Helga: Out of Hedgelands - Rick Johnson (a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT) 📗

as was the custom in the Drownlands. Creatures threw shoes and sandals on to piles of fish, a filthy hat onto a barrel of pear butter, and so on.

Most of the creatures at King Stuppy’s got their meals from him. Bayou bread and steamed crayfish, bog-greens and catfish, fried marsh mushrooms and turnips. The food was reasonably good, Helga thought—but she avoided the Drownlands Grog that was the beverage of choice. She noticed some elderly Cougars sat playing checkers in a back room. As they played, they chewed a mixture of moss and leaves, and then spit it out into a vessel. They did this until a large vat was full of the mixture. This was mixed with water and marsh honey and left to ferment into the popular Drownlands Grog. Ola said that he had heard the blue-green drink tasted quite good, but it was against the Gateless Wolf diet to eat or drink prepared foods, so he had never tasted it.

Then there were the Cougars that were everywhere. Their rotten-smelling breath—even worse than the decaying fish—made the entire trading post reek with their presence. Yet, they were considered the “Royal Court of the King,” for Stuppy considered himself King of his realm. When the Grizzly Bear judges had spared his life years before, Stuppy had taken this as permission to make a Kingdom for himself. And so he had done.

His ‘Royal Court’ was made up of the foulest-looking bunch of Cougars imaginable. Stuppy dressed them in the finest clothes, but these they never washed. Dried food, nose-drippings and other such slop and dirt covered the ruffled collars and fancy, embroidered coats and leggings of the Cougar courtiers. Except when he ‘greeted’ unknown visitors with his cutlass, King Stuppy spent most of his time swinging lazily in his woven-grass hammock. With one eye carefully watching his domain, he ate marsh honey and bayou bread all day long.

Helga thought the odor of the marsh honey was unpleasant, but Ola told her that it had medicinal properties needed by King Stuppy. Marsh honey and bayou bread where the only things that King Stuppy could eat. His nerves had been damaged for life by poison darts Grizzly Bear trackers had shot from their blowguns to capture him. “The marsh honey keeps the King’s hand steady on the cutlass,” Ola remarked.

At first glance, as he lay in his hammock, Helga mused that King Stuppy looked like a very fat and sick old Cougar. “Only a fool would treat him like that, however,” Helga thought, “he would doom you without a moment wasted.”

And everyone who came and went from King Stuppy’s domain knew this basic fact. The honest traders, the dockworkers, the scullery folk, the thieves and bandits. No one challenged Stuppy Marit in the Realm of the King. No one, that is, except a certain cantankerous Wood Cow.

 

No Jokes About Cougars

Burwell Oswego was snoozing hard—or at least trying to—as he jostled along in the running-wagon. Burwell, and several other passengers, rocked side to side with the motion, tired and stiff from the long ride. They would soon reach the last rest station, where Burwell knew most passengers would be getting off. It was rare for passengers to go on to the last stop, the station at the Drownlands Cutoff. Usually only cargo was carried on the last leg of the trip to the Cutoff.

But Burwell and his wife, Bwellina, were going on to the Cutoff. They were Bayou Dogs that had been on holiday, visiting relatives at the Rounds of Deep Springs, as they did every year. Burwell hated the busy trading season in the Drownlands—the folk got so obsessed with money and goods, he would almost break out in a rash to be near it. So, Burwell and Bwellina packed up and left for the Rounds. Now, they were on the way home. “Yep, by time’s we git back to our shanty,” Burwell said happily to Bwellina, “all them money-dazzled fools will be done with their binge, and things will be peaceable again...Yep! Yep! Yep!”

Bwellina, however, gently reminded Burwell that this year, the running-wagon schedule had changed. “Remember, Burwell, we had to come back a day earlier than usual. That means we’ll have to pass through the junction at King Stuppy’s Trading Post on the last day of the season. It will be an absolute frenzy at King Stuppy’s. So take your rash medicine, Burwell.” Bwellina gave her husband’s hand an understanding pat. Burwell, remembering that there was no escape from going into the thick of the trading crowds, muttered glumly, “I never understand it...they’ll be a spendin’ the money they just got faster than they got it. They know they have to go back out to the wilds, so they go to King Stuppy’s and sell their stuff, then they spend all the money they just got right there, and go home empty-handed. It’s the durn foolest thing I ever saw! King Stuppy likes it, though, I guess.”

From the Drownlands Cutoff, Burwell and Bwellina would catch the cargo pirogue to King Stuppy’s. There was usually room for them to throw their packs and bedrolls down on some cargo boxes and catch some shuteye on the ride to the Trading Post. The ride on the pirogue was free if Burwell helped unload the cargo at the other end of the trip. That was the way Burwell like to travel—light and cheap, just like he and Bwellina lived. Once they reached King Stuppy’s, one of their neighbors would be waiting for them and they’d catch another ride back to their shanty. Burwell would paddle the canoe on that leg while his neighbor got some rest. The system worked pretty good as Burwell considered it. It was the Bayou Dog style.

The Drownlands Cutoff was the most isolated of the running-wagon stations. Because of its remoteness, the station-master was rotated out once every two months. “Stay longer than two months at the Cutoff,” Burwell had often been told, “and you risk going stark raving mad.” Passengers and cargo came through only once a week and other than that, the station-master seldom saw any other visitors. So, when the wagons came, the night was filled with talk. News was exchanged, stories told, lies and gossip created, and contests held to see who could tell the biggest whopper. Burwell knew that on these nights at the Cutoff, you never could tell where truth left off and whopper began. But that did not bother him, because he always learned enough new tales to last him until the next trip through the Cutoff station.

That night, Burwell heard a story he knew he could tell over and over again for the enjoyment of his friends. “Yep, I seen it myself,” Zeke, the station-master, was saying, “I seen Cow and Cougar travelin’ together like they was the best friends in the world...never seen anything like it. Cows and Cougars together? Friendly like? It’d never happen, unless...unless they were drugged or bewitched or something! Yep, you mark my words,” Zeke said with a knowing nod of this head, “them two’s smuggling cactus sap or they found a gold mine or something like that. It ain’t natural I say. Something fishy about a Cow and a Cougar being together like that.” Then Zeke lowered his voice as if he were afraid someone might overhear him, “and you tell me why they came from the Bone Forest...you tell me that. No creature lives in the Bone Forest. There’s no food, no water, and the sun will fry you in no time. Anyone says they’re from the Bone Forest, you know they’re liars. But they just looks me in the eye and says they’re from the Bone Forest, like it was just a nice little place you went for vacation or something! It ain’t natural, I tell you. The Bone Forest ain’t nothing but dust and sun. Nothing can live there. I tell you, it gave me the willies!” Zeke stopped and leaned forward to Burwell, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “And to top it off,” Zeke continued, “when I asks them where they was going, they says, ‘to the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still’...Now don’t that beat all? It ain’t natural, I tell you.”

Burwell filed this away in his memory for later use. His friends back home would love it—especially once he embellished it a bit more and polished some of the details, maybe say the Cow made everyone laugh telling Cougar jokes, or something like that.

Poor Burwell. King Stuppy doesn’t like jokes about Cougars. Somebody should warn Burwell. Oops. Too late...

 

Bad to Worse for Breister

Breister’s lungs felt as if they were about to burst. He had been holding his breath for what seemed like forever. But he dared not breathe. He was still many feet underwater, being tumbled and tossed with ferocious power by the raging torrent of the river.

He had barely caught a glimpse of the Cougar that was ambushing him before the attack began. Raising his arm, he had begun to swing his only weapon—the weighted fishing line—when the large, wild-faced Cougar flew into him. The force of the attack carried Breister backwards off of the ledge where he was camping.

SPLOOSH! Breister and the Cougar hit the water, tangled together with the fishing line that had wrapped around both of them. The Cougar, who had been swinging a machete at Breister as the attack began, now found his arms useless. The sheer brute force of the rapids slammed them into boulders in the river with such power that his arm was crushed, the machete falling free and gone forever in the surging torrent. The attack was forgotten as both Breister and the Cougar battled to save themselves. It was hopeless. With their arms immobilized by the tangle of fishing line, their bodies slammed again and again into rocks and boulders. They were at the mercy of the river. Breister could barely remain conscious to fight to hold his breath. He must hold out. To breathe now would fill his lungs with water and that would be the end. SLAM! Breister felt his body suddenly hit the rock canyon wall with tremendous force, enough to kill even a powerful Wood Cow like himself.

But, fortunately for him, Broken Eye’s body had cushioned the blow, being sandwiched between Breister and the wall. The protecting shield had saved Breister from death...but the force of the impact crushed the Cougar. Breister, and his now lifeless attacker, caught on the rocks by tangled loops of fishing line. The sturdy cord had hung up on a piece of broken rock. Breister felt the sharp fishing line beginning to cut into his body as the force of the water tore at the mass in its way.

At last, the power of the river won out. The tangled line snapped and they surged free from one another back into the current.

Battered, gasping for breath, choking on swallowed water; Breister struggled to keep his head above the torrent as it carried him down through the ferocious rapids. Then, the river became less tortured. Although the pace of the current did not slacken, the water became smoother and the boulders fewer. Breister could now keep his head above water and gather some fresh air in his lungs. But, as he was taking a breath, he saw a Skull Buzzard diving towards him. Not having time to duck, Breister braced for the impact—but it never came. The Skull Buzzard had gone for the body of Broken Eye, preferring the ease of an already dead prey. Other Skull Buzzards joined the first, and they lifted the body out of the current and carried it to the riverside where they feasted on the carcass.

Breister turned his head away. His eyes fell on a massive whirlpool that inexorably