by Rick Johnson
Most of the creatures at King Stuppy’s got their meals from him. Bayou bread and steamed crayfish, bog-greens and catfish, fried marsh mushrooms and turnips. The food was reasonably good, Helga thought—but she avoided the Drownlands Grog that was the beverage of choice. She noticed some elderly Cougars sat playing checkers in a back room. As they played, they chewed a mixture of moss and leaves, and then spit it out into a vessel. They did this until a large vat was full of the mixture. This was mixed with water and marsh honey and left to ferment into the popular Drownlands Grog. Ola said that he had heard the blue-green drink tasted quite good, but it was against the Gateless Wolf diet to eat or drink prepared foods, so he had never tasted it.
Then there were the Cougars that were everywhere. Their rotten-smelling breath—even worse than the decaying fish—made the entire trading post reek with their presence. Yet, they were considered the “Royal Court of the King,” for Stuppy considered himself King of his realm. When the Grizzly Bear judges had spared his life years before, Stuppy had taken this as permission to make a Kingdom for himself. And so he had done.
His ‘Royal Court’ was made up of the foulest-looking bunch of Cougars imaginable. Stuppy dressed them in the finest clothes, but these they never washed. Dried food, nose-drippings and other such slop and dirt covered the ruffled collars and fancy, embroidered coats and leggings of the Cougar courtiers. Except when he ‘greeted’ unknown visitors with his cutlass, King Stuppy spent most of his time swinging lazily in his woven-grass hammock. With one eye carefully watching his domain, he ate marsh honey and bayou bread all day long.
Helga thought the odor of the marsh honey was unpleasant, but Ola told her that it had medicinal properties needed by King Stuppy. Marsh honey and bayou bread where the only things that King Stuppy could eat. His nerves had been damaged for life by poison darts Grizzly Bear trackers had shot from their blowguns to capture him. “The marsh honey keeps the King’s hand steady on the cutlass,” Ola remarked.
At first glance, as he lay in his hammock, Helga mused that King Stuppy looked like a very fat and sick old Cougar. “Only a fool would treat him like that, however,” Helga thought, “he would doom you without a moment wasted.”
And everyone who came and went from King Stuppy’s domain knew this basic fact. The honest traders, the dockworkers, the scullery folk, the thieves and bandits. No one challenged Stuppy Marit in the Realm of the King. No one, that is, except a certain cantankerous Wood Cow.
No Jokes About Cougars
Burwell Oswego was snoozing hard—or at least trying to—as he jostled along in the running-wagon. Burwell, and several other passengers, rocked side to side with the motion, tired and stiff from the long ride. They would soon reach the last rest station, where Burwell knew most passengers would be getting off. It was rare for passengers to go on to the last stop, the station at the Drownlands Cutoff. Usually only cargo was carried on the last leg of the trip to the Cutoff.
But Burwell and his wife, Bwellina, were going on to the Cutoff. They were Bayou Dogs that had been on holiday, visiting relatives at the Rounds of Deep Springs, as they did every year. Burwell hated the busy trading season in the Drownlands—the folk got so obsessed with money and goods, he would almost break out in a rash to be near it. So, Burwell and Bwellina packed up and left for the Rounds. Now, they were on the way home. “Yep, by time’s we git back to our shanty,” Burwell said happily to Bwellina, “all them money-dazzled fools will be done with their binge, and things will be peaceable again...Yep! Yep! Yep!”
Bwellina, however, gently reminded Burwell that this year, the running-wagon schedule had changed. “Remember, Burwell, we had to come back a day earlier than usual. That means we’ll have to pass through the junction at King Stuppy’s Trading Post on the last day of the season. It will be an absolute frenzy at King Stuppy’s. So take your rash medicine, Burwell.” Bwellina gave her husband’s hand an understanding pat. Burwell, remembering that there was no escape from going into the thick of the trading crowds, muttered glumly, “I never understand it...they’ll be a spendin’ the money they just got faster than they got it. They know they have to go back out to the wilds, so they go to King Stuppy’s and sell their stuff, then they spend all the money they just got right there, and go home empty-handed. It’s the durn foolest thing I ever saw! King Stuppy likes it, though, I guess.”
From the Drownlands Cutoff, Burwell and Bwellina would catch the cargo pirogue to King Stuppy’s. There was usually room for them to throw their packs and bedrolls down on some cargo boxes and catch some shuteye on the ride to the Trading Post. The ride on the pirogue was free if Burwell helped unload the cargo at the other end of the trip. That was the way Burwell like to travel—light and cheap, just like he and Bwellina lived. Once they reached King Stuppy’s, one of their neighbors would be waiting for them and they’d catch another ride back to their shanty. Burwell would paddle the canoe on that leg while his neighbor got some rest. The system worked pretty good as Burwell considered it. It was the Bayou Dog style.
The Drownlands Cutoff was the most isolated of the running-wagon stations. Because of its remoteness, the station-master was rotated out once every two months. “Stay longer than two months at the Cutoff,” Burwell had often been told, “and you risk going stark raving mad.” Passengers and cargo came through only once a week and other than that, the station-master seldom saw any other visitors. So, when the wagons came, the night was filled with talk. News was exchanged, stories told, lies and gossip created, and contests held to see who could tell the biggest whopper. Burwell knew that on these nights at the Cutoff, you never could tell where truth left off and whopper began. But that did not bother him, because he always learned enough new tales to last him until the next trip through the Cutoff station.
That night, Burwell heard a story he knew he could tell over and over again for the enjoyment of his friends. “Yep, I seen it myself,” Zeke, the station-master, was saying, “I seen Cow and Cougar travelin’ together like they was the best friends in the world...never seen anything like it. Cows and Cougars together? Friendly like? It’d never happen, unless...unless they were drugged or bewitched or something! Yep, you mark my words,” Zeke said with a knowing nod of this head, “them two’s smuggling cactus sap or they found a gold mine or something like that. It ain’t natural I say. Something fishy about a Cow and a Cougar being together like that.” Then Zeke lowered his voice as if he were afraid someone might overhear him, “and you tell me why they came from the Bone Forest...you tell me that. No creature lives in the Bone Forest. There’s no food, no water, and the sun will fry you in no time. Anyone says they’re from the Bone Forest, you know they’re liars. But they just looks me in the eye and says they’re from the Bone Forest, like it was just a nice little place you went for vacation or something! It ain’t natural, I tell you. The Bone Forest ain’t nothing but dust and sun. Nothing can live there. I tell you, it gave me the willies!” Zeke stopped and leaned forward to Burwell, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “And to top it off,” Zeke continued, “when I asks them where they was going, they says, ‘to the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still’...Now don’t that beat all? It ain’t natural, I tell you.”
Burwell filed this away in his memory for later use. His friends back home would love it—especially once he embellished it a bit more and polished some of the details, maybe say the Cow made everyone laugh telling Cougar jokes, or something like that.
Poor Burwell. King Stuppy doesn’t like jokes about Cougars. Somebody should warn Burwell. Oops. Too late...
Bad to Worse for Breister
Breister’s lungs felt as if they were about to burst. He had been holding his breath for what seemed like forever. But he dared not breathe. He was still many feet underwater, being tumbled and tossed with ferocious power by the raging torrent of the river.
He had barely caught a glimpse of the Cougar that was ambushing him before the attack began. Raising his arm, he had begun to swing his only weapon—the we
ighted fishing line—when the large, wild-faced Cougar flew into him. The force of the attack carried Breister backwards off of the ledge where he was camping.
SPLOOSH! Breister and the Cougar hit the water, tangled together with the fishing line that had wrapped around both of them. The Cougar, who had been swinging a machete at Breister as the attack began, now found his arms useless. The sheer brute force of the rapids slammed them into boulders in the river with such power that his arm was crushed, the machete falling free and gone forever in the surging torrent. The attack was forgotten as both Breister and the Cougar battled to save themselves. It was hopeless. With their arms immobilized by the tangle of fishing line, their bodies slammed again and again into rocks and boulders. They were at the mercy of the river. Breister could barely remain conscious to fight to hold his breath. He must hold out. To breathe now would fill his lungs with water and that would be the end. SLAM! Breister felt his body suddenly hit the rock canyon wall with tremendous force, enough to kill even a powerful Wood Cow like himself.
But, fortunately for him, Broken Eye’s body had cushioned the blow, being sandwiched between Breister and the wall. The protecting shield had saved Breister from death...but the force of the impact crushed the Cougar. Breister, and his now lifeless attacker, caught on the rocks by tangled loops of fishing line. The sturdy cord had hung up on a piece of broken rock. Breister felt the sharp fishing line beginning to cut into his body as the force of the water tore at the mass in its way.
At last, the power of the river won out. The tangled line snapped and they surged free from one another back into the current.
Battered, gasping for breath, choking on swallowed water; Breister struggled to keep his head above the torrent as it carried him down through the ferocious rapids. Then, the river became less tortured. Although the pace of the current did not slacken, the water became smoother and the boulders fewer. Breister could now keep his head above water and gather some fresh air in his lungs. But, as he was taking a breath, he saw a Skull Buzzard diving towards him. Not having time to duck, Breister braced for the impact—but it never came. The Skull Buzzard had gone for the body of Broken Eye, preferring the ease of an already dead prey. Other Skull Buzzards joined the first, and they lifted the body out of the current and carried it to the riverside where they feasted on the carcass.
Breister turned his head away. His eyes fell on a massive whirlpool that inexorably pulled him into its yawning maw...
The Mountain Moves But Stands Still
Burwell Oswego was a mild-mannered, sober Bayou Dog whose life of hard work, homespun fun and quiet living was a source of deep contentment for him. He loved to sit on the porch of his shanty, deep in the bayous, listening to the humming of the locusts and ‘tendin’ his home,’ as he put it. He avoided the ‘gross pleasures’ of the trading season, which was why he normally planned his travel to avoid it.
The last day of trading season was especially wild. Most Drownlands creatures had no use for money at home, so they spent it before they left. Crayfish cakes flew off the griddle and Drownlands Grog flowed like water. Burwell steadfastly avoided Drownlands Grog, because of its tendency to make the rough and foolish even worse. But he did drink considerable amounts of Bog Fizz. The sweet drink, named for its tendency to furiously fizz with bubbles, was a favorite with small beasts—and with Burwell.
Although Bog Fizz was a soft drink, it had a strange affect on Burwell. Its natural, fizzing bubbliness tickled Burwell’s nose so much, and made him hiccough so much, that he lost control of himself. “Hoo, hoo, hoo, ha, ha, ha...Woooeee...Hic! Hic! Hicccc-Hooo-Yip!...Wooooeee that tickles!...Hoo, hoo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hicccc-Hooooo-Yip!” That was Burwell when he drank Bog Fizz. Especially if he was in a happy mood, and most especially if he was telling stories, gossip, or jokes that he thought were hilarious—Burwell completely lost control. He became totally silly...out of his mind...momentarily insane with glee. No one could talk to him. He just went, “Hoo, hoo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic, WOOOEEEE!” Every once in a while, he would try to blubber some part of a joke, or repeat some snatch of a funny tale, or make up some wild new piece of gossip...and then off he’d go into gales of laughter.
Burwell had long ago promised Bwellina that he would not drink Bog Fizz when they were at home or anywhere in ‘polite company.’ So, when they arrived at King Stuppy’s Trading Post, and Burwell said he was tired and thirsty, Bwellina knew what was coming. Throwing their bags up on the dock, Burwell gave a Dock Squirrel a coin and told him to “carry the bags over to Stram Noggbet’s barge and tell him we’ll be there as soon as I wet my whistle with some Bog Fizz.” Bwellina calmly picked up her straw knitting bag, fixed her flowered hat firmly in place, and set off to find a quiet place to knit.
Burwell walked up to the Bog Fizz vendor’s cart, standing tall among the crowd of small beasts gathered there. “A pint of Bog Fizz,” Burwell said to the vendor.
Bwellina, meanwhile, moved down the dock to where an elderly Opossum was selling tea and donuts. Bwellina ordered a cup of sizzle-tea and a pecan-crusted donut. “One sizzler and p-wheel comin’ right up, dearie,” the old Opossum smiled. She worked a bellows on her cart to fan a small fire, heating a bed of smooth round stones to red-hot. Deftly picking out one from the fire with tongs, she placed it into a thick crockery mug and sprinkled it with a mixture of herbs and dried flower petals. The herbs and petals began to toast instantly, giving off a pleasant, warm fragrance. As soon as the fragrance began to waft, the Opossum poured boiling water over the stone. Even boiling water was cooler than that super-heated stone and an explosion of steam poured out of the mug. Sizzling steam threw clouds of strong fragrance into the air. The beverage never failed to have a calming effect on Bwellina.
She settled down with her steaming mug, nibbled a piece of her donut, and put a few stitches on the new sweater she was knitting. Sighing happily into her mug of tea, Bwellina closed her eyes, letting the fragrant steam fill her nostrils. How calming it was. She was vaguely aware that Burwell was ‘hitting his stride’ nearby, but she was determined to ignore it until...
Above all the noise and hubbub, she could clearly hear Burwell laughing and hiccoughing. He was wheezing with delight. She could pick out snatches of what he was saying: “Hooo, Hooo, Hooo, Ha, Ha, Hooo...Hic-Hic-Hic-HooooYip!...Yessiree...Hooo, Hooo...and the minstrel band had a Cougar lady playing an accordion and harmonica and...Hooo, Hooo, Hooo...Oh, I can’t stand it...Ha, Ha, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip...and the Cougar was all peaceable and kind and she was with a Wood Cow...Hooo, Hooo...Ain’t seen one of those ’round here before...Hoo, hooo, hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...Hoo, Hooo, Hooo...And what beats all, is they said they were going to the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still...Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip...who ever heard such stuff!”
King Stuppy, who had been dozing lazily in his hammock, leaped up and stormed over to where Burwell was wheezing with delight, letting Bog Fizz bubbles break on his nose, happily oblivious to the furious king now standing beside him.
“What did you say about the Cougar?” King Stuppy demanded.
Burwell, still not conscious of his danger, and thinking that his wild story was making the crowd happy, replied by making the story even wilder: “Hooo, Hooo, Hoooo, Ha, Ha...I said she was a Cougar dancer wearing a tutu, and playing a banjo, harmonica and accordion all at the same time...Hoo-Hoo-Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...HoooooWEEE!”
King Stuppy was not amused. “Stupid Dog,” he said, slicing a button off of Burwell’s coat with his cutlass. “You insult the Cougars, for which I condemn you,” he continued. “But before I decide how to deal with you, I give you the chance to live.” Lowering the point of his cutlass away from Burwell’s belly, where it had been poking, King Stuppy pulled Burwell close and whispered harshly in his ear: “What did you say about the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still? Where is it? Tell me how to find it and you will live!”
“Listen to the Place Inside You”
Helga walked from one end of the Trading Post to the other, agai
n and again, talking to creature after creature, always asking the same question: “Have you seen any Wood Cows?” She knew from Ola that Wood Cows were almost never seen in the Drownlands. The Forever End had cut off their homelands for centuries, and only those of the ancient stock lived beyond the Forever End. If any creature had seen a strange Wood Cow, it could be a clue to the fate of her father. Again and again she asked the question, looking earnestly into the faces of each creature, searching for a hint that they knew something that would help her find her father. Again and again, the answer was the same. No one had seen a Wood Cow.
Then, as she passed the Bog Fizz vendor, lost in her thoughts, she heard the phrase, “Wood Cow.” It was like a splash of cold water in the face, cutting through the accumulating dust of despair. Helga was instantly alert and electrified. Her mind replayed what it had heard:
“Oh, I can’t stand it...Ha, Ha, Hic-Hic-Hic-HoooYip... HoooWHEE...and the Cougar was a talking like a WooSheep, all peaceable and kind and she was with a Wood Cow...Hooo, Hooo, Hooo...Ain’t seen one of those ’round here before...Hoo, Hooo, Hoo, Hic-Hic-Hic...”
Scanning the crowd around the Bog Fizz cart, Helga saw King Stuppy holding a Bayou Dog by the coat, apparently angry and threatening the unfortunate creature. King Stuppy had the poor Dog’s shirt and suspenders in his powerful grip, lifting him up on his tiptoes. She could not hear what the Cougar was snarling in the Dog’s ear, but every instinct of pity and justice urged her to his assistance. Helga charged toward the place where King Stuppy held Burwell in his grip. She never reached them. Tough Cougar thugs—King Stuppy’s bodyguards—instantly surrounded her, cutlasses drawn, fingers sheathed in ugly, sharply-spiked brass knuckle rings. Helga stopped. Some other tactic would be needed.
