New World: a Frontier Fantasy Novel

by Steven W. White

  The orange clouds thickened. A storm was brewing. Deafening thunder boomed and lightning crackled, flashing violet.

  It was just occurring to Simon that it all might be the work of the fur-bearing trout, when he found he wasn't in the camp anymore.

  He was on the other side of the gulley and a quarter mile along it, where the log lay across.

  Standing on his own two feet! His leg felt fine.

  His pack was on his shoulder. The sky was bright mid-day blue, his clothes were dry and he was warm. Sweating, in fact. In one hand he clung loosely to a long black thunderbird feather that weighed nothing at all.

  Simon pieced it together as he climbed onto the log. He had a job to do. He would walk across the log again, and not fall this time. He wouldn't break his leg… and so his leg would never have broken! The log would be dry in this weather, not wet and slippery. All he had to do was not drop the feather.

  Maybe he should climb down, cross the stream at the bottom and climb back up, like Bogg did.

  Where was Bogg, anyway?

  Or maybe he should abandon his feather. That had been the cause--

  Oh, enough. Simon balanced himself and took a few steps so he was over the gulley. Nothing to it.

  The feather pulled out of his hand -- the wind got it, maybe. It hung in the air beside him. Simon reached for it, calmly, gently, staying centered on his feet... and his feet slipped anyway. His arms swung wildly and he panicked at the unbearable notion that he was falling off the log again--

  And he drifted off the log.

  He thought, horribly, that he was falling in tortuously slow motion. But he was drifting over the gulley, following the feather, not falling.

  He stretched an arm out to grasp the feather, and his body eased toward it. Got it! Simon and his feather cruised down the gulley, his boots ten feet above the brook. Simon watched the gulley pass under him and the trees drift by, then he pointed the feather up, and his body raced after it.

  As the ground dropped and Simon shot into a clear blue sky, pine-covered hills rose beyond the foreground. He tipped the feather and his body spiraled gently in the air. Behind him, the range of the Chilly Mountains made a snowy spine through the green of the peninsula. In that white spine was a great pyramid-like peak. Deadreckoning Peak. And beside it, a saddle point with another mountain, that was Settler's Pass.

  Simon could see beyond the spine to the sloping hills, then to Spying Scarp, the cliff that overlooked the coast of Pirate's Bay. Squatting on that coast was Rastaban, which meant Dragon's Head, a sprawl of tumbledown buildings and piers that housed more pirates and cutthroats than law-abiding citizens, and made a great sanctuary for unsavory types. That had to be where the murderers were heading. They could find a ship there, and make it all the way back to Algolus.

  Simon raced higher, and the icy air buffeted him. The Chilly Mountains joined the greater range of the Starry Mountains, some of which were so high that there wasn't enough air to breathe on them. Not many tales came from beyond those mountains.

  It was even colder now. Simon guessed he was as high as those Starry peaks. Their jagged gray and white edges seemed about level with him, and the sky above them was dark blue, a deeper color of sky than he had ever seen from the ground. The air was too thin. He would pass out if he didn't turn around.

  In fact, he felt lightheaded already--

  #

  Chapter 20

  Simon woke up in the lean-to. The twilight when he had eaten the fish was now shadowless mid-day, and the sky was bright white with masses of gray beyond the pines. The makeshift smoking house over the fire was gone, and the fire had burned to glowing ashes. "Bogg?"

  Simon had to pee, and he was starving. His leg ached... but then, his whole body ached. He tried to roll over and look outside. "Bogg?"

  "Shh!"

  "What?"

  "I've been watching this squirrel dance around a snare for two hours. Hush!"

  Simon squirmed around -- as quietly as he could -- so he could poke out his head. His legs both hurt, although there were no jabs of pain from the broken bone.

  Outside, a squirrel with a reddish-orange face and shining black eyes scampered past a pine sapling that had been bent down and tied to a loop of vine or rope, in turn tied to a short stick. The stick was baited -- with eel, maybe -- and propped in the crook of a Y-shaped branch Bogg had jammed in the ground.

  The squirrel noticed Simon and raced up a tree.

  Bogg yanked off his raccoon-skin cap and threw it on the ground. "Well, that's that." He ran dirty fingers through his matted blond hair. "Now, now. The little feller will come down sooner or later."

  "I'm sorry, Bogg."

  Bogg trudged to the snare and touched the stick carefully with his toe. The stick slipped out of the Y-shaped branch, but only dragged listlessly on the ground a bit. The pine sapling hung over. "Trees like this lose their zing after being bent for longer than a few hours. We'll let the poor thing rest up. Rest up, tree! You're off duty."

  Bogg picked up his hat and brushed halfheartedly at a mud stain. "How's the leg?"

  "I'm not sure. I feel funny. Awful all over."

  "Why don't you try it?"

  "What?"

  "The leg."

  Simon needed a moment to understand what Bogg was saying. He carefully sat up and felt his thigh. Nothing, except the cramped ache throughout his body. He began to probe his leg between the sticks and ties of the splint. Bogg stomped over and with a sweep of his arm, threw the lean-to off Simon, scattering the branches on the ground.

  "Get up!" Bogg yelled.

  Simon stared at him, wide-eyed and startled. Bogg grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him to his feet. Simon screamed, in anticipation of agony that didn't come. Bogg let him go, and he stood, wobbly, on his own.

  "Jupiter Pluvius," Simon whispered. "I never broke it, did I?"

  "You broke it all right. It may not be completely healed. The visions the trout gives you just let you know what's afoot in your body. It's not like it never broke... but almost. In a few more days, you should be skipping about like that squirrel."

  "The trout... does it cure cancer? Consumption?"

  "I couldn't say."

  "Amazing! Bogg... this means we could still catch them... doesn't it?"

  Bogg's eyes narrowed and his lips pulled tight. Simon didn't know what his expression meant. "Bogg... how long was I asleep? How long has it been?"

  Bogg opened his mouth. "Just a day. But it might not make a difference."

  Simon's mind reeled. The Algolans might have a two-day head start, but the chase was still on! He and Bogg could beat them to Rastaban. "Then we can catch them!"

  "Are you hungry? Fur-bearing trout uses up a lot of strength."

  "I'm starved. But don't change the subject. Bogg... can't we?"

  Bogg let out a sigh. His jaw thrust forward. "I can catch them."

  "Then let's go!"

  "You can't even walk a log without busting your bones."

  Simon's breath caught in his throat.

  "It was a fluke of nature that I could find a fur-bearing trout in a single day's search. Most likely odds say that you wouldn't take three steps on your own for well on six months. I'd be carrying you out of here, downstream to Fort Consequence or Fort Misfortune. I'd snig you along on a blanket, or haul you on my back, or cut down a canoe or whatnot. Weeks to get you someplace where somebody proper could look after you. Our cussed pursuees would be long gone by then, and so would the truck your Maven Minder promised me."

  Simon tried to think. "But my leg is better. I can keep up now."

  "Sure, more or less, and I'm truly glad of that. I don't care to see you suffering, and I'm right pleased I don't have to run you to civilization. And maybe, now, you could keep up with me. Until you hurt yourself again. And even if you manage to stay healthy, you're a second mouth to feed. I know for certain, even with the l
ead they've got, that I could catch those sons of bitches if I was on my own. With you along, I don't know. That makes it a coin toss."

  Simon searched for words. "But Bogg... you're my uncle--"

  "Don't even try it."

  Simon looked at the splint on his leg and swallowed. "I didn't know that's what you thought of me. A burden."

  "Hell yes, you're a burden! Open your eyes! We started one day behind them, and on horses. Alone, I would have caught them around the Muddy River crossing. I'd have cut them up and thrown their bits in the water to wash out to sea. I'd have taken that sword and knocked on the gate of Fort Sanctuary..." Bogg thought a moment. "About now, I reckon. Look, pup, I ain't saying I hate you. I like you. I think you're a fine little feller. But I'm me, you see."

  Bogg scratched at his beard and squinted at the trees. "Why do you think I spend all my time out here in the wilds?" He shrugged. "It's where I belong. I ain't meant for people. I ain't set that way."

  Simon felt ache and hunger, cold and fatigue all at once. He felt like an icy hand was squeezing his heart. He had failed... again. He wanted to sit down before he collapsed. "What are you going to do?"

  Bogg grunted. "I've had a good think about that while you were sleeping. Plan one, give up. I don't care for that one much. Plan two: you and me keep going along like we have, until we catch them, or we lose them, or until you get hurt again. I don't care much for this plan either, although it strikes my fancy more than plan one. Plan three: I boom on alone and leave you here with some food and water. I'll take you home on the way back. I like that one best of all. It near tickles me."

  "Bogg... no. One more chance. Please."

  "Why do you want to come with me so bad? Ain't you had enough yet? Are you really taking all this trouble for your pa's sake? I always figured he was pretty rough on you, so I don't see why."

  Simon sat down in the wet grass. "My father..." The words came slowly. "My father wasn't simply a harsh taskmaster. I mean, he was, but... he protected me. I never realized it at the time just how he looked after me."

  Bogg crouched beside Simon. "So you do owe him."

  "It's more than that." Simon felt tears well up, but fought them back. "I didn't tell you this before. Bogg, I was there. I saw him die. And he saved me even then. And..." Simon faltered.

  Bogg watched him quietly.

  "And I couldn't help him," Simon said. "I wasn't strong enough. After all the times he saved me. I failed him." Simon's guts had twisted up, and he held his breath to keep from sobbing.

  Bogg looked away to the treeline, as if he were contemplating which way the weather might turn. He drew a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out in a sigh. "I didn't know that."

  "I'm sorry."

  Bogg looked askance at him, narrow-eyed, his jaw working back and forth. "Plan two, hm? You and me, creeping along, slow as cold molasses..." He made a face as if he was tasting something spoiled. "That would be least pleasant for the both of us." He fixed his gaze on Simon. "We'd move fast, you know. That leg may give you grief yet, and I don't aim to hold your hand."

  Simon nodded. "Okay."

  "You'll do chores. I won't take no more cats that can't catch mice."

  Simon thought of the basement of the print shop, and decided it didn't matter. "Okay."

  Bogg rummaged in his pack beside the scattered branches of the lean-to. "For starters..." he pulled out the steel blade from Marshall Dunster's knife. "That's as tricky to use as a cotton key. Why don't you see if you can make a handle for it?"

  Simon took the steel carefully. "May I see your..."

  "Ah," Bogg said. "For comparison." He drew his fang dagger and handed it, neatly and handle first, to Simon. "That's held up for five years now. Do it like that."

  Simon took the sabertooth knife. It was beautifully weighted and bobbed in his hand, almost urging him to slice through something. He noted how Bogg had carved the root of the canine to fit it into the split in the antler, and how the lashings crossed and recrossed between handle and blade. Simon turned the fang dagger and handed it back. "I can do it."

  "Once you do, use it to carve up a copy of the three deadfall sticks. Two sets would be better than one. Seems to me you should have your own set."

  Simon nodded.

  Bogg nodded back. "Let's put in some miles."

  #

  Over the next four days, Simon and Bogg climbed higher into the Chilly Mountains, getting closer to Desperation Peak and Settler's Pass. Simon's leg ached at the end of each day, so Bogg made camp each evening, while Simon rested and rubbed his thigh. He made sure not to complain. Each morning, Simon broke camp and packed the gear.

  They ate little besides squirrel meat and soldier's lichen. One night near a pond, Bogg showed Simon how to spear fish by torchlight. The light drew the fish to the surface, and it was easier than catching them by day. Bogg returned to the campfire, and Simon caught two fish on his own. He was astounded at how good they tasted.

  Simon's first handle for the steel worked itself loose in a day of whittling on his first deadfall stick. He spent another day perfecting a second handle.

  Bogg wouldn't speculate about how far ahead their targets were, or if Bogg and Simon were closing, or even if they were on the right track. Simon left that to Bogg, and struggled to keep up and master everything he could.

  On the fourth day, they climbed above the snow line.

  Simon's whole experience of snow prior to that was seeing white mountains in the distance on a cloudless day in Fort Sanctuary. Now he marched through it, now it fell on him. He loved to watch it float down as if it was enjoying the journey, so different from rain, which plunged down so ungracefully. As they climbed along the top of a cliff on the slope of Mount Desperation, the wind whipped snow up at them from below. Snow seemed to have a trace of thunderbird feather in it... or vice versa.

  Simon packed snowballs and pelted trees, and thought about landing one on the back of Bogg's neck... but didn't actually do it. Simon's aim wasn't that good, anyway, and after an hour, his fingers were numb and he stopped handling snow altogether. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his osnaburg trousers or pinched them in his armpits.

  All the fresh snow had to be burying any trace that Bogg was following. Bogg was grimly silent about it. Simon suspected Bogg was just marching to Settler's Pass and hoping for the best. Settler's Pass was the only way to get through the Chillies, besides circling all the way around along the coast. So the five Algolans should have passed through there. Simon wondered if Bogg had any tricks in mind for finding them. One thing Simon had noticed was Bogg liked to keep his tricks to himself until the last moment. Simon was patient and focused on whittling deadfall sticks, keeping his eyes open, and not freezing. Did Bogg have something in mind, some other fur-bearing trout up his deerskin sleeve?

  The novelty and allure of snow lasted a day, until his ankles were painfully cold and his toes were numb. After that, he felt hatred growing inside him at the awful stuff. You couldn't even walk in it. You could only kick your way forward. With each step, his boot sank almost to his knee. The extra work drove a deep ache into his previously broken thigh.

  "Camp," Bogg called, and Simon flopped into the snow.

  Bogg found a short, bushy pine tree, with its lowest branches just above the snow, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled past the branches to the trunk. He started digging into the snow near the trunk. Simon watched Bogg dig so deep that he disappeared.

  Simon frowned. "You're digging out the tree?"

  "Tree-pit shelter," came Bogg's raspy, exhausted voice from the hole. The snow he dug out piled up around the hole until it touched the lowest branches. Simon listened to the rustling of branches, the floof of thrown snow, and Bogg's huffing for an hour.

  Then Simon dragged himself over and peeked in. Bogg had cleared a circular zone down through five feet of packed snow to t
he long-buried pine needles on the ground, and out about five feet from the tree. The tree stuck up the middle like a fat tent pole. It looked cozy in there. "How will you get out?" Simon asked.

  Bogg threw himself at the wall of snow that surrounded him, digging and clawing with his hands wrapped in his black cloak. He scraped out a channel and climbed it to the outside. "We'll start a little fire right in there. I'll gather wood. You get in there and warm the place up."

  Simon climbed down the channel - a narrow, snowy staircase. Standing in the shelter, Simon's eyes were about at the level of the snow-covered ground. He leaned against the tree in the center and peered out past branches and snow piles. It was a squirrel's-eye view. And above, dense snow-laden branches made a decent roof.

  Bogg came back with branches for a fire and for bedding. "Fuel and victuals will get tougher to scare up. Water is easier... as long as there's fuel." He built a small fire opposite the channel he had dug. "I smoked a mess of the fur-bearing trout. I hope our straits don't get so dire that we eat that out of hunger. Might not be healthy. How are your feet?"

  "Numb," Simon said.

  "Let me see them."

  Simon sat on his bedlining and carefully worked his boots off. Bogg eyed his feet and felt them with his warm rough hands. "I've seen worse. Truth to tell, I've had worse. Just point your toes at this fire."

  Simon considered that whittling might be a good way to use his time while his feet warmed up, but after an exhausting and frigid day, the flames were too mesmerizing. The wall of snow behind the fire gradually melted and refroze with a reflective sheen, and the firelight that danced there caught his eye and wouldn't let go. Dry pine needles crackled as Bogg fed them in, a soft and delicate sound.

  Their little round home warmed nicely, and Simon peeled off layers while the sky's light filtering in through their ceiling of branches lessened to the black of night and was lost in rising smoke.

  A distant low howl called steadily. It was a somber, sustained note. Once it faded, Bogg muttered, "Maybe the wind." He shrugged. "Maybe wolves, maybe wendigos." A grin crept over his craggy firelit face. "Maybe a wampus cat."