Helga- Out of Hedgelands

by Rick Johnson

By the time Breister and Helga got through the gap in the Hedge, a long line of wagons stretched toward the western horizon. A relatively gentle slope led off in that direction around the mountainside, and virtually all the exiles headed that way. As they turned in a different direction—almost with a sense of reassuring himself of the decision to go it alone—Breister observed, “We are a family of the rising sun! We will go toward the new light, not the sunset. Let the others go toward the darkness. We may die, just as the others may die. Let us die, then, going toward the new day, not the past one.” And so, following the directions Bad Bone had provided, they headed down the mountainside.

  The wild and unfamiliar terrain was far more rugged than they had expected. A confusion of creeks and ravines cut through the steep mountainside, making it difficult to tell which way to go. Breister was obliged to cut a path through tangled briar thickets and brush. Rocky hillsides shot up at sharp angles, to dizzying heights.

  Several times, they slipped on the steep slopes. Once, Breister lost his footing and rolled for fifty yards down the mountainside until he lodged against a tree. His cloak was badly torn, but he was unhurt. Many times, fallen trees and rocks had to be moved. They struggled on like this until the sun began to set.

  “It’s time to find a campsite for the night,” Helga said as dusk was falling. “Where should we stop?”

  “Perhaps that may be a cabin up ahead,” Breister replied, pointing to a wisp of smoke catching final rays of sun above a rise. Peering through the deepening twilight, the outline of a chimney was also visible.

  “Yes, there’s a sort of farmstead,” Helga agreed, as they walked closer. Several more buildings and other signs of habitation appeared as they continued their approach.

  Perched on a plateau of level ground, several stone cabins were scattered amongst an intricate network of pens enclosed by low rock walls. Large numbers of tortoises with huge, high-domed shells crawled around with surprising speed in the corrals.

  Amazed and baffled, Breister and Helga proceeded down the path toward the first cabin. A tall, lanky Opossum, cracking a long whip at some of the dome-shelled creatures he was herding from one pen to another, noticed them. He looked over the newcomers suspiciously, his head completely hidden by a white bandana wrapped tightly over his head and knotted at the back.

  Closing the gate behind the last tortoise, he stepped toward the travelers with a fearsome look in the eyes that glinted just under the edge of the headwrap. Stepping toward them, he cracked the whip sharply on the rock path—an obvious command that they halt.

  “I am Matsu,” he said, “Who are you, strangers?”

  Breister introduced himself and Helga. “We are very glad to meet you, Matsu,” he said calmly. “We’d like to draw up a chair at your table tonight, and sleep by the fire if we could.”

  “Ayah!” Matsu replied angrily. Slashing his whip once more, he shouted. “Begger weevils! Begger weevils! Why should I let you stay? What’s your business in Shell Kral?”

  “Ah! You take us wrong!” Breister cried. “Two weary travelers, with all our worldly goods, only stopping to rest and talk with Bost Ony...”

  As Breister uttered these words, the Opossum’s dark eyes flashed with fire. “What do you want with Bost Ony?” he asked. “What do you come to her for? Why are you here?”

  “We have lost our way,” Helga explained. “We don’t know which way to go. A friend told us that Bost Ony knew safe routes to the east.”

  “A friend sent you here?” Matsu repeated. “Milky Joe—did he send you?”

  “No,” Helga answered slowly, tingling with unease at once again encountering the name. “We are not friends with anyone called Milky Joe. We are just lost beasts looking for a place to stay the night and then a safe path east in the morning. That is all we want. We are very sorry if we have disturbed you, Matsu.”

  “You can’t stay here any longer, weevils,” replied Matsu, staring at them with a stone-faced scowl. “No one but friends of Milky Joe can be in Shell Kral when he is coming to trade.”

  “If we cannot stay, where shall we go?” asked Breister. “We would not trouble good beasts such as yourself if we knew where else to go.”

  “Ayah!” the Opossum snarled, pointing toward the east, “them’s as want to go to the east, should go that direction. You’ve nothing to lose that you will not lose anyway if you stay here. I do you this one mercy. Now, be off with you!” he snapped the whip in their direction again. Ha! Ha! Ha-Ho!”

  “If you please, Matsu,” Breister began, “if we cannot see Bost Ony, can you tell us a safe path to follow?”

  “So, you’d like to be able to go easy as you please, is that it, weevils?” he replied. “All the routes to the east are safe—if you survive! Ha! Ha! Ha-Ho! Any safety you might find in Bost Ony’s advice is lost if you stay here one more instant!” the Opossum cried, slashing viciously with his whip. “Leave! Be gone, weevils! Be thankful I show you this mercy before Milky Joe and his Wrackshees arrive. I could trade you for many tortoises!”

  “Trade us for tortoises!” cried Helga, in amazement.

  “Both of you weevils together,” replied Matsu, “might bring 3-4 nice high-grade trallés.”

  “Trallés?” asked Breister.

  “Trallés are the currency of slaving around here,” the Opossum replied in an evil tone, flicking his whip lightly for emphasis. “Racing tortoises. There’s lots of fancy beasts all over that love their classy clothes, princely titles...and, racing trallés...Some fancy beasts favor the laces of Matuch and Framm, or the brocades of Sonivad and velvets of Potwigg, or Rotter crystal and wine, but almost anywhere, the fancies covet racing trallés.” Matsu’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Mercy’s not much more than a word around here—and it don’t last long,” he hissed. “Unless you’ve a will to be sold for a few trallés, take that bit o’ timber you’re dragging behind you and beat it!” Ferociously cracking his whip in all directions, he advanced slowly toward the unfortunate travelers. “Be off wi’ya, weevils!”

  Saying nothing more, the Wood Cows turned away from Shell Kral and set their course for the brow of a distant hill.

  The Only Possibility

  Helga and Breister did not travel far before they stumbled upon a stream that appeared suitable for their boat. Twilight was giving way to deepening dark, and they made camp and cooked supper. Helga made a hearty soup from slugs, rockbeets and snowberries, while Breister baked pine nut bread. They ate happily and then each bedded down under a cloak for the night.

  The next morning they launched their boat and set out. The river was swift and there were frequent rapids. But Helga and Breister were fearless. Their boat was sturdy and had a sail that they hoped to be able to use once they passed out of the mountains—if the mountains ever actually ended, as the old tales said they did “in the rays of the rising sun.”

  The rapids proved to be far more dangerous than they could handle, however. Their vessel plunged wildly and sometimes spun crazily out of control. Helga and Breister used their long oars as poles to push away from on-rushing boulders, or to regain control of their craft as it flew through the spray. Water sloshed around their ankles, and the beleaguered cows bailed frantically to keep the boat from sinking.

  Sometimes the water ran through narrow places, making deep canyon-like troughs in the water. Water crashed on all sides—even above the boat! Seeming tiny and puny against the force of the river, their boat was often tossed about like a cork. It was terrifying! Time and again, they nearly overturned.

  At one point, after crossing a series of rapids, they rounded a bend in the river and came upon a junction with another river. With the infusion of this additional flow, the river ran even more swiftly. The travelers vainly looked for a spot to pull over and rest, but were swept along at dizzying speed. Battling exhaustion, they struggled mightily to slow their movement enough to grab a suitable rock where they could temporarily tie up their boat. Alas, they had no luck until they rounded yet another ben
d in the river. There they found two more rivers coming together with the one they were traveling.

  Happily, the Wood Cows found a rock jutting out into the river that provided both a secure place to tie their boat and a narrow ledge to stand upon. Joyfully, for the first time in their pell-mell, cascading trip down the river, they were able to get out of their boat and stand on solid ground. From that vantage point, they could clearly observe the river junction. They were presented with an unexpected question. Which way to go?

  “That river seems not so wild,” Breister commented, pointing to a stream flowing from the southwest. Although it flowed swiftly, the river he indicated seemed not so tortured as the one they were traveling. “Perhaps we should follow it upstream a bit and see if it provides a better route,” he suggested.

  “Or the other one,” Helga replied. “It seems to be flow through a wider gorge than either of the others...Perhaps we could escape from this canyon with its endless steep cliffs.”

  They were silent for a time as each considered the possibilities. At last Breister spoke. “I fear for us if we continue forward,” he said. “The river is flowing faster and faster. There looks to be no end to the rapids...I don’t know how much more battering our boat can take. Perhaps we should explore the stream that looks less dangerous.”

  Slumping to the ground, resting and thoughtful, they were quiet for a time. Then, Helga, who had leaned her head back against the rock wall, spoke. “The rock carries an unusual amount of vibration,” she said. “It’s as if there is a far-off rumbling...perhaps there is a gigantic falls around the bend.”

  “But there is no mist rising to the sky, Helga,” Breister mused. “If there were a great falls, there would be clouds of mist rising into the sky. It must be something else...but what?”

  Helga’s response was immediate. “That settles it. We cannot go forward without knowing what lies ahead. And we cannot go the other direction and row upstream. Even if there are fewer boulders, we cannot row uphill against this current. The mountains are too rugged—that stream is no less dangerous. Even if we explored that gorge that seems more open, it’s too wild to think we could walk out. It is better to take our chances as we are,” she said. “And only the river we are on leads to the east,” she added, smiling. “Don’t forget, we are a family of the rising sun. No, we do not turn back.” Breister returned her smile, but still looked worried.

  They were silent for a few moments. “We must explore,” Helga continued, “before we go further on this river. I will stay here with the boat,” she continued, “while you see what lies ahead.”

  Her father agreed, but they soon realized that it was difficult to look around. Rising perhaps 3,000 feet on both sides of the stream, sheer cliffs seemed to block any advance. Retreat was also impossible. The force and speed of the river made it impossible that they could force their boat back upstream. The only possibility was to go forward. But how?

  “I think I can climb the cliff to the top,” Helga said softly, as if to herself. There are breaks and ledges enough that perhaps one could climb.”

  At last, Helga turned to Breister. “It looks to be at least 2,000 feet to the top. And what then? Could I follow the river up there? What do you think?”

  “Helga,” Breister began, “I think you must try to climb to the top. You used to climb all over everything when you were young. You can scout the river downstream and perhaps find a safe route for the boat. When you return, we can make a plan.”

  Helga gave her father a long hug, as they both considered what lay ahead.

  “Catch some fish for us,” Helga said at last, breaking the embrace. “We’ll have a good fish fry when I get back...” Her voice trailed off as they both realized how long that might be, if ever. Helga threw her arms around her father in a lingering final embrace. Then she gathered a bit of food and water in a pack and began to climb.

  Breister stood for a long while watching Helga skillfully pick her way up the lower portion of the cliff. He admired her courage. Taking one last longing look after his daughter, Breister settled down and dropped his fishing line in the river...

  “My life, I am a Borf!”

  When Bad Bone had slipped on Breister’s reed boots and padded away from Helga’s cottage, at first things went well. In the early going, the deep darkness shielded him. A faint glow at the horizon, however, promised a full moon would soon rise into the cloudless night sky, pressing the urgency of escape upon him. “What a miserable night to attempt escape,” he thought, nerves tingling with alert. Even keeping to the deepest shadows, he sometimes would be forced to step across moonlit gaps in the cover. “There is nothing to do but try,” he scolded himself softly. “I can beat this.” In spite of his desperate troubles, the Lynx smiled. “The Jays taught me a few things. I will not allow a gang of bungling cutthroats to catch me.”

  Crawling on his belly along ditches for concealment, Bad Bone crept cautiously toward the forbidding mountains that rose just beyond the Bor Jeeves River. Flowing past the hamlet at O’Fallon’s Bluff, the river represented safety. “If I can just get across the river,” he thought, “they will never be able to track me in the mountains.” He hoped to cling to the side of the ferryboat at Thedford’s Crossing and, breathing through a reed, catch a ride across the river undetected. Once across the Bor Jeeves, escape into the wildest ranges of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains beckoned. The fugitive Lynx knew that time was short. Soon, fruitless search of the hamlet would turn the Royal Patrol to possible avenues of his escape. Each moment, the full moon rose more brightly into the sky.

  Realizing that spies might be watching the normal river crossing, Bad Bone crept softly toward the crossing point. The Bor Jeeves River cascaded down from the mountains in a furious series of cataracts. These made the river impossible to cross upstream from the ferry dock operated by Stoke Thedford. Every hour, Stoke’s boats made a circuit across the Bor Jeeves. It was the only safe crossing in miles.

  Bad Bone listened as the hourly bell rang, calling passengers to board the ferry. Except for the bell, however, he was puzzled by the unexpected silence at the crossing. Normally, he knew, the ferry dock would be packed at this time of the evening, as creatures hurried home or went to visit friends. “There should be lots of folk boarding the ferry,” Bad Bone thought. “Where is everyone?” Something was wrong at the ferry crossing. Straining his ears to pick up any sound that might give him information, he tingled with anxious suspense. The absence of any of the normal sounds of passenger traffic was so stark as to be sinister in its implications.

  “There must be spies or soldiers watching the ferry,” he concluded. “The other beasts know there is trouble and are staying away. It’s a trap. I will have to take my chances further downstream.” With this thought in mind, Bad Bone wormed his way, inch by inch, away through the brush where he had been hiding. “Haven’t been downstream from Thedford’s in years,” he reflected as he crawled along. “The river is deep and swift through there...but no rapids as I recall. Perhaps I can swim it at some point...but that will have to wait for daylight,” he mused. By crawling a few dozen feet, then resting and listening for several minutes, then crawling another distance, he gradually moved down along the river. He heard no signs that he was being pursued, and after about an hour of proceeding in this manner, Bad Bone stood up and began moving quietly from tree to tree.

  He now moved quickly away from Thedford’s Crossing, although he stayed alert and watchful. Traveling into increasingly wild terrain, he kept moving in utmost stealth for several more hours. At last, judging that it must be the wee hours of the morning, and feeling a creeping sense of bone-weary exhaustion, he stopped to rest. He mounted a boulder-strewn slope, slumped behind a large rock, and was soon asleep.

  Just as the first streaks of daybreak lightened the sky, a call awakened him. Instantly alert, Bad Bone leapt to a low, defensive crouch, eyes darting. Standing among the boulders on the slope above him, he saw three Borf scouts—instantly recognizable to him by
their low, flattened hats. The two adult female Squirrels, and young male Coyote, wore the close-fitting hats which sloped down from the crown of the head with long flaps made of willow bark and grass woven together. Only their painted ears—notched in traditional Borf style—were not covered. Familiar with the clan of wandering nomads, he circled his arm above his head in the customary Borf greeting. One of the Borfs stepped toward him and repeated the sign of friendship.

  Bad Bone approached the party, turning his head to show a small notch cut from the edge of his left ear. He wished them to know that he had once lived among the Borf, and the ear notching was proof of that. Three years earlier, as a Climbing Lynx in training, Bad Bone had been assisted by a Borf raiding party.

  A fierce clan of nomadic Squirrels and Coyotes, the Borf generally kept to their homelands in the wildest ranges of the Don’ot Stumb Mountains. Their bitter enmity with the High One, however, sometimes brought Borf raiding parties down to plunder royal caravans. Masters of stout cord nets, Borf raiders did not attack with deadly weapons. Relying on surprise and overwhelming numbers, Borf raiding parties swept down on hapless caravans encamped for the night. In seconds, dozens of nets were tossed across guards and any other resistance. Taking the plunder they sought—trallés—the raiders escaped into the darkness.

  Despite their fierceness, Borf raiders were essentially peaceful. Their style of attack was extremely successful and, so long as they were not pursued, the frightful tangles of net they left behind were the only harm they caused to those they attacked. Let any beasts set off in pursuit, however, and they would encounter skillfully made traps of every sort. Many a Skull Buzzard had found himself hanging upside down by one leg—victim of a hidden rope trap. Borf raiders were so skilled that capturing them was nearly impossible. Although the High One grumbled at their thievery, he could not enforce his will in the rugged, lawless Borf lands. The losses were accepted as a cost of the trade in trallés—the ‘tidy little trade’ that Fropperdaft and his brother carried on.