his toes, and when Fisher had padded through the warehouses and down onto the beach along the West Channel, Bobcat could barely keep from flipping over and rolling around in the sand, it felt so wonderful against his paws. The otters were leaping about in the water, but a whistle from among the warehouses sent them rushing to shore, streaming past Bobcat, and vanishing from sight. The quiet closed around him again, and all he could think about was Garson.
He heard Fisher yawn. "So, what do you want to do now?"
His ears went warm, and she laughed. "Never mind. I think I've got a pretty good idea."
Skink chuckled, scuttling into the sand. "Give Ms. Rix our regards. I for my part must make a report to the Elders." He raised a foot, sniffed, grimaced. "Though I think perhaps I should stop at home first and freshen up a bit."
Fisher nodded. "In a few days, though, I'd like to get together, go over this all with you both."
Skink cocked his head. "An excellent idea."
"Yeah." Bobcat rubbed his chin. "You could write it up, a Journal of the Plague Year That Wasn't or something." He shrugged off the backpack. "You want this now, or should I--"
Another whistle shattered the quiet, this time from across the Channel. Bobcat looked over and saw Lorn Gedolkin tumbling down the beach. He sliced through the water, leaped up the bank, and slammed right into Bobcat. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby! Where have you been hiding yourself?"
Bobcat tried to catch his breath, but Lorn had already spun off to Fisher's side. "At least you've been keeping some excellent company." He took her paw and pressed it to his lips. "My dear Fisher, my invitation to dinner still stands."