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

underground route that crosses from the Estates of the Norder Wolves to the Hedgelands. A portion of the passage follows an underground river—it’s mostly used by slavers.”

“Do honorable beasts travel that way?” Bad Bone asked softly.

“Not that I would know of,” Bormaso answered. “There are actually several branches of the river and all except the Norder Passage are impassable. Even the Norder Passage is treacherous, but it can be traveled. The other branches of the stream are deadly. Because the Norder Passage is the only useable river, and it only goes to the Norder Wolf Estates, not many honorable beasts feel a calling to go that way.”

Bormaso could see that his friend was suffering. “What’s the matter, Bad Bone?” he asked.

“The legends about Javelin Point and the great river and the Norder Passage...” he began.

“What about them?” the Squirrel asked.

“The elders in my family tell of a Lynx of the bygone days,” Bad Bone said, staring toward Javelin Point. “He was said to have gone to the Norder Estates traveling on an underground river—but we never really believed it. It seemed too fantastic!”

“He knew of the Norder Passage,” Bormaso repeated thoughtfully.

“Apparently—does that surprise you?” the Lynx asked.

“The legend of Javelin Point and the mighty river are told by many folk,” he replied. “But the Norder Passage is only known to slavers and trallé traders,” Bormaso said. “If your ancestor knew about it, he knew more about that sort of trade than a simple Climbing Lynx would know.”

So many thoughts swirled in Bad Bone’s mind as he listened to Bormaso. A long obscured story was awakening within him. Listening to Bormaso jolted his mind. He recalled with wonder his experience at Stupid Frog Shallows a few years back. He learned that the Shallows—in the desolate wastes between the Borf lands and the Rounds—were rumored in bygone days to be a hideout for slavers. His own great-grandfather was connected with the Shallows in some way. Was Stupid Frog Shallows on the river of the ancient legends? In the misty past—was his great-grandfather a slaver?

 “You think he was a slave trader?” Bad Bone asked quietly.

Bormaso smiled at his friend. “We never know what new faces we will find if we look deeply into our history,” he said. “In a clan as old as the Borf, we’ve had our share of rascals and liars,” he laughed. “The Lynx surely have some black-hearted scoundrels—but what you see when you look in the mirror is what is most important. There may be the tale of a slaver within you, but there are many other tales there also. Borf are a practical folk—we are interested in who you are now and what you will be. Why take a long-dead slaver, who may or may not exist, into the clan, when you have shown us that you are a fine honorable Lynx ready to come on your own without him? We will take you for who you are and what you will be. Let the past die if it is no help to us—that is our way.”

With this assurance to his heart, Bad Bone rose and gave his friends the Borf welcome greeting. “I welcome my Borf brothers into my own story. What else may be there, I cannot say, and may never know. But as you have embraced me as a brother, I, in turn, embrace you.”

The three friends embraced heartily and, joking merrily, prepared to set out once again on their trek toward the Borf homelands. “Fill your water pouches, brothers,” Bormarojey said. “This is the last lake we will see. We’re into some wild and barren land now. There will be no beasts to be seen, and we will find but little water, until we reach Tramandrivot.”

Little did the three friends realize, however, that a Wolf, descending a nearby hillside, quietly observed all that was done.

 

Night Above the River

Shifting her pack from her back, Helga crouched on a narrow ledge breathing heavily. Leaning back, she lodged her body against an outcropping to keep from sliding backward. Her arms ached like never before, and her body was scraped raw where her clothes had been torn from rubbing against the rock. Alert despite her fatigue, Helga rested only briefly. “I can’t waste time,” she thought. “I don’t want to be on this rock wall when darkness falls.” Observing the position of the sun, however, Helga realized that she probably could not reach the top before dark.

She decided it was unlikely that a better place than the ledge could be found to spend the night. Making preparations for a precarious campsite, Helga lodged her flicker-pole into a crevasse at the bottom of the sloping ledge and wedged her backpack against it. This blocked any possible slide into the river. Helga was not worried about the pole breaking. She trusted the tree that had given the wood. The pole would not break.

Helga sat down leaning on the rock wall, wedged next to her backpack. She lay her soft cotton cloak down on her other side to make a place to sleep—clinging to the side of a cliff 2,000 feet above the river!

Rummaging in her backpack, Helga brought out a small yucca fiber and porcupine quill pouch. Opening it, she took out an oiled cotton package. Inside was a dark tan-colored lump—honey nut butter! She smeared some of the sweet tasting spread across a strip of trout jerky and gnawed on it, washing it down with a few swigs from her water gourd.

Feeling secure in her precarious perch, she considered the night that was coming. She had enough food and water to last at least two days more, and she felt certain she could reach the top of the cliff tomorrow. But she also was worried. Watching the sky, she saw signs of clouds gathering. If it rained, she had little protection. The cold mountain night would increase the risk. If her clothes became soaked, she could die from exposure. Calmly, but with urgent concern, she reviewed each item she had with her. How could she increase her shelter?

Not being able to climb with a heavy pack, Helga was traveling light. The prospects were discouraging. She would have to rely on her wits to protect herself as well as she could and hope for the best. Feeling alone and helpless, she wished she could get help. Then an idea occurred to her. What about the flicker-pole?

Filled with new energy, Helga carefully shifted the backpack out of the way and lodged her own body where the pack had been. Then she wedged her back and legs securely against the two sides of the crevice to keep her precarious campsite from sliding into the river. When she felt that she was lodged securely enough to prevent a disastrous collapse of the campsite, she gently pulled the pole loose. Hoping that her plan would work, Helga began to work the flicker-pole in what was normally the ‘weapon’ style of use. Waving it in a way that made the end a blur of motion, an undulating, whisper-like song sounded across the cliff. Softly singing the ancient prayer songs she knew by heart, Helga rocked forward and back, working the staff with an almost surreal power and intensity.

For many minutes, nothing seemed to happen, but she continued moving with dogged determination. Dusk fell. Cold rain began to fall. Time was short. “Please, Ancient Ones...Help me,” Helga murmured. Possessed with strength beyond her own understanding, she worked the flicker-pole with even greater power. Then they began to come: Pinion Jays, Canyon Swifts, and Rock Wrens from all corners of the canyons. Soon the calls and cries of the canyon birds were loud enough to drown out the music Helga was making. By the tens and hundreds they came, dropping from the sky in flocks to roost all around the crevice where Helga camped. Flock by flock they covered the crevice completely as bird after bird joined the serried lines, creating a complete protecting canopy over her campsite! The steady pelting of bird droppings was only a minor annoyance to Helga, grateful that she would survive the chilling rain. She spread her cloak to protect against the droppings and thanked the Ancient Ones for their help.

The Ancient Ones had discovered the power of the flicker-pole to attract birds. From times of unknown past, its tones had always called nearby birds to roost. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, some deep language of the heart called them to join together in fellowship. When the music sounded, a great conclave of birds gathered around the pole. Coming in peace, but coming in vast numbers, this amazing roosting of birds had been used by the Wood Cows since ancient times as a means of defense. Even the most dangerous enemy did not want to be covered by hundreds and thousands of birds, however peaceful they were!

As the rain began to fall, the water slid from the feathers of the birds and fell harmlessly down the cliffside. There could not have been a more effective protection against the rain! The body heat of the birds also helped to warm the bone-weary Helga. She wedged the flicker-pole back into position at the front of the ledge, returned the backpack to its position, and slumped in exhaustion. Slipping into a beautiful dream of being reunited with her father, Helga thought little more about what might lie ahead...

 

Broken Eye and Slasher Annie

Broken Eye was hungry and tired. The Cougar and his wife, Slasher Annie, had eaten nothing but ‘bandit’s mush’—cricket paste mixed with cornmeal—for days. Lying as flat on the ground as possible, hastily burrowed under a covering of leaves, sticks, and pine needles, they tried not to breathe as some Grizzly Bear trackers passed nearby. Now they wouldn’t have even bandit’s mush to eat, having lost their supply satchels when the trackers surprised them.

“Them’s get’in hot on ma’tail, them’s is—Shouldn’t hav’ lost all ma’crew...ma’victuals...” Broken Eye’s mind was wild with activity, even as he lay absolutely still under the covering of leaves. The wily Cougar did not let a moment waste as he considered the situation. As dark as the prospects looked, he felt a strange glee. His eyes burned with fire as he waited patiently for his pursuers to pass. Although the trackers were passing within a few feet of where he and Slasher Annie were concealed, Broken Eye was not worried. “Nay, ma’laddies...Nay...Nay. Old Broken Eye ish’nt done yet. We’s some fun ta’have yet! Broken Eye didn’t become what’s he isht by bein’ feared of a few fisheatin’ bears. Nay, there bein’s some fun in him yet!”

Broken Eye and his gang had been on the run for five weeks, barely stopping to rest. Sheer will kept them moving. Grizzly trackers, sent to hunt down Broken Eye’s gang, were hot on his trail. One by one, Broken Eye had lost his Cougars to ambushes, poison darts from Grizzly blowguns, and claw-to-claw combat. The Grizzlies were sworn not to quit until they had wiped out the bandits. Now only Broken Eye and Annie were left. The trackers were closing in on them.

Broken Eye had eluded his pursuers so far by calling on every trick of cunning he had. But they were getting too close for comfort. He would have to do something spectacularly brilliant if he and Slasher Annie were to have a chance. His stalkers were so close to their hiding place that Broken Eye could almost count the individual hairs on the huge shaggy legs poking out between the top of the boots and the bottom of the leggings they wore.

Lying under the leaves as still as a rotting log, Broken Eye’s mind was busy with feverish planning. Never one for fear and trembling, Broken Eye took