Helga- Out of Hedgelands

by Rick Johnson

  He was just turning away from the window, when he heard the words: “We’ll hang up Bad Bone for the flies to eat when we find him.”

  “I was right,” Bad Bone muttered. “It is as I feared.” He realized that the voices were becoming more distinct. The Royal Patrol troop was moving toward Helga’s front door.

  “The High One was right to suspect that the highly-esteemed Bad Bone might be a traitor,” one of the Skull Buzzards snarled in a sarcastic tone. “He has been asking more questions than is normal for him. He knows all he needs to know to serve within the High One’s wishes. Why does he need to know more about routes beyond the Hedge? And now we track him straight to the Wood Cow settlement—that traitorous fleabag will no longer be the great hero some make him out to be.”

  “Let him be fly bait!” cried another Buzzard, and the entire troop erupted in harsh guffaws.

  Just at that moment, Helga came back into the room carrying a pitcher and cups. “Let me call Papa,” she said. “He will want to see you also and hear what you have to say.”

  “I fear that there is no time,” Bad Bone replied. Keenly aware of his own danger, and the danger he had brought to Helga and her father, he continued quickly: “The Hedge will be opened at Bazoot’s Store—there’s a Skull Buzzard barracks near there.” This was news to Helga. The High One did not want anyone crossing through the Hedge except the exiles, so the site of the Hedge opening had been kept secret. At dawn, the Wood Cows were to gather in the square by the High Seat. From there, a Royal Patrol escort would conduct them to the place where they were to cross through the Hedge.

  “That’s not the best place for one going east,” Bad Bone continued hurriedly, “but it will do. After crossing through the Hedge, go down the mountainside straight as possible to the north. At the bottom of the mountain, you should come upon a road of broken stones, left from ancient times. Follow the road until you come to a group of stone huts, surrounded by corrals. It’s a small hamlet of farmers called Shell Kral. They grow a few potatoes and keep herds of giant tortoises. They’re simple folk—a few Hares, a few Opossums, a few Skunks. In the center of town, under a fir tree, you will find a tea vendor—Bost Ony. Ask her about routes to the east.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickling with a rising sense of danger, Bad Bone gave Helga an urgent look. She heard it, too. The sound of heavy boots on the walk outside—the Royal Patrol was at her door!

  Motioning quickly, Helga pointed toward the back entry. “Go to Papa. He will hide you.” The Lynx nodded, gave Helga a squeeze on the shoulder, and was off.

  A harsh RAP-RAP-RAP sounded at the door. A Skull Buzzard pushed into the house as soon as Helga cracked the front door. Looking coldly at her, he said, “The Lynx that came down this road, where is he?”

  Helga realized that attempting to stall the Royal Patrol was fruitless. Delay would only inflame their suspicions and endanger her and her father further. Walking quickly around the room, she flung open all of the doors, including the one through which Bad Bone had so recently passed.

  “You may look in all of these places, as you wish,” said Helga, in a pleasant voice. “However, you shall not find any visitors here, only outcasts.”

  The Royal Patrol commander looked at her scornfully. His bitter, hard, death-white face sent a chill down Helga’s spine. The Buzzard’s horrid-smelling breath was hot in Helga’s face as he glared into her eyes and hissed: “Perhaps he is hiding among his Wood Cow friends? The High One has been watching him. The sound of his chain-mail boots was heard on this road not long ago.”

  In a desperate attempt to delay the soldiers, without appearing to stall, Helga placed herself near one of the doors that Bad Bone had not used. Her movement succeeded in drawing the commander’s attention.

  “Yah! There! After him, troops!” the Buzzard yelled, pointing to the door Helga seemed to be favoring.

  Making no attempt to block their search, Helga stood silently aside while the Patrol ransacked the room. Although only a few moments passed, the stratagem purchased precious time. Then, as their examination of the room ended, she took a great risk. Trusting in her father’s quick mind, she invited her brutal enemy to follow her out to the workshop. “If you wish, sir, you may also like to question my father. Perhaps he has seen the Lynx you are seeking.”

  “Slug-brained idiot,” said the soldier, “I take no advice from you. What is your imbecile father’s word worth to me? I will see for myself.” Motioning for his troops to follow, the Skull Buzzard pushed Helga aside. He and his troop stormed into the workshop, clubs at the ready, apparently hoping to surprise their prey.

  But, as the Royal Patrol pushed into the carpentry shop, they found no one. A light shined, however, from outside the back door, which stood open.

  “Yaa-Haa! The scum went this way!” the commander cried, rushing out through the open door.

  Clattering outside, the troop of Skull Buzzards pulled up in surprise. Some distance across the garden behind the workshop was an outhouse. A lantern swung gently above the door, casting illumination.

  The blustering commander was speechless. He had not expected this. For a moment, he did not know what to do, but recovered quickly. Signaling to his troops, they ran quickly to surround the latrine.

  As the Royal Patrol took up positions around the outhouse, their cursing and tramping brought a shout from inside the small shed. “Who’s waiting for the pot?” Breister’s voice boomed out cheerfully through the closed door. “I’ll only be a minute. This is a one-holer, so you’ll just have to wait a moment.”

  Yanking the outhouse door open, and brandishing his hooked club, the commander yelled, “Freeze! Don’t move!”

  Breister, apparently startled, stared at the Patrol leader. Although his carpenter’s apron gave him some privacy, he was clearly sitting on the toilet.

  Looking embarrassed and a little annoyed, Breister said, “My, my, your mother needs to teach you some manners! Can’t a fellow be alone at a time like this?”

  The commander’s eyes flashed dangerously, but seeing that there was no one else in the small, cramped shed, he said nothing.

  “If you give me just a moment, I’ll be glad to see if I can help you fine fellows,” Breister offered. “But, I’m surprised that the High One’s troops do not have better things to do than to search outhouses...”

  “Zet! Sharant!” the Royal Patrol leader shouted angrily. “The Lynx is not here! But he cannot have gone far. Leave the idiot Wood Cow! Spread out and check all the houses and alleys!”

  The Royal Patrol dispersed to continue searching. As a parting shot, the Skull Buzzard commander spat at Breister, “I belong to the High One! Nothing has ever stopped me in his service. I will tear the Lynx to pieces, wherever he may be.” Swinging his club with ferocious rage, he shattered the lantern, spraying fragments of glass and blazing oil in all directions. “Bah! Sharant! You may tell the Lynx that is what awaits him, when I find him!” With that, the commander stomped off after his troop.

  A surprisingly bemused Breister rose, adjusted his clothes, and stepped outside. “O.K., Bad Bone, it’s safe to come down. But don’t tarry. We don’t have long.”

  Dropping down from a tree overhanging the latrine, the Lynx emerged from his hasty hiding place. Despite the dangerous encounter, the friends laughed heartily, although nearly without sound. A few moments of levity were all they could afford, however. The situation might be ridiculous, but it was also deadly serious.

  “You don’t have much time,” Breister urged. “The Patrol will be back here soon enough, once they find no trace of you down the road. You must escape quickly.” He looked at his friend fondly. “We will never forget that you, alone among the Hedgies, showed us kindness. Although you serve the High One, you have been kind—in secret, a friend. We will never forget you.”

  Breister’s voice cracked between every rapid sentence, and with every word his eyes misted over more completely.

  Bad Bone gave a low bow, his hand sweep
ing the ground. “I address myself to the noblest of true friends. I will never forget what you have done. Your courage is something those thugs will never understand,” the Lynx said, his own voice thick with emotion. “The High One and his legions mistake your simple ways for ignorance and weakness. But the fools do not know what true friendship is worth.”

  There was a long period of silence as the two unlikely comrades gazed at each other with respect. Then, Breister wiped his eyes a final time and said gravely, “Enough of this blubbering—we have little time. That mob of Buzzards is crawling all over the place. You must get away.” He urgently motioned his friend to depart. “You’re the best climber there is. Now go and climb for all you’re worth—time is short.”

  “I have learned the mountains well,” Bad Bone replied. “There are places that no pursuer will be able to track me. Don’t worry, I will be fine—it will be a solitary life, but I need some time to think. It will be well for me.”

  As Bad Bone turned to leave, Breister said, “There’s a pair of my reed boots near the workshop door. They should fit over your chain mail and deaden the sound. You’ve got to go quietly.”

  The Lynx disappeared into the darkness, leaving Breister on watch in case the Royal Patrol returned.

  It was a very dark night. With the outhouse lamp broken, Breister was left to peer through the gloom. Few beasts were stirring. A pair walked past on the way home from the tavern—singing and joking. Wisps of fog hung in depressions here and there, softening the yellow glow from the windows of houses scattered farther down the road.

  As he kept watch, Breister could hear more than he could see. The large bell at Thedford’s Crossing, counting off the last hours before the Wood Cow settlement would be deserted...The babble of voices at Glad Bean’s Road House, having a final game of draughts and finishing off the last keg of Gulletwash...The mournful cry of Brigitte, the Steffes’ infant, wailing for the last time in the house where she was born...So many generations, spent in tidy houses nestled under O’Fallon’s Bluff...In a few hours, it would all be history.

  Milky Joe

  As the mid-day sun beat down, a caravan of Wood Cow carts and wagons, accompanied by a contingent of Royal Patrol soldiers, halted at Bazoot’s Store. A country store at the remote fringe of Hedgie settlements, Bazoot’s sat at a place where the Forever End crossed a wide and fairly level meadow. In the clearing in front of the general store, some fifty Digger Hogs and Axe Beavers loitered, lounging around a small, dirty fire. The campsite of dingy tents, the dirt-caked tools, the smell of new-sawn logs—all explained the large, ragged break that had been created in the Hedge.

  The travelers used the stop to take on additional water and make some final adjustments to their carts and baggage. Then, one by one, wagons bumped through the crude gap in the Hedge. Skull Buzzards inspected each one to make sure no stowaways were aboard. Once through the Hedge, each family took its own bearings. Most joined a long wagon train headed west, but a few intended to settle just beyond the Hedge, and Helga’s family had its own plans.

  The inspections were maddeningly slow. While they waited, parties of exiles talked in excited, but anxious tones. Before the opening stood some thirty or forty Hedge Blades—the elite battalion of Skull Buzzards assigned to guard the Forever End. Gazing grimly out from beneath their broad-brimmed, steel helmets, they crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking advance toward the Hedge. When an inspection was complete, the line would part to allow passage, and then close again to await the next approved party. Presenting a long line of razor-sharp swords—each 4 feet long—there would be no passing through the Hedge without their consent.

  Scurrying back and forth among the émigrés, a few of Bazoot’s clerks sought to sell items to the travelers. Breister was glad to purchase some rivets to repair a fastening that had unexpectedly popped loose. In the midst of the crowd, Bazoot himself was pushing a barrel of Strawberry Fogg, “Hey-Hetty, me bully-wats! Cold Fogg, swallers and cups—last chance for civilized drink!” The fat Woodchuck waddled merrily, long hair and apron flapping in the breeze. Here and there the jovial storekeeper stopped to turn the spigot for customers taking a last swig of Fogg before beginning their journey into the unknown.

  On a bench close by the line of Hedge Blades, a Wolf sat with a heavy ledger lying across his knees. A second Wolf—an albino, small and thick-necked, with a large bristly moustache—stood nearby flipping gold coins high in the air. Attracted by the glint of the flying coins, a crowd was gathering around him. Helga found something familiar about him—the clouded, pink eyes; the hard, chisled jaw—somewhere she had seen him before. But it was his powerful voice that shook her memory as he shouted out a rhyme:

  Jokes ’n tricks upon the King,

  A pocket full of coins

  Twenty-seven rings

  To every beast as joins

  Milky Joe is here to take you

  To live a life of ease

  Line up all you nameless whos

  For riches as you please

  Come along with Milky Joe

  Throw off your toil and woe

  Let the King foam and mutter

  While you eat jam and butter

  The recruiting pitch succeeded, at first, in attracting a few young Wood Cows to listen curiously. But soon parents called their young ones back to them. “Don’t you go listening to that hogwash peddler!” one scolded. “Keep your ears clean of that trash flim-flamer!” another parent hissed. “He’s a lying shill, he is! Why, that Milky Joe is nothing more than a slaver—hanging around troubled folk, trying to snare unsuspecting idiots and kids. Babbling against the King and talk of riches will always suck in a few down on their luck or looking for adventure. But it’s a pit of hell—mark my words!”

  Helga winced as another comment reached her ears “Yah, he’s got twenty-seven rings alright, iron ones that go right around your neck! Why else do you think he can scoff at the King right under the noses of those Hedge Blades? He just signs you up, and sells you right off to the King’s own bloodsuckers!”

  The touch of cold iron seemed, for a moment, to be palpable on Helga’s neck. She shuddered. Unease trickled through her heart. She’d heard stories about Milky Joe, but they had always before been almost fanciful—a “boogy beast” sort of tale. She’d never thought of him as being real, but now that he was sitting just a few feet away, she felt a deep sense of dread. It was as if she knew Milky Joe was deeply evil, but at the same time, could not remember exactly what she knew. The chill passing through her was not fear, but a confused feeling that she had seen the white wolf with pink eyes before...heard his booming voice...knew him from somewhere...

  “You can’t stay here, weevils!”

  The inspections dragged on into the afternoon. Little by little the line of wagons and carts shortened. Being one of the last in line, Breister and Helga took time to shift gear and baggage to better balance their load. They had packed for difficult travel, taking only their most important possessions and other essentials. First of all among their treasures was their Family Engraving, a traditional item in every Wood Cow household, on which the names of ancestors were engraved on a redwood plank.

  Next came Helga’s favorite family possession—the Root Teaching—a collection of Wood Cow wisdom that embodied their philosophy of life. Helga, like every Wood Cow, had her favorites:

  Tossing crickets in another beast’s drink does not make a friend.

  Throwing knives in the dark rarely fixes a problem.

  A beast who sees for herself is not a slave to what she is told.

  Justice considers small beasts before big plans.

  Listen where others say there is nothing to hear, and learn.

  Knowledge is bread, wisdom is coffee, and work is fire.

  In the happy times before Helbara went missing amidst Wrackshee slavers ten years before, Helga’s mother had read the Root Teaching to her and Emil every night. They also talked about how the Teaching applied in this or that situation. Helg
a missed those wonderful times. With Emil also now lost, and the entire Wood Cow clan scattered to the winds, for Helga, the Root Teaching seemed to hold the sense of her family together.

  After these precious belongings in importance, were essential practical items: fishing line and the flicker-pole. The fishing line served both to catch fish for food, and as a weapon for defense. In the hands of a skilled Wood Cow, the line weighted with a stone sinker could immobilize an attacker in a massive tangle. The flicker-pole’s flexible strength made it a very useful tool and weapon also. The most versatile tools they would have on the journey, the Wood Cows could wield both with power and skill.

  Following this, several precious items of household furniture: the chest, lovingly handmade by her mother, that held the family’s woodworking tools; Breister’s reading rocker and Helga’s carving table; the woodshop tables and benches; the kitchen stools and breadbox; the clothes cabinets...and so on.

  And, of course, the food: sacks of dried, pounded fish; baskets of pine nuts; dried apples and pears; rosehips for making tea; pouches of honey nut butter; and chunks of course, leathery trout jerky.

  Uniquely among the exiles, Helga and Breister did not have a cart or wagon. Instead, they pulled a homemade boat behind them on a sled. A great river was said to be just beyond the Hedgewall to the east. Old stories told of a time when the Hedgeland folk had eaten fish from a great eastern river, said to be within a day’s walk. If they could make the river, they hoped to sail into the unknown lands toward the rising sun. Bad Bone’s intelligence about routes to the east had given them even more hope.