Helga- Out of Hedgelands Read online

  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 the long-ago 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 se
nt 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.”