Kids on Fire: A Free Excerpt From Fantasy YA Novel Helga: Out of Hedgelands

We’re happy to share this post from our sister site, Kids Corner @ Kindle Nation Daily, where you can find all things Kindle for kids and teens, every day!

Last week we announced that Rick Johnson’s Helga: Out of Hedgelands (Wood Cow Chronicles) is our Kids Corner Book of the Week and the sponsor of our student reviews and of thousands of great bargains in the Kids Book category:

• YA & Kids – FREE!
• YA & Kids – Quality 99 -Centers
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Now we’re back to offer a free Kids Corner excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded this one already, you’re in for a treat!

 

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And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Book One

Shaken and Scattered

 

In the End, the Beginning

 

 

The Drownlands wharf, shrouded in one of its legendary fogs, swirled with activity in the first pale light of dawn. Fish oil lanterns cast a faint, but serviceable, glow through the fog. Swarms of boats and canoes rocked and swayed on mooring ropes along the docks. Odors of musty canvas and damp wood mingled with pungent smells of fish, crayfish, and frogs being unloaded from fishing boats. Traders haggled with peddlers or bet their luck against cardsharps. Coins rattled in the tin cups of vendors hawking frog-fritters and hot Stinger Cider.

On the landside of the wharf, galley beasts in the station house scurried about making breakfast for dockworkers and wayfarers. The aroma of frying catfish, simmering beans and baking cornbread attracted sweaty dock laborers, whooping and hollering as they collapsed into chairs around tables to take a break. A crude Otter ferry pilot, little used to niceties and finery, lifted his bowl and dribbled the last of his corn mush into his mouth, licking the bowl out with a loud slurping. Wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, the Otter looked wildly about for a galley beast to bring him more food. Banging his bowl on the table, he roared, “Yawp! Yo, Hollos! Where’s ma fish on’a plank? Where’s ma muff and crusts? Raise me some Tabasco and galley cheer! Ha! The bell will be tollin’ for me afore I’m full, at this rate. Yo, Hollos! Jump it over here!”

The rowdy Otter, howling and hollering to be served, flicked out a sharp skinning knife and sent it flying across the room. THWANNG! The blade buried itself in the timber just above the galley door. “Yawp! Yo, Hollos! That’ll be a kindly request for ma galley cheer! Ho! Ho! Ho!” Galley beasts dashed under the quivering blade, rattling plates and bowls as they scrambled to bring him his breakfast.

But the Drownlands wharf—the frontier gateway between the rough Drownlands wilderness and the tidy settlements of the Rounds—was a place of mixing and transitions of many kinds. Not all were rubes and roughnecks. At a quiet table in the corner of the room, a party of travelers calmly finished breakfast and left to catch the running-wagon that was about to leave the station.

Just outside, Livery Rats scrambled to prepare the Drownlands Weekly for departure. Travelers loaded quickly as burly Dock Squirrels tossed bags and trunks into the rooftop luggage rack. As soon as the baggage was loaded, the Weekly rolled away from the station with creaking timbers and rattling brass, its freshly serviced wheels smelling strongly of snake grease.

Bouncing along the bare track leading away from the Drownlands station, the Weekly rumbled through the sparsely settled frontier of the Rounds. Except for the Weekly and a few cargo wagons, the bone-jarring road was little used. A river of mud when it rained and a dust-choked washboard of ruts in the dry season, the many stones in the Cutoff road gave its only predictable surface.

Three of the passengers in the Weekly on this particular spring day were creatures we will hear much about in this account of former days. There was a strongly muscled young Wood Cow with soft, thick hair and a lively face. Dressed after the manner of her clan—long barkweave jacket and leggings, lizardskin boots, forest green linen shirt—Helga dozed fitfully, her head lolling against the jostling headboard. Although exhausted by her long journey, a smile played across her face. The sound of the rumbling wagon assured her that she was, indeed, at long last coming home.

Helga’s father, called Breister, bounced and swayed beside her. He had strong proportions, but was somewhat short for a Wood Cow, being barely taller than his daughter. His broad-brimmed hat, tilted forward, hid his face somewhat. The bushy beard and long tangled hair flowing over his shoulders somehow seemed to amplify the keen, proud look in his eyes. Peering out from under his hat brim, he watched the countryside passing outside the window.

Leaning against Breister sat a powerfully built female Wood Cow. Fine lines and strong features gave her face a handsome look and ample hair spilled out from under her hat. Her eyes were astonishingly black, like polished obsidian, but with red flecks seeming to sparkle within them. A spirit of pugnacious determination seemed to be written everywhere in her manner, even as a kindly smile betrayed the softness of her heart. This was Helbara, Helga’s mother.

As the running-wagon proceeded, little by little Breister noticed more and more creatures gathering, lining the road on both sides. Farmers, laborers, shopkeepers, peddlers and traders, old and young—Roundies of every size and age crowded the roadways, surging around the running-wagon, shouting their welcome to Helga.

“He-ho, Helga! Mampta-He-O! Jurrah!”

On every side, there were cheers and shouts of greeting. Breister had expected a warm welcome back to the Rounds for Helga, but nothing like this.

“What’s going on?” Helga asked, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“Look!” Helbara pointed. “In the name of the Ancients, see what is happening.”

The running-wagon gradually came to a stop amidst the immense crowd surging around it, blocking the road. Dismounting, Helga climbed to the top of the luggage rack where she could see her friends more fully. Taking off her wide-brimmed hat, she waved it high over her head in greeting. As her eyes scanned across the welcoming crowd, she caught sight of old friends and memories flashed through her mind…

There was Mianney Mayoyo; her two pet lizards perched on her shoulder. A tough and wild-eyed River Cat, Mianney lived alone in a shack perched high on poles in the Deep Springs River. Thought to be half-savage, with strange-smelling smokes always drifting from her cabin, some avoided Mianney. But despite her fierce appearance and hermit-like ways, many called her a healer. To Helga she was a savior. Ten years before, Mianney had wakened in the middle of the night to the loud shouts of two Trapper Dogs. They had found five-year-old Helga, sobbing and lost, thrashing through the shallows near Mianney’s shack.

Standing behind Mianney was Picaroo “Pickles” DiArdo—one of the Trapper Dogs that had pulled Helga from the river that night ten years before. It was almost surprising for Helga to see him standing in the crowd. Pickles nearly lived in the long birch bark canoe with the high vaulted prow that he and his partner, Lupes Lupinio, used for travel in the backwoods, checking their snake traps. Helga well remembered the smell of the cool, damp canoe bottom where she sat among the musty-sweet bales of snakeskins. She remembered Pickles’ long brown arms, scarred from poisonous snakebites he had survived, paddling the canoe with a gentle rocking of his shoulders. He still wore the loosely tied kerchief around his neck, and was even more a bushy mass of whiskers than Helga had remembered.

“Ra-Zoo, Helga! Huncha to mi round!” The shout was from Neppy Perquat, her old friend from school days. Helga smiled as she recalled staying with Neppy and his family when she first arrived in the Rounds. Such kindness they had shown: the flatcakes for breakfast…the Old Bunge accent in the family’s speech, so unusual in the Rounds…the bright red carpet bag Neppy’s mother gave Helga to carry her things in when she left the Perquat’s to move in with the Abblegurt’s who adopted her.

Even Miss Edna Note, Helga’s old flute teacher, who had never been satisfied with Helga’s playing on the pronghorn flute, was among those welcoming Helga home. Pausing at the edge of the crowd, the graying Badger waited as if uncertain whether Helga would notice her. Helga, however, immediately recognized the figure in the familiar brightly flowered calico dress and matching bonnet. Wrinkled and thin, but still vigorous, Miss Note waved softly at Helga as their eyes met.

Helga smiled as she returned her old teacher’s uncertain gaze. Under that gaze, however, Helga’s eyes filled with tears, altering her sight. Through her blurred vision she seemed to see Miss Note playing her flute far away…long ago…

 

~ ~ ~

 

Tangled snags of fallen trees and piles of debris littered the riverbank. Floating along, exhausted, half-submerged, Helbara grabbed a protruding branch to rest a moment. Remaining low in the water with her small daughter, Helga, clinging to her back, she pulled herself in among the dense reeds and willows surrounding the fallen tree. Except for the soft gurgling of the Deep Springs River—its water colored bronze in the light of the orange moon overhead—the warm night was ominously quiet. Struggling to control the harsh rasping of her ragged breathing, Helbara knew she could not rest long.  “Help us, Ancient Ones,” she breathed, as the glint of moonlight caught on more and more points of polished metal rounding the riverbend not more than a hundred yards away. Her mind worked in frantic desperation as she watched what almost seemed to be clouds of ghostly fireflies approaching from up the river.

She hardly had time to think, however, before Helga’s grip on her neck tightened. Their pursuers were drawing near. “Snake-bloods, Mama! Now what?” her five-year-old daughter whispered urgently.

“Shee’wheet, Helga, Shee’wheet,” Helbara whispered. “Yes, I see them. The Wrackshees will soon be here. Be still. Ever so quiet.”

Six heavily-armed Wrackshees, kneeling in individual kayaks made of tightly-woven reeds, paddled silently toward them. The once-faint outlines of the Wrackshee slave hunters steadily grew more distinct as they approached. Their beeline course on the wide river seemed to be zeroing in on Helbara’s hiding place. She realized she could not risk further movement above water—the Wrackshees were now too close.

Shaking the reeds as little as possible, she pulled herself and Helga further back among the reeds until only small cracks were left to peer through. Sensing Helga’s rising terror, Helbara softly whispered an old lullaby to her daughter, trying to calm her: “Shee’wheet, Sweet-Leaf, Shee’wheet…Shee’wheet, Sweet-Leaf, Shee’wheet…”

Her own heart banging in her chest, Helbara watched the Wrackshee kayaks approaching relentlessly. Moonlight clearly revealed the albino Wolf in the lead kayak—small in stature, abnormally flattened face, thick-necked, with a large moustache. She shuddered. Six kayaks. One Wolf and five Weasels. Somewhere behind them, many more. If she and Helga were discovered, what resistance could they offer?

Suddenly the kayaks slowed, pausing about twenty yards away—close enough that the Wrackshees’ awful stench covered the area with a suffocating blanket. Using only hand signals to communicate, the slavers silently peered here and there for any sign of their prey. The razor-sharp tips of dozens of small throwing lances, carried on bandoliers slung over the Wrackshees’ shoulders, shone red in the moonlight. Helbara knew that terrible things happened to beasts hit by those poisoned tips—going mad with thirst, eyes bugging, bleeding the color of grass. Each time the gaze of a Wrackshee seemed to fix on the spot where they were concealed, Helbara trembled on the edge of panicked flight. To do so, however, would mean certain capture or death. They were trapped. With every ounce of inner strength, Helbara held her panic in check.

“Shee’wheet, Helga, Shee’wheet…We must be very still.  Do not say anything unless I ask you to.”  As she uttered these words, she attempted to shift Helga’s weight on her back and slipped on the loose sand. Her boot seemed to suddenly drop into a hole. Catching herself before she made a complete fall, she feared the Weasels might have observed her misstep.  For the moment, however, their pursuers seemed to be absorbed in their sign language consultation.

Moving her boot gently, Helbara explored the apparent hole where she had stumbled. The opening was large—the submerged end of a long-decaying fallen tree. In the moonlight, Helbara’s eyes struggled to see evidence of the rest of the tree. The dense reeds and willows made it difficult to be certain, but the position of the hollow end she had discovered seemed connected to a massive upended root clump visible further down the bank. How much of the tree was hollow?

“Sweet-Leaf,” Helbara whispered very softly, “I need you to explore something for me. Slide quietly off my back, take a deep breath, and duck underwater—see if you can tell if this tree beside us is hollow.” The request immediately dampened Helga’s fear. Action was an antidote to terror. As quietly as the reeds waved in the soft evening breeze, she disappeared below the surface.

In a few moments she was back. “Not hollow very far,” she whispered, “but there’s a big opening at first. Then the hollow part ends, but there’s a hole in the bark at the end that’s above water. It’s small but a beast could breathe there.” Pausing and looking deeply into her mother’s eyes, she concluded with a tone of sorrow, “But only room for a small beast.”

As she listened to her daughter’s report, a plan rapidly formed in Helbara’s mind. It was none too soon. The albino Wrackshee made a quick sign with his paw. The gesture was at the same time purposeful and sinister. The Weasels were no longer waiting. Two of the kayaks turned and glided directly toward the Wood Cows’ hiding place.  Pressing her daughter close to her chest in a comforting embrace, Helbara calmly gave Helga instructions.

“The hollow space in the tree is large enough,” she said, “to conceal you well for some time. The Wrackshees will not likely think to look there for you. They may not even know you escaped with me. I want you to quietly—just as quietly as you did before—duck under again and hide in the hollow space in the tree. Be absolutely quiet no matter what happens.”

Helga immediately understood she was being asked to play a serious game of Hide-n-Seek with their pursuers. Long moments seemed to drag by. Helga knew there had been no mention of what her mother planned to do.

Then Helbara urged Helga underwater and whispered, “Sweet-Leaf, Mamma’s going to talk to those Snake-bloods to make certain they don’t harm you. I won’t be long. You wait in that hollow place and stay as quiet as you can.”  She gave Helga a squeeze and handed her a pronghorn flute she had always played for her back in their home. “Take this, Sweet-Leaf, it is my promise that I will be back soon.”

Helga’s eyes met her mother’s in a deeply moving, but silent, farewell as she slipped the flute in her pocket. “Don’t worry, Mama. I will do as you say,” the look said to her mother as surely as if it were spoken.

Then Helbara stood up. “Sweet-Leaf,” she whispered after Helga silently ducked under the surface, “no matter what, wait in that hollow place. I will be back to you soon.” Whether Helbara actually believed this or not—six heavily-armed Weasels awaited her—whatever “talk” Helga’s Mamma had in mind would not be pleasant conversation…

Suddenly, the replay of her experiences from ten years earlier shifted. The silhouette of a large canoe now filled her misted vision, looming before the same young Helga, who was now sloshing miserably through the river shallows during the deepest dark of the night.

A beast crouched low in the canoe grabbed her with long, brawny arms. Captured in the strong grasp of this unknown powerful stranger, Helga’s sense of panic surged. In a desperate effort to escape, she was almost ready to bite the beast that held her, when the whisper of a gruff voice stopped her struggles.

“Hey-hey, ya lee’tle Bungeet! Stop da chop sputter, or those Wracker’mugs will b’a back at ya ’gin frighter t’en ever. Shee’wheet…Shee’wheet…Shee’wheet…”

The softly whispered “Shee’wheet” calmed Helga. The gentle, soothing tones, so reminiscent of her mother, marked this rough stranger with a kindly manner that made her feel safe. Settling the small Wood Cow in the bottom of the canoe, her rescuer—Pickles DiArdo as she later learned—continued his soft soothing lullaby and patted her gently on the back in assurance of safety, as his partner began paddling again.

“This’n Bungeet has had some stinkin’ Wracker’mugs b’itin at her,” Pickles said to the other Trapper Dog paddling in the prow. “Go for Mianney’s, Lupes—the Healer will s’nd her pain t’way.”

The canoe traveled about another two hundred yards and turned into a small, nearly invisible side channel flowing into the main river course from among the willows. Paddling with gentle determination against the current, the canoe glided toward a rough shack perched high above the water on stout poles. Giving one final hard push with their paddles, the Trapper Dogs bent low as the canoe glided under a dense thicket of wild thorn trees growing around the shack. The thorns, tough as steel and with points so sharp and fine they made marvelous sewing needles, ringed the cabin like sentries. No one would attempt to approach the shack through such ferocious thorns except those invited to come and shown the way to pass.

The thorns did not deter Pickles and Lupes, who often visited Mianney Mayoyo. Tying their canoe to one of the thorn trees, Lupes unrolled a bark mat and threw it up over the lowest branch of the tree. Using the mat for safe passage over the outermost thorns, the three travelers reached the interior of the tree where they were able to drop to the ground. Branches on the rear of this particular tree had been trimmed away to allow exit to the shack.

They had hardly reached Mianney’s shack and called out to her when she was instantly with them. The old River Cat, who was rumored to be ancient—some said she had always lived—had long, jet black hair that was smooth and shining from the walnut oil she rubbed into it each day. Dangling far down in front of her was an ornate necklace of beads, and on each wrist she had broad woven bracelets, decorated with copper sunbursts.

Mianney carried a small basket. Without any word of greeting to her visitors, she pulled a bundle of dried herbs and two green-colored balls of thorn tree pitch from the basket. Arranging the herbs and pitch balls in a ceremonious pile before them, with seeming magic she produced a glowing coal from her jacket pocket and lit the pile. A sudden burst of flame, and the herbs and pitch balls sent up a sharp pillar of fire.

As the small fire flamed, Mianney’s deep brown eyes darted here and there gleefully. Her bubbling wild intensity frightened some superstitious people, who said she was a demon in disguise. Mianney did seem to do things that were supernatural. The flames that burned so furiously for a few moments, suddenly died down, leaving a dense pungent cloud of smoke. Still without speaking, with lightning quickness Mianney lifted Helga to her arms and ascended the ladder to her shack. In the blink of an eye she and Helga were gone. A whisp of pungent smoke, swirling where Mianney had stood, was all that assured Pickles and Lupes that she had actually been with them a moment before…

As Mianney held Helga close through that long-ago night, flute music, rising and falling from a more distant cabin, was a safe and soothing sound in the dark.

That flute music—so comforting, such a balm on her terror—was, for Helga, a symbol of her deliverance. The peaceful imprint of the flute melody wafting to her during the darkest part of the night struck Helga in the heart as powerfully as the shafts of yellow sunlight that illumined Mianney Mayoyo’s shack the next morning. It was as if her mother’s promise to return soon had been fulfilled.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Now, as these memories faded, the sight of Miss Note, graying and bent, sent shivers down Helga’s spine. A powerful instinct of the heart urged Helga to push through the crowd with anxious haste, hurrying to see Miss Note. The stooped old Badger, her face still hearty and strong, greeted her former student gleefully.

“Helga, Helga, Helga…Look at you,” Edna smiled, her eyes tearing with joy, clasping Helga in a tight embrace. “Even my eyes that are not what they used to be can see that you are changed. You are no longer the wild rapscallion that aged me beyond my years.” The elderly music teacher laughed, continuing to hold Helga by the shoulders, gazing intently at her as if seeing something in Helga that eyes were not needed to see.

“Miss Note, I’m truly sorry…” Helga began. “I never meant to…”

“…Never meant to put mice in my longhornphone…or to smear my flute with snake grease…or to call me ‘Old Lady Sqawkbeak’?” Edna smiled. “You know, of course, that now I laugh about all those old torments. I understand that you play the pronghorn flute rather well these days. I never dreamed my humble teaching could have such a result…I’m so happy you have returned while I can still greet you.” She eagerly felt the shape of the pronghorn flute hanging from a cord around Helga’s neck. “The mouthpiece of the flute is worn-thin. You have played it much,” Edna commented, gazing with even deeper intensity at Helga as she released her shoulders.

“Miss Note, the pronghorn flute saved my life.  I would not be here today if I had not been able to play that flute, even as poorly as I do.”

“Yes, Helga, I have heard something about your adventures—we all have. Travelers have brought us news of you. Everyone is so excited. Sareth and Elbin are waiting for you over by the Perquat’s wagon, and there are lots of other folk over at the Commons. I couldn’t wait to see you, so Neppy helped me get through the crowd. We have heard some amazing stories…can it all be true? There must be time for you to tell us everything.”

Helga stepped back and looked at Miss Note fondly. “It seems strange, as I think about it, Miss Note,” she began. “I’ve seen unbelievable things and been terrified for my life. I can hardly believe what has happened to me. But, as strange as it seems, my greatest adventures were within myself.”

Helga paused, looking embarrassed. “I was going through some confusing times when I used to torment you. Somehow, although everyone was kind, I didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. I felt so strange.”

“You’ve changed much since I last saw you, Helga. I can see that,” Edna said with a look full of understanding. “I guess I have to let you become something other than the little rapscallion you were, eh?” she smiled. “I’ll be very happy to let you out of that old box,” she laughed.

Helga paused, looking off into the distance as if again seeing something there. “My story is not my own, Miss Note,” she said. “In my mind I see so many friends who are not here and able to tell the part they had in my adventures. My story is actually many stories. As I tell it, it may sound like one story, but it is really many stories that cross each other. Creatures that I will never know have had a hand in my story and I in theirs. So, you see, Miss Note, you will have to forgive me as I tell my story…I don’t know it all myself.”

The elderly Badger smiled. She bent down and picked up a tuft of grass and some dirt. Giving some to Helga, she put some in her own pocket also. The rest she tossed up in the wind. “That’s the way our stories are, Helga—many people have a piece of it, and the story carries on in directions we never know.”

 

Bad Storm Breakin’

 

“Bad storm breakin’,” Emil thought, as dark purple clouds swept down off the mountains and spatters of rain began to fall. The storm came up so quickly that Emil had not even noticed the piles of clouds gathering in the distance. Now the flying clouds were overhead and thunder rumbled. CRAAACK! A fork of lightning flashed, striking a towering tree along the path just ahead of Emil. Splitting down the trunk, the largest part of the tree fell across the path, forcing him to climb clumsily through the wreckage as the branches lashed about in the wind.

“Crutt!” Emil grunted into the rising wind, “Worse than bad, this storm’s goin’ to tear things up before it’s done!” Holding his hat tightly on his head, he leaned forward against the powerful gusts tearing at his coat and kicking up dust all around. Aware that he was caught in the open, with no hope of immediate relief, Emil battled a sense of dismal foreboding.

“Yar!” Emil muttered after a few moments of self-pity. “Whether bad or not, you only find it in the end—so I better just keep going! Struggling to pick up his pace, he knew the worst was yet to come. Everything beyond the line of low-hanging clouds was disappearing behind sheets of rain. The wildly swaying trees slipped away into the advancing downpour like the last frantic waves of a drowning beast. Grimly determined, Emil pushed forward undaunted, but when the full force of the storm hit, he was completely unprepared for the blinding chaos that engulfed him.

A howling north wind sent blinding sheets of rain whirling around him like a curtain. Briefly considering the possibility of seeking shelter, he decided against it. “No, there’s no good stopping place. Nothing to do but keep moving, I’ll not be ruined by water and it will soon pass.” Splashing forward through the deepening puddles on the road, Emil pulled at his hat brim trying to keep the rain from his eyes. The wild, swirling downpour made it nearly impossible to find his way. His shoulders bobbed up and down as he trudged on along the road, moving more by the feel of the path beneath his feet than by sight. Ear-splitting thunder and searing bolts of lightning would have sent most beasts flying under any available cover, but Emil did not fear or falter.

With a pocket full of coins earned from delivering his family’s goods to market, he could not dally. “If there’s to be pike and biscuits on the table tonight, I’ve got to stop at the grocer’s on the way home—there’s been enough of potatoes and greens this week!” Beyond the desire to leave off the hated greens, he’d also promised his sister he would buy some of their father’s favorite peppermints for his birthday. “Got to keep going—dawdling in pity won’t keep me any drier.”

In spite of this resolve, however, Emil had to struggle mightily as he pushed on through the desolate, rain-swept landscape. He still had a long way to go. The journey to the Z-House was a long day’s trip even under the best conditions. The Wood Cow settlement at O’Fallon’s Bluff was far removed from the other Hedgie villages. No respectable Hedgie wanted to live near the despicable outcasts.

Although practically every Hedgie owned a finely-made oaken chest, ash-handled tool, willow bow, pine bed, or other Wood Cow-made item, Hedgies would not trade directly with the Wood Cows. “Keep the Wood Cows off a bit, but their products near” was the Hedgie view of things. That meant a long journey to the Z-House for the Wood Cows, where a Z-Tax collector distributed the goods they made. Wood Cow tools and furniture sold well. Sometimes Emil and other young Wood Cows took several wagonloads a week to the Z-House. Yet, because of the fearsome taxes on everything they sold, Wood Cows sold much, but earned little.

On this particular day, which so changed Emil’s life, he had made an extra trip to the Z-House to deliver a stave made especially for one of the High One’s officers. The few extra coins from the special sale meant the difference between pike and greens for dinner, and would put sweet peppermints in his Papa’s mouth. The trip had been worth it.

But now he was caught on a lonely stretch of road far from home, in the worst storm he had ever seen. Worse, the road to O’Fallon’s Bluff was a no-beast’s-land. For a long way, there was no hope of a friendly face or a warm hearth and his situation was getting worse. When he reached Overmutt Hollow, the road was completely flooded and he was forced to find a detour. It was going to be a long and difficult journey home.

As he headed off the road to circle around the flooding, he tried to remember the times he and his sister had picked blueberries in the Hollow. “Somewhere there’s a turn,” he thought, squinting his eyes against the blinding rain. “Where is that old path—there’s a place where you slip down a slope and you’re at Overmutt Bridge. It seems to me there was a big cracked boulder that marked the way.” Emil looked here and there as he struggled along, hoping at each step he’d find the landmark showing where to return to the main road. He barely remembered the route of the unfamiliar track, but somewhere he knew there was a turn. Slogging on through the fierce storm, the miserable young Wood Cow wandered along, hoping to see something familiar.

Blundering along in the driving rain, however, Emil passed by the anticipated landmark and wandered further and further into unfamiliar territory. Soon he was seriously lost. As the afternoon dragged on with no change in his situation, he decided to seek help. The Hedgelands air always carried a mountain chill and the rain felt like an icy bath. Soaked to the bone, the young Wood Cow clenched his jaws against the growing urge to tremble with cold.

He was angry with himself: “Crutt! How stupid I have been. Running here and there like a leaf blown by the wind! Bah—well, I am completely lost, that much is clear. My first task must be to find out where I am. After that, it likely will be a long backtrack to get on course again.” Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve against the urge to shiver and indulge in self-pity, Emil peered through the rain for any sign of habitation. “Surely there must be somewhere to ask directions!” he thought.

With renewed resolve, the beleaguered young beast slogged forward with a sense of increasing urgency. He could no longer afford to wander aimlessly through unknown country, hoping to find his way. With night soon to fall, shelter was essential. He no longer hoped to make it home before dark. The dream of a dinner of pike and biscuits was now a distant, forgotten hope. With dismal prospects before him, it would be extremely dangerous to stay outdoors much longer.

Holding his pack over his head to shield his face from the driving rain, Emil marched on for perhaps an hour. Then, above the endlessly drumming rain, something new caught his attention. First, there was a sound of lively music, mingled with loud laughter and cursing, and then a building gradually emerged from the rain.

His wandering had at last cut across a main road. A wide path opened just a bit ahead of him. Although the pathway was soundly made with stone, as Emil approached it he had to cross a sea of mud. Hurrying toward the first sign of shelter he had seen, he flailed and floundered through knee-deep muck. He stumbled several times, plunging into the deep mud at the side of the stone path. Rolling in the mud as he struggled to get on his feet again, the laughter he heard coming from the building annoyed him. “Yar! You’d think they’d take pity on such a miserable beast as myself—laughin’ and carryin’ on in the dry and warm. Ah well, they don’t know a raving mud-beast is heading for their door!”

Pulling himself onto the solid stone pathway, Emil ran quickly to the door of what was plainly a roadside inn: The Three Jolly Climbers.

Reaching the door of the inn, Emil halted. Over the door was painted:

On the Way to Maev Astuté a Last Good Meal, Good Beasts,

 and Tea, With Kind Merriment by Horse Doobutt.

 

“Warn me mother!” Emil thought. “I’ve blundered onto the Climber’s Way.” No Wood Cow ever ventured near the Climber’s Way. Every young Wood Cow knew that. The Climber’s Way was the road leading to the place where the ascent to Maev Astuté began. Most Hedgies completed the climb to Maev Astuté as an act of honor and duty to their homeland. But not the Wood Cows. They found everything about Maev Astuté disgusting and had long ago refused the climb on principle. No Wood Cow would choose to walk the Climber’s Way.

Nevertheless, here he was stumbling along half-drowned, ready to take any possible refuge. Streaming with muddy water and trembling with cold, Emil opened the door and went inside. The stormy night seemed to push him through the door with a particularly fierce gust of wind and rain.

Once inside, he became instantly alert. He did not like what he saw. The entrance door opened into a large public room filled with beasts of every description. Although cheery candles burned here and there on wall sconces and a warm fire blazed in the hearth, there was a distinct coolness in the air. The remains of a large meal rested on platters piled high on a counter. Around the room beasts lounged back in chairs—they had been talking, playing cards, and generally enjoying themselves. That is, until Emil entered the room. In an instant the jovial talk stopped, all eyes now fixed on him. Conversations frozen in mid-sentence, there was absolute silence, no beast even twitching.

The stares trained in his direction were not inviting. Three or four Digger Hogs sat drinking Mud Slops and peeling boiled turtle eggs—tossing the shells on the floor as they ate. They were tattooed, filthy, steel-skinned beasts, with rippling muscles and angry eyes; wearing the iron and canvas overalls of the digging trade. One of the Digger Hogs half-rose from his chair; a clear warning to Emil to come no closer. Emil stopped. Even a strongly built Wood Cow—who was afraid of nothing—would not fight just to be fighting.

“It’s a Zanuck, don’t you know!” the innkeeper called out as Emil entered through the door.  A tall Horse, wearing a clean linen cap, the innkeeper was strongly muscular, with arms bulging beneath the tight-fitting sleeves of his shirt as he balanced a heavy serving tray loaded with mugs and plates. A pencil-thin mustache and small pointed beard under the chin added to his look of unfriendly welcome.

“Come in, traveler,” the innkeeper continued. “There’s still room for another guest,” he smirked, looking knowingly about the room. “Here’s a guest for us, friends! A Zanuck who, like all of them, does not know enough to come in out the rain—Har! Har! Har!” A chorus of mocking welcomes greeted Emil. “He-Ho, Zanuck, I knew you had mud for brains, but I didn’t know you wore it too! Har! Har”

“I’ll shake the water from my clothes and continue on, if you cannot be civil beasts,” Emil replied, shaking the water roughly off his coat in all directions. Seeing the innkeeper’s angry look as the water flew everywhere, and that a burly Woodchuck was fingering a knife stuck in his belt, Emil continued with a warning: “and don’t trouble me if you’re smart; I carry a fully-loaded temper which could go off easily—it’s done so before now—and that could make it dangerous for a foolish beast who thinks I’m only a young Wood Cow. I warn you not to lay hands on me.”

“Do you threaten me in my own inn?” the Horse shouted angrily.

“I don’t believe in threats!” Emil retorted. “If I state my intention, it’s a promise—and my intention is merely to ask for a civil innkeeper and a bed for the night. I mean you no harm and will fight only for my own safety. Beyond that, I impose on you only to the extent of paying for a bed. Now, if you please, do you have a room?”

“Why, sure, I’ve got a room,” the innkeeper smiled slyly. “What with the storm, we’re pretty full tonight, but for a fine young Zanuck, why we have plenty of room. Har! Har! Har!”

The innkeeper walked over to a door with a pompous strut that made all the beasts in the room—except Emil—laugh heartily. Bowing low, he swung open the door, inviting Emil to go through. “Just drop your two best pieces of silver on the table as you pass, my friend—you can keep the coppers!”

“And now, my dear mud-brain,” the innkeeper proclaimed in mock respect, “let me conduct you to the luxurious room reserved especially for Zanucks.”

Feeling certain that he would be given the most miserable space in the house, Emil nevertheless followed, too wet and cold to care where he slept. Carrying a sputtering candle, the innkeeper conducted him along a long, dark passageway. Opening a second door, the roaring storm blew in rain once again. Sniggering, the innkeeper pointed to a dilapidated barn, barely discernable through the driving rain.

“There you go Zanuck,” a nice room for you. “And you’ll find some company there—a Poolytuck is already settled down there for the night. Now get yourself out of my inn, the rain is soakin’ my boots and floodin’ the hallway! The barn will be fine place for a mud-brained idiot like yourself!”

Saying nothing, Emil waded hurriedly across the flooded, muddy ground to the barn. Pushing the door open softly he peered into the gloomy, musty-smelling building. A constant stream of drips pattered here and there from the badly leaking roof, leaving much of the floor covered in puddles.

“Ya-Chooo! Wheeez-Zooo!” The feeble sneeze revealed the location of a Moose reclining on a rough bed of burlap bags laid across some planks resting on a couple of barrels. The crude bed was set up in a corner of the barn where the roof did not leak.

Splashing across the wet, muddy floor to the small scrap of dry space, his eyes scanned the motionless body curled tightly under a scant covering of bags. In the dim light, he could make out the poor beast’s body shivering with cold, as his breath wheezed out a nearly continuous stream of faint sneezes.

Bone-weary and hungry, the miserable Wood Cow knew the sorry condition of his roommate had to be his first priority. Having nothing that was truly dry, Emil ripped a few dry boards off the wall of the barn. Using a bit of dry straw he found and the flint he always carried, he soon got a decent small fire going in the tiny dry corner of the barn. The old barn had a fine high roof that allowed the smoke to rise and be sucked out through the several broken windows and spaces left by missing timbers. The fire burned nicely and gradually the small corner of safety became warm.

At first, the Moose did not respond to Emil’s presence. For a long time, Emil crouched by the burning heap of wood, listening to the wailing wind and rain. Little by little, the warmth of the fire raised Emil’s spirits and seemed to steady his companion’s breathing. Finding dry boards here and there in the barn, Emil tore them down and broke them into splintered pieces for burning. Soon he had enough to assure a decent fire through the night. Then he took off his drenched outer clothing and hung it to dry near the fire.

He had just settled down in his underclothes before the fire, trying to warm some food and drink from his pack, when his long-silent companion spoke: “Well, look at me, sleeping like a piece o’ timber—but nothing wrong that a little warmth and a friendly snip of toast won’t cure! Not much wrong with my appetite, but my nose is still a bit out o’ sorts—Ya-chooo!”

Emil chuckled, feeling relief that the Moose was showing signs of improvement. To his delight, the elderly Moose suddenly sat up, grinning at him with a silly, toothless smile. In the light of the fire, the Moose’s slender form cast a slight shadow on the wall, seeming like a blowing cobweb in the flickering light. He was really just a sliver of a beast, Emil thought; the obvious vigor and strength of earlier years now gone. A ragged beard hung from his grizzled, wrinkled face, which was lit by two brightly gleaming, deeply-set eyes. His head was shaved to a stubble.

“Well,” the Moose began, “I’ll be as silly as I was born to be in a few hours. A pint of cupper and a snip of toast would put spine in my spirit. Any chance of that, my wibble?” Before Emil could reply, a violent fit of wheezing overtook the old Moose and he fell back on his bed. “Acht, it’s not more than it was,” he gasped, wheezing for breath. “I’ll need more than a pint of cupper and toast to make the climb.”

“Make the climb?” Emil asked incredulously. “You can’t be a climber—you climb to Maev Astuté? You’re in no shape to be going on that cursed climb! Just you drop your bag of guts and drool right back on that bed and let me warm up some food and drink for us.”

“A Poolytuck’s not got many choices when it comes to the climb, y’know,” the old Moose wheezed as Emil pulled a tin jug from his pack. “I’ve got to climb, die, or live like a dead beast. There’s few places to die in peace for an old Poolytuck with no family to fall back on—might’s as well freeze up solid on the stairs. At least that way’s no one says I’d be a cowardly beast, set only on comfort.”

“Comfort!” Emil grimaced. “Why you’re barely a breath of air and a treadbare sheet of fur. Yar! There’ll be no climbin’ for you, old spot! I won’t allow it. I’d rather freeze on the stairs myself. You’ll be a dead beast before you take ten steps up there on the mountain. Nar, you won’t be climbin’—I’ll see to that.”

Emil said nothing more for a time, although his thoughts whirled with fury. Twisting the wide cap off his water jug, he emptied the stale water out in a puddle on the floor. Then he walked over and held the jug under one of the streams of rain water coming through the roof. The patter of rain filling the jug soothed his nerves. “Yar,” he thought to himself, “that Moose won’t be climbin’ that cursed mountain—not so long as I’ve got breath.”

 

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