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

band of travelers proceeded, the direction of the sound became more certain, and following the sounds, Bomper led the group off the road and up a deep and narrow rocky ravine. They had not gone more than a dozen paces when there was a sudden movement and an explosive WHING-WHOOP-WHIZZ noise. To everyone’s astonishment, Bomper was suspended about thirty feet in the air!

“Flamin’ bee-whimmers! What a ride!” Bomper laughed, cradled neatly in a net sack made of heavy-cord. The sack obviously had no exit, the top being pulled tightly closed by ropes. Bomper’s footsteps had triggered some manner of trap, and a very effective one it was. In addition to the sack being tightly closed, he was too far in the air for his friends to be of much immediate help. It would take some considerable thought to get him down safely.

Twisting slowly in the driving rain thirty-feet in the air, his comrades calling to him anxiously, Bomper realized his predicament was not simply fleeting fun. He had just reached this realization and gathered some choice oaths to hurl at his comrades, when his sack began to rise rapidly. Someone was pulling on the rope from which Bomper was suspended.

Bomper’s ascent was so rapid that he had no time to gather his wits. In short order, the sack that held him captive was hauled into a wide, roomy cave running deep into the side of the ravine. “Quite a sorry thing, old binger!” said a short, squat Coyote with a red handlebar moustache, flashing dark eyes, and a jovial smile as he quickly opened the sack and released Bomper. A snug-fitting cap was pulled low over his head and he wore coarse dungarees and a heavy homespun shirt.

“Can’t be too careful—there’s Wrackshees running all about. The track through the ravine is one they used to use sometimes. He-He-He...but I put an end to that...He-He-He. My warning trap lets them know they had best not go further or they’ll set off my boulder dropper. He-He-He. Yes, well, at least you didn’t set off my boulder dropper—but, then, that’s got to be triggered by more than the likes of such a scrawny bone-bags as you.”

The Coyote’s dark eyes flashed with merriment. “But, even so, old binger, I think I’ll disconnect the trigger rope on the boulder dropper—wouldn’t want to be a bad host. They’re really quite nice boulders—the Wrackshees pretty well leave me alone. He-He-He.”

The Coyote walked over to where a number of thick ropes were looped through a series of iron rings pegged deeply into the cave wall. The ropes went off in different directions. “Let’s see—the boulder dropper would be the blue one.” Grasping a rope with a blue mark painted on it, he tied the rope securely with a complex knot.

“There,” the Coyote said turning back to Bomper. “Your friends down there would think I was a very bad host,” the Coyote chuckled, “if they triggered the boulder dropper. He-He-He. Well, yes—how about a pot of Wheeze and a few shells of Slicker to welcome you to my humble home? But I suppose I should invite your friends to have some, too. So, if you will just step over to the hearth and make yourself at home, I’ll bring your friends up in a wink.” The Coyote motioned to a sturdy cobblestone fire circle that had been built to one side of the cave. Piles of soft pounded-bark blankets invited lounging around a small, cheery fire. A sharp but inviting aroma came from a blackened copper pot, bubbling and steaming as it hung from an iron tripod above the fire. The pungent aroma from the pot added a twang to the dominant odor of wood smoke that clung to everything in the cave. A haze of smoke swirled across the roof of the cave as it slowly found its way to the cave opening, where wisps slipped away to the outside.

Soon Helga and Roolo joined Bomper in the cave. An amazing and well-designed system of simple pulleys enabled the warning trap to lift considerable loads. Once in the cave, all slumped under blankets or crouched as near to the fire as they dared, trying to force the deep, biting cold from their bodies. When the band of travelers had settled comfortably in the cave, the Coyote asked for quiet, went to the cave entrance and listened for any telltale change in the noises of the falling night that might betray Wrackshee movements. Hearing nothing unusual, he carefully reset the warning trap repeating, as before, “Can’t be too careful.”

Having completed these security measures, the Coyote walked near the fire, pulling off his cap and hanging it on a peg as he went. Helga noted the Coyote’s ears were painted and notched in a style she had never seen before. What it signified she could not guess and gave it no further thought as the Coyote began to speak.

Using a long-handled ladle, he filled several iron mugs with the bubbling brew from the copper pot. Dropping a spoon of honey into each mug, and sprinkling some crumbled, dried herbs on top of each one, he handed the mugs around.

“Borallt welcomes you to his humble lodge. I was not expecting such grand company so I have only a little Plenty Toot Wheeze prepared and only a few mugs. But such comrades as we surely are will not mind sharing. Fortunately I just returned from a trading trip to Port Newolf. Those packs in the corner is filled with the best Slickers around—and there’s plenty for all!”

Helga soon learned that Slickers were the largest oysters she had ever seen. Their thick rough shells—the size of small plate—were highly prized for the morsels of tender, delicious flesh inside. Despite their rough appearance, Slicker shells popped open easily and soon the band was popping Slicker shells open and greedily “slicking down” the sweet, slimy meat with abandon.

As the Slicker feast progressed, Borallt showed his guests his preferred means of discarding Slicker shells. With but a little practice, they learned how to toss a Slicker shell a distance across the cave, bounce it off a particular spot of wall, and have the shell go zinging off into the ravine below. Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink. If the Slicker meat itself were not so delicious, the sheer sport of scattering the shells would be sufficient to make the oysters a treat.

Gradually, the warmth of the fire, the sharp taste of the Wheeze, and the fullness of their bellies brought quiet to the tired band of travelers. After they talked, joked, and cursed the weather, Helga and Roolo questioned their Coyote host about his solitary life. They learned he survived by trapping snakes and selling bales of snake skins to traders in Port Newolf. When they began to inquire about the best way to get through Dismal Pass without risking capture by the Wrackshees, he chuckled again.

“He-He-He...I know another way,” Borallt said as he listened to their urgent queries. “You dare not go through Dismal Pass,” he continued. “I came through there this very morning and the grass on either side of the road had been trampled to muddy pulp. The ashes of many cook fires and the scooped out skins of roasted lizards were everywhere. That means Wrackshees—lots of them.” The old Coyote chuckled again. “He-He-He...You go through Dismal Pass, you’ll be a Wrackshee slave...He-He-He!”

Helga was puzzled. How could Borallt laugh about such bad news? But every time she or Roolo tried to ask him a question, he would only chuckle and mutter that he “knew another way.” It made Helga restless.

“Soon it’s going to be cold, brutally cold, in the Pass,” Borallt said at last. “That cold rain that your sea-beasts suffered through—that was the lucky part. The Needle Rain is coming. The cold rain just keeps getting colder and raining harder and harder, until the rain freezes into tiny shards of ice. Call it snow if you want—but it’s sharp enough to draw blood. I'll make you a promise that the Wrackshees will be sitting warm in their camp in the High Boulders. That’s the only sheltered campsite where they can sit out a Needle Rain storm and still control the main passage on the road. They’ll sit there in their tents, tight and warm ’till the storm blows out. No beast will be able to get past them—and no beast is likely to try during the storm—but they won’t be moving either. He-He-He...”

“We can’t just sit here!” Helga said with frustration. “I don’t care how long the Wrackshees sit warm in their tents. I want us to move!”

“He-He-He...” the Coyote chuckled again, sipping the first mug of another batch of Plenty Toot Wheeze he had been stirring.  “He-He-He...well, well...so you think I should rush right out and show you the way, do you?” Slowly taking another sip of his Wheeze, Borallt stood up and went to the rear of the cave where the flickering firelight gave way to deepening shadows.

“Christer! Hey-lo! Christer! Now!” Borallt called out into the darkness at the rear of the cave.

“Unless I miss my guess that would be your way out,” he said, returning to his seat by the fire. With a slight bow as he approached the group, a tall, slender Wood Cow, in dirty and worn barkskins, came out of the darkness and dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged near Borallt. The young Wood Cow, about Helga’s age, gave a surprised glace at Helga, as he sat down. He seemed to be as astonished as was Helga herself to find another Wood Cow clan in such a place, so far removed from the Wood Cow homeland!

Borallt explained that the young Wood Cow known as Christer was his trapping partner. “Sorry to wake you, Christer, I know you have been up the last two nights checking traps before the storm hits, but these travelers need to know what you’ve seen. What can you tell them?”

“There are many breezes stirring,” Christer replied. “Lots of beasts are camped in the mountains—many more than the Wrackshees. The monitor caravans have been delayed for weeks and are still not able to run—the roads being flooded. No one knows when the weather will break, so everyone waits. The Wrackshee Bozz is camped up at High Boulders waiting like everyone else for the weather to allow the trading to begin. As soon as the Needle Rains pass, the slave-bidders will surround him like flies on rotting meat. It will be a hell’s-brew of shabby cheating and fighting, wretched slaves, half-witted trallé drivers, madness, and wild-eyed greed—no place for a decent beast.”

Christer paused to yawn and take a stretch, then continued. “On the other hand, I heard something very interesting along the trap lines—I ate some Flamin’ Pike and Crusts with Mirty Tee in his camp one night. He had seen a strange group of travelers—a male Wood Cow and Owl, and a female Cougar—over on the Far Slope heading down the Wrackshee Coast. They was moving in broad daylight, just as big as life—a dangerous business that—they don’t call it the Wrackshee Coast for nothing. Only a beast without a lick of good sense, or crazy with desperation, would travel the Wrackshee Coast in daylight. There’s danger a-plenty even in the dark. But that’s just it—the High One and his blightin’ bilge-sucking buzzards won’t let anyone trade with the Wood Cows. Makes it impossible for a lot of Wood Cows to make a livin’ or have a future—which is why I came out looking for something new and ended up working with Borallt. Anyway—the Wood Cow, name of Breister, told me he’d heard there was a terrible shipwreck up on the coast and the crew’s in a terrible fix.”

“Share out some more Wheeze, Borallt!” yelled Mr. Tigg. “That will