“His sire was like that, too,” said Tulip, looking up from her stitchery. “We used to think that he was glued to that rock. Many a time your own dad was tumbled into the Rill by Hanlo Bramblethorn.”
“Hmph,” grunted Burt Underbank, pausing in his whittling, inspecting the edge of his knife, “that’s right. He did. Fought like a cornered badger, he did. Against all comers and all odds. Harrump! Took us all down a peg or two. Seemed to think that rock was his own personal property instead of part of the east public-footway across the Dingle-rill. From what I hear, Danner’s even better at it than Hanlo was.”
“What makes Danner that way, Dad?” asked Tuck. “I mean, it seems he’s always got to be the best at what he takes up. Why is he that way?”
“Like sire, like bucco, I always say, Tuck,” answered Burt.
“No Dad, I mean: what makes people the way they are? What makes me,” Tuck paused, then found the word he was searching for, “easygoing, while Danner is, uh . . .” Tuck couldn’t seem to come up with the appropriate word.
“Pugnacious,” said Tuck’s mother.
“More like quarrelsome,” said his father, “if he’s anything like Hanlo was.”
“Well, all I know is that he always wants to be King of the Rillrock at anything he does,” said Tuck, puffing another smoke ring at the hearth.
“I think people are born to their nature,” said Mrs. Underbank.
“I think it’s the way they’re raised,” said Tuck’s sire.
They sat and gazed at the fire for moments as the flames twined and writhed and danced, casting flickering shadows throughout the parlor of The Root. Burt threw another log on the pyre, and they watched as sparks flew up the chimney and the flaming wood popped and cracked as it blazed up. Then the flames settled back and once more the quiet was broken only by the faint creak of Tuck’s rocker, and the snick-slice of Burt’s knife against the whittling stick, and the pop and whisper of Tulip’s needle puncturing cloth and pulling bright floss through taut linen stretched drumhead tight within the embroidery hoop.
“I saw two more strangers today,” said Burt after a moment. “More Thornwalkers, I think. Went riding down to the stable, each leading a string of ponies. That’s seven, no, eight so far.” Burt stopped his whittling and leaned forward to tap the dottle from his pipe against the hearth. Then he settled back, stuffing the warm clay into a pocket of his unbuttoned vest. “You all set, Tuck?” he asked for perhaps the tenth time that day and the fiftieth time that week. “Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yes. I’m ready,” answered Tuck, quietly.
The sound of Tulip’s sewing stopped, and she sat in her chair by the soft light of the warm yellow lamp looking down toward the needlework in her lap. But she stitched not, for she could no longer see what to do through her quiet tears.
~
Dawn found grey-cloaked Tuck wandering through a milling, chattering crowd in the Woody Hollow Commons. It seemed as if the entire population of the town had turned out in spite of the cold to see the Thornwalkers off. A lot of folks had come up from Budgens, too, for a few of their buccoes had been trained in Old Barlow’s class, and would be off to Thornwalker duties this day, also. Tarpy and Hob had managed to find Tuck and now they were looking for Danner. But before they could find him, Geront Gabben, the Woody Hollow Mayor, standing up on the Commons’ platform, rang the fire gong for quiet; and as soon as he got it, he sallied forth into a speech of indeterminate length: “My friends, on this most auspicious of occasions,” he began, and such a beginning should have tipped off most of the Warrows that Geront was in a talkative mood. But perhaps because of the fact that this was a farewell parting for the Thornwalker young buccen, the Warrow citizenry only thought that this was a “fare-you-well” speech, and Warrows do love speeches—short ones, that is. And so, some in the crowd cried out, Tell it to ’em! and Hear! Hear! and Mayor Gabben, encouraged, pressed on. Tuck listened intently for a while, but finally his attention began to stray, for it seemed that the Mayor couldn’t decide whether this was a sad and solemn occasion or a happy ribbon-cutting ceremony as he swung back and forth between the two and droned on and on. But when folks in the crowd began to call out, What’s your point, Geront? and Let’s get on with it! and other not-so-subtle notices of restlessness—to the extent that the Mayor began to feel somewhat chivvied—Geront, puffing and fuming, rambled his speech down to an unsatisfactory ending; and at last he introduced Old Barlo, which brought on such a loud and prolonged cheer of relief that it left Geront with the grand delusion that in some mysterious fashion his speech had been a smashing success after all.
Old Barlo mounted the platform and got right to the matter at hand: “Folks, it’s time these here brave lads”— Yay!—he was interrupted by a lengthy cheer—“time these brave lads was on their way. There’s no call to delay them further, ’cause the Thornwalkers”—Hooray!—“the Thornwalkers has got crossings to guard”—Rah!—“borders to protect”—Rah!—“and Wolves to repel.” Hip! Hip! Hoorah! Barlo waited for the cheering to subside, and casting a gimlet eye at Geront, he continued: “And they can’t do them duties if they’ve got ter stand around here listening to speech making and cheering crowds!” Rah! Rah! Old Barlo! Then Barlo pointed to the first Warrow in a line of eight strangers standing quietly to one side, all dressed in Thornwalker-grey cloaks: “Them as is assigned to the Eastdell First, there’s your guide.” The first Warrow raised his hand. Barlo then pointed to the second grey-cloaked ’Walker: “Eastdell Second,” Barlo called out, and that Warrow held up a hand. “Eastdell Third,” came the next cry, as Barlo continued down the line.
When Eastdell Fourth was called, Old Barlo pointed to an emerald-eyed Warrow with fair hair holding a string of seven ponies: five riding and two pack ponies, their coats heavy with winter shag. Tuck, Hob, and Tarpy made their way to the guide, and from the far side of the Commons came Danner. With a deep bow, Tuck introduced himself and named his companions.
“Patrel Rushlock at your service,” spoke the guide with an infectious grin and a sweeping bow of his own. Patrel was small—even shorter than Tarpy, who, for the first time ever, felt as if he simply towered over another young buccan, though he was but one inch different. Yet, somehow, perhaps because of his bearing, Patrel seemed neither diminished nor overshadowed by the four, taller, Woody Hollow buccen.
“Let’s fix your knapsacks to this pack pony,” said Patrel, getting right to the matter at hand, “then each of you pick out one of the riding mounts for your own; the one with the white face is mine. But heed this: keep your bows and quivers; we may need them before we come to Ford Spindle,” he said ominously, momentarily frowning, but then his face brightened, and the wide grin returned. “If you have a flute or pipe, or any other tune maker, keep it, too, and we’ll have a ditty or three to cheer us along the way.” Tuck then saw that a six-stringed lute was strapped across Patrel’s shoulders to hang at his back.
Shortly, they, as well as the Thornwalkers of the other Eastdell companies, were ready to leave, and all turned to say that one last goodbye to young dammen and maidens, sires and dams and brothers and sisters, grandams and granthers, aunts and uncles and other relatives, friends and neighbors, and additional assorted buccen and dammen who had come to see them off and who were collected in knots and rings and clumps of Warrows with stricken and worried and crying faces, and cheery and smiling ones, too, and proud and stern and grim looks, also.
“Harrump! Take care of yourself, Lad,” said Burt to his only bucco, “and watch out for the wild Wolves. Make ’em fear the sight of an Underbank—harrump!—or any other Warrow for that matter.”
“I will, Dad,” answered Tuck, and quickly he embraced his sire, then turned to his dam.
“Wear your warm clothes, keep your feet dry,” said Tulip as she clasped Tuck to her. “Eat well, and, and . . .” but she could say no more through her tears; and she held on tightly and softly cried, until Burt gently disengaged her embrace from Tuck, and Tuck quickly
swung astride the dappled grey he had chosen as his mount.
Someone, a friend, gave him a pouch of Downdell leaf, “The best there is,” and another friend handed him a new, white-clay pipe, “Smoke it well,” while a third gave him a small tin box with flint and steel and shavings of touchwood, “Keep your tinder dry.”
Merrilee Holt, who had shyly hung back, squared her shoulders and stepped forward and held an elden silver locket up to Tuck. “Would you wear my . . . favor?” the Warrow maiden asked. Speechless with surprise, Tuck nodded dumbly, and he leaned down for Merrilee to slip it over his head. As she did so, she whispered in his ear, “Take care, my buccaran,” and kissed him on the lips, to the raucous whoops of some of the striplings nearby. But Merrilee simply stepped back to the crowd, her eyes glitter-bright with tears.
“Hey, Tucker,” spoke up his cousin Willy, stepping to the pony’s side and holding up a new, blank diary and a pencil, “keep a journal, hey? Then when you get back you can read to us of all your adventures, hey?”
“All right, Willy,” said Tuck, stuffing the gift into his jerkin along with the leaf and pipe and tinderbox. “Thanks. I’ll try.” Then Tuck smiled and raised his hand and waved to all those who had come to see him off, and looked again at his parents with their arms about one another, and last of all at Merrilee who brightly smiled back; and at a nod from Patrel, Tuck and his companions, who also were finished with their farewells, urged the ponies forward; and they wove through the waving crowd and out of the Commons, riding toward the North Trace up through the Dingle-wood, aiming for Spindle Ford.
As the ponies trotted away from the heart of Woody Hollow, the five riders—Tuck, Danner, Hob, Tarpy, and Patrel—could hear Woody Hollow Mayor Geront Gabben leading the townsfolk in a rousing cheer: Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! And someone began ringing the fire gong.
The Sun crept upward in the morning sky as they rode farther and farther from Woody Hollow; and the sounds of the cheering crowd and clanging gong slowly faded away to disappear altogether in the snow-blanketed quiet of the Dinglewood; and all became silent except for the creak of leather saddles and harness, and the muted sounds of pony hooves stepping in the snow, and an occasional muffled snuffle from one, or perhaps four, of the riders.
2
Retreat to Rooks’ Roost
The bright light of the mounting Sun fell aslant across the white, glistening snow, and from the glitter, tiny evanescent shards of sparkling color winged to the eye, as if reflected from diminutive fragments of shattered jewels nestled among the fallen flakes. The cold crystalline air was calm, and in all the wide Dinglewood nothing seemed to be astir except for a jostling flock of noisy ravens squabbling over a meager breakfast up among the barren trees on Hawthorn Hill, while down below wending slowly along the North Trace were five Warrows astride five ponies, leading two more of the animals laden with gear.
Patrel, riding in the lead, turned and looked over his shoulder at the glum faces of the four young buccen behind. For the past six miles no one had said even a single word; and for a group of Warrows to remain silent for two solid hours, well, that’s no mean feat. Deciding that this dolorous mood had lasted overlong, Patrel fetched his lute from across his back and shucked his mittens and plucked a few strings, strummed a chord or so, and tweaked a tuning key or two this way and that.
“Hey,” said Tarpy, his utterance breaking the muteness to fall upon startled ears, “give us a happy tune; we need it.” And Tarpy clucked his pony forward till he rode beside Patrel. At Patrel’s nod, Tarpy called to the others: “Hoy, you grumlings, clap your heels to those ponies and gather ’round.”
Tuck, riding last and leading the pack ponies, was jerked out of his gloomy thoughts by Tarpy’s call. Clicking his tongue, he urged the grey forward. “Come on, Danner,” he said as he drew even with the young buccan, “let’s go.”
“What for?” asked Danner, mumpishly. “He’s just going to twang that stringed gourd of his, and I don’t feel at all like a song.”
“Perhaps that’s just exactly what we do need,” answered Tuck. “Even if it’s just a song, still we’ll cheer up a bit, I’ll wager; and right now I could do with a bit of cheering up, and so could you—so could we all.”
“Oh, all right,” grumped Danner, agreeing more to keep Tuck quiet than for any other reason, and he kicked up his pony. In moments, Tuck, Danner, Hob, and Tarpy were all riding grouped around Patrel. “All right, lads,” grinned the small Thornwalker, looking aflank, “it’s time you learned what the Thornwalkers are all about.” Patrel plucked a chord or two, checking a last time the tune of the lute, and then his fingers began dancing over the strings as he sang a lively, simple, Warrowish tune:
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we;
We walk around the miles of bounds
To keep the Bosky free
Of Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs
And other enemy
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we;
We’ve trod the Thorns from night to morn
Through Bosky history.
Our ears can hear, and never fear,
For keenly do we see;
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
Patrel began the third verse, and this time Tarpy and Hob joined in, thinly singing the refrain: We are Thornwalkers, Thornwalkers are we.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we;
The Seven Dells, well I can tell,
All of them we do see,
To north and east and south and west,
Wherever they may be;
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
“Come on, you sickly sparrows,” urged Patrel, pausing, “you can chirp louder than that.” And with a wide smile, he struck up the tune again and sang another verse; this time four other voices picked up the lilt of the rustic song, and even though they sang tum-tiddle-tum in the places where they could not guess the words, still their timber strengthened:
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we;
We walk along the Spindlethorn
Wherever it may be,
Through fens and fields and woods and hills
’Long rivers bound for sea;
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
~
On the last verse, all the Warrows were grinning broadly and singing lustily, and to Tuck’s surprise, Danner’s voice was the heartiest of all:
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we;
And finer scads of sturdy lads
No one will ever see;
We guard and ward and work so hard
To keep the Bosky free;
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we—Yo ho!
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we—Hey!
And with this last Hey! Patrel planged his lute with a loud discordant twang! and all the Warrows broke into guffawing laughs, and the somber mood was gone.
“So that’s what we Thornwalkers do, hey?” asked Hob, merrily. “Guarding and warding. It sounds as if we’ll be busy.”
“Oh no,” grumped Danner, “not if we’re stuck at Spindle Ford. I expect it means we’ll spend a lot of time sitting around waiting for something to happen, but it never will.”
“Well that suits me just fine,” chimed up Tarpy. “I’d rather sit around a warm campfire, sharing a pipe or song or tale, than to be out in the cold looking for Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs.”
“And other enemy,” added Tuck, “don’t forget the other enemy the song spoke of: Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs and other enemy.” Tuck turned to Patrel, “What does the song mean: other enemy? Where did the song come from in the first place? I’ve never heard it before, and I think I’d better write it
down in my new diary—my cousin Willy will really like it. Besides, a song that good deserves to be spread about, and, well, it seems to me as if we should have heard it before.”
“Oh . . . ahem . . . well,” stammered Patrel, somewhat flustered and flushed, fumbling in embarrassment as he refastened the strap to sling the lute across his back once more. “I’m pleased you liked it. And you haven’t heard it before because it’s new. I mean, well, I made it up myself as I rode down to collect you four.”
“Made it up yourself?” burst out Tarpy. “I say! I thought only minstrels and harpers did that sort of thing. You aren’t a minstrel now, are you?”
“My Aunt Oot used to make up songs now and again,” interrupted Hob, “mostly in the kitchen. Songs about food and cooking. Rather pleasant. Nothing jolly like yours, though.”
“Tell us about the words, Patrel,” said Tuck. “I mean, tell us how you came up with your song.”
“There’s not that much to say,” answered Patrel. “You all know that the Thornwalkers help to protect the Bosky; a big responsibility that is, too, for it’s a wide Land: Seven Dells: North, South, East, West, Center, Up, and Down. Ringed ’round by the Great Spindlethorn Barrier. Bounded by two rivers, the Wenden and Spindle, and by the Northwood and the Updunes.”
“What is this,” grumbled Danner, “a geography lesson?”
“No,” said Patrel, laughing. “Well, perhaps a touch of both geography and history.”
“Come on, Danner, let Patrel speak,” said Tarpy, his Warrowish nature astir to listen to things he already knew. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to learn where harpers get their tunes.”
“Arrgh!” growled Danner, but he fell silent.
“But, Tarpy, I don’t know where harpers get their tunes,” protested Patrel. “I only know where mine come from. It’s very simple: the mission of the Thornwalkers is to patrol the Dells and the Spindlethorn Barrier: to guard against unsavory Beyonders coming into the Bosky for ill purposes; and to repel Wolves, or great wild dogs.”
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 3
