Helga: Out of Hedgelands, Rick Johnson [suggested reading txt] 📗

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 doesn’t just ignore your attacks and leave you to yourselves?”

“The Hedge is only as strong as the High One’s words!” Borjent replied. “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,