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

of every description. And, as with any crew, there were the bewildered, young crew-beasts staring at everything around them, as if they had suddenly discovered astonishment. Soon all the crew, except the feverishly working repair team, was ashore.

Striking the beach in the first longboat, Captain Gumberpott greeted his old friend, Winja Selamí, the craggy old chief of the small Knot of Otters settled on Narrows End Bay. “Winja, you old weather!” Red Whale greeted his friend. “How blows the Fair Temps for you?”

“Since the third day last,” Winja replied, “the Fair Temps3 are steady and mild. That means likely a fair blow to the west, but a Scowling Mally4 brewing to the south. Which way are you bound?”

“Why, we be bound for a merry mug and pot of stew, of course!” Red Whale laughed. “A few sips of Sea Brew would be a mighty fine thing just now.”

“Ay’t—a welcoming mug o’ cheer and good vittles are, indeed, the sea-beasts best harbor!” Winja chuckled. “Come on and join us for a pint o’ Sea Brew and some vittles to shake up your gut a bit. I’m just off to join the rest of the Knot over at Flummo O’Marrell’s place. There’s a feast tonight for a young beast washed up on the shore a few weeks ago—cast overboard, far off-shore, by a Rummer Boar passing by. You know the Rummers—a fiercesome cruel batch of freebooters. As a wee Wolf, Bem was stolen from her bed one night—taken by Wrackshees, then sold to Rummers to replace deserters in their crew. She fell into life on the ship and became the Pilot. Gradually, however, the horror of the Rumming raids turned her heart against that life. She tried to mount a mutiny and take over the ship, but failed. The Rummer Boar—a particularly bad fellow, Sabre Tusk d’Newolf—threw her into the freezing water. He thought that was the end of Bem. And nearly was. When she washed up in the Bay, we didn’t know if she’d pull through at first—nearly drowned, cold to the point of being blue, badly cut and bruised, half-raving mad with fever. But with kindly attention she gradually came to herself and healed. So come on along—today we celebrate her recovery. All of us are meeting at Flummo’s to prepare for the celebration. You must join us.”

Captain Gumberpott and his crew followed their host as he plunged off along a trail leading back through the rocks, sand dunes, and trees that ringed the wide sandy beach. Lazy curls of smoke drifted up to the sky a short distance off among the rocks. Sounds of music, laughter, and uproarious singing drifted faintly over the dunes.

The trail gradually rose away from the beach as it meandered through the dunes. A short distance back from the beach, a wide flat area lay like a shallow bowl, surrounded by the rocky hills that rose away from the beach. The expanse of smooth, hard-packed sand was unbroken except for a few sturdy, well-made log buildings and several large trees, one of which had a large wooden barrel suspended from one of its limbs.

Perhaps two-dozen Otters were working and rushing here and there. Shouts and laughter mingled with the banging of pots and sizzling of cook fires. Fresh shrimp crackled and popped as they were tossed into boiling oil and the savory odor of baking tarts filled the air. A few Otters gave lively spirit to the workers and added to the festive atmosphere as they went about playing bells, drums, and pipes.

Tired and famished after weeks at sea, the crew of Daring Dream found new life in the sights and smells. Great pans of warm water, perfumed with sandrose petals, thyme, lavender, or orange peels, were provided for the sea-beasts to wash and refresh themselves.  All around them Otters were bustling and scurrying with baskets, kettles, and pots. Long tables were being placed and covered with large tablecloths made from sail-canvas. Cook fires burned merrily here and there. Every beast cheerfully worked at preparing the coming feast.

Wiggen’n Bob, Master of the Cookery, seemed to be everywhere, giving endless orders to the cooks with a gruff good humor:

“Whip the Honeysong Cream faster or I’ll knock you with the ladle! It’ll never stand up like a sail on the Ship Cake if you leave it limp and loose like that!

“RARRRAH! There must be more pickled snails than that, unless that rascal Alameg has been into the brine pot again! How am I to feed you all, if I’m surrounded by sneaks picking at my stores?

“One hundred and eighty-four for feast, Miss Pottentam, we’ll be needing another dozen sacks of turnips, carrots, and yams for the stew. Send the Pickins Twins on up to the storage cave with the wagon.” And so on and so on it went all day for Wiggen’n Bob.

The Knot of Otters was nothing if not hospitable and the newcomers had barely appeared before all work stopped briefly and the Otters gathered around the visitors, talking and asking questions excitedly. The Knot at Narrows End Bay was populated entirely by Otters, with the exception of a single, lone Coyote who was abandoned by a Rummer ship some years before because of his advancing age. Half-hidden under a large, floppy hat—ringed all around with strings of shark teeth and shells—and a heavy blanket worn as a cloak, the Coyote jabbered loudly enough to be heard everywhere. Poking and waving with an old, well-used harpoon, its wooden handle carved all over with curious names, the elderly Coyote looked like many a seasoned sea-beast. Brown and burly, hair wizened and weathered from salt air and sun, the Coyote had obviously sailed on many a voyage. Moving about rapidly, still agile and active, stopping a moment with each visiting sea-beast, he continually asked the same sorts of questions:

 “Where are you bound? What you got for tradin’? Got any fine goods you’d trade for a beauty of a shark’s tooth or a piece of dragon’s tail? Got need of a story-teller aboard your ship?”

Some of the common sea-beasts traded brass buttons or a harmonica or the words to an unknown song to the old Coyote for beautiful, dangerous-looking shark teeth. Others asked him about the dragon tail, showing by their bemused looks that they did not really believe such creatures existed.

“Naw, now, you sun-burned old Coyote, don’t you be swilling your lies at me,” Fishbum growled at the old sea-beast. “Dragons live only in the tongues of cheeky old fibbers, like yourself. You’ve been living in the salt and sun so long, your brain-riggings are rotted. Now get on with bothering the others and leave me to my Brew!”

Taking Fishbum’s response as a bit of an insult, the old Coyote—BorMane by name—demanded harshly, “Do you now! Do you now! Rotten are your own brain-riggings, and you’re nothing but spit-in-the-wind for courtesy either!” Flinging off his floppy hat, BorMane revealed a long, jagged scar that ran all the way from one ear to the other across the back of his head. The scar was so deadly-looking and striking that it took Fishbum’s breath away, and diverted his attention from the curious notches in the Coyote’s ears.

“Now, do you know how I came by that scar—do you?” BorMane scowled. “Well, I’ll tell you...” Sticking his harpoon under Fishbum’s nose, the old sea-beast pointed to one of the carvings on it. “That be the name of the ship I was serving on—the Crust of Luck—when we was broken to bits by a dragon! That scar is the carving the creature made on my skull with his teeth—so don’t you be telling me about the fraying of my brain-riggings. I know perfectly well what I’m about!”

Fishbum offered no more reply, simply gaping back at the terrible scar as he moved away from BorMane. Red Whale, however, hearing the exchange, was instantly at the side of the elderly Coyote.

“Dragons, you say, old mate?” Red Whale began. “So far as I’ve heard, the only ships as mention them have been sailing the Voi-Nil. You’ve sailed those perilous seas, you say?”

“Do you know anyone but me as claims to have sailed those seas?” the Coyote replied with a twinkle in his eye. “You think perhaps I carved my own skull or that I bought these bits of dragon tail from a shop?” BorMane fell silent for a moment, fingering the shark’s teeth hanging from his hat. “All I would be wondering if I was you, Cap’t, is how all these shark’s teeth—all of them bigger than you’ve ever seen in your life—got to be hanging on my hat. It might have something to do with this here harpoon of mine. That’s all I’d be wondering if I was you, Cap’t.”

“Crinoo!” Red Whale muttered sharply. “I’ll be the one saying what I ought to be wondering, old salt! What I’ll be wondering is if you would explain yourself to me—tell me what you know of the Voi-Nil—if we have time to talk around my table? You would answer my questions then, I think?”

“You mean, sir, that you would be thinking of having me ship out with you, if I tell you?” BorMane asked. “You’ll have to want me, as well as want my story, if I’m to tell you.”

A gleam of happiness leaped in Captain Gumberpott’s eyes. “Shake on it!” he cried. “Aye, you old sea-bag. Daring Dream has a berth for a story-teller! She’s bound into the Voi-Nil in search of the Outer Rings and we’ve no maps but stories—we’ll be needing the best stories we can get. You’re aboard, Mr. BorMane!”

Captain Gumberpott, taking a long, loud slurp of his Sea Brew, continued, leaning nearer to his new crew member. “Old salt, Daring Dream is not a ship for liars. We’ll treasure your stories, even if there’s mistakes or things you forget—but, mark my words, a conscious lie that puts my crew in peril, and you’ll fight the sharks alone.”

“I come aboard as I have always served a ship,” BorMane replied evenly. “Never mind about lies. I tell you what I know and have seen...that is all. Take it or leave it. If you have harpooned more than a thousand sharks and lived to sell their teeth to fools as buy such rubbish—then, one wonders if a beast such as myself might know a thing or two without needing the kind advice of yourself. If you might like to hear where I run my harpoon through those monster-big sharks or cut the tail off a dragon, then I’d be pleased to sail with you. Take my word for it, however—I can judge my truth-telling without help from you.”

Red Whale chuckled and slapped the old Coyote on the back affectionately. “Beginning with sunset tomorrow, you’ll be expected at my table aboard Daring Dream each night for the ship’s council as makes the plans for the voyage. It’s my trust to you—and my hope for good success for both of us.”

Such a development left BorMane uncharacteristically quiet as he savored his joy in finding a ship that would once more take him to sea. His happy reflections, however, were quickly disrupted as two young Otters, Foggtutt and Rowl, bowled past him, dropping the buckets they were carrying; scattering potatoes around Bormane’s feet.  Howling with delight, the rowdy little Otters tackled Fishbum—who was still standing nearby—around the knees, knocking him to the ground.

 “Sail me! Sail me! Come on, sail me!” the young beasts yelled as they climbed on Fishbum’s back urging him to give them a ride. Fishbum gamely tossed the two stubby Otters on his back and began to run wildly, swaying and weaving as if he were a ship being