Helga: Out of Hedgelands by Rick Johnson (ebook reader color screen .txt) 📖

“Sareth,” Breister inquired, coming out of his bedroom and rubbing his sleepy eyes, “it is more than an hour before sunrise. Why are you up so early today?”

“It is time for you to depart and I want to make some food for your journey,” she said, smiling at him.

Breister began to protest that he did not want to leave, but Sareth put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t want to leave!” she exclaimed, giving him a look of mock outrage. “What kind of a father would you be if you were fit, healthy, and fully able to travel, and yet you laid around here like a rug?” she asked, grinning at him. “Why, your Helga might be at the mercy of thugs and thieves! Or she might be wandering lost in the wilderness! What a fool I would be to have such a lazy fellow laying around my house while his daughter perished!” she continued, shaking a spoon at him. “Don’t want to leave, indeed!” she sniffed playfully. “Why, you are commanded to leave. You must go find her! What do you think this is, a resort?” As the big Wood Cow’s nose turned red with a deep blush of embarrassment, Sareth could see that she had succeeded in teasing Breister sufficiently for him to know he could leave without offending her. She put her arm over his shoulder and added, “But you have to promise that when you find Helga, you will bring her back here!”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Breister stammered happily, “Yes, ma’am, you can count on it.”

Later that morning, Toshty, Annie, and Breister caught the weekly running-wagon bound for the Drownlands Cutoff. “I have no way of knowing where Helga might be,” he explained, as the three comrades said goodbye and got ready to board. “She could be anywhere. But I can’t believe that Helga would have left me at the river. Either she was forced to leave, in which case I have no idea where she is; or she returned to the riverbank to look for me, and found me and our boat gone.” He looked knowingly at Annie, who could not meet his eyes. “Thus,” he continued, “the only possible lead I have, as opposed to just wandering around in all directions looking for her, is to return to the WooPeace. If she tried to follow me down the river, if she survived—” His voice trailed off and he covered his eyes. “If she survived,” he continued with a thick voice, “she is a Woonyak in the WooPeace. I at least have to see if she is there.” Breister was grief-stricken to think of such a fate befalling his beloved daughter. It was horrible to contemplate.

“That’s why going to Toshty’s cabin is the only thing that makes sense,” he concluded. “The unused entrance to the WooPeace that Toshty says is near his cabin—what he calls the ‘Mountain That Moves But Stands Still’—I’ve seen it from the inside. The WooSheep call it the LuteWoo. I don’t care if it is forbidden to enter the WooPeace there. The fact that folk are afraid even to go near it is actually a good thing in this case. I hope to slip in there without being seen and without having to swim!”

“And no way am I going to leave you two to face WooZan alone,” Annie declared, as she said goodbye to the Abblegurts and climbed onto the running-wagon. Annie reflected on how much she had enjoyed being welcomed into a loving family group. It was something she had never fully enjoyed in her life. It felt good. She looked at Toshty, who was sitting next to her in the running-wagon. “Toshty, do you ever get lonely?...I mean, living all alone and having no family?” she asked.

“My only family is my art,” Toshty replied. “I used to have family, but some are in the WooPeace and others are at the Bottoms. They all act like the others don’t exist. I don’t need a family like that.”

“But Toshty,” Annie continued, “art is not a family. Even if it makes you feel good, I think a family is creatures loving one another and caring for each other.”

Toshty looked kindly at Annie. “You’re right, Annie,” Toshty replied. “A family is an unbroken circle of friends.” He covered the Cougar’s paw with his wing. “We aren’t exactly an unbroken circle, but we are friends, and that’s a place to start.” Annie squeezed his wingtip and they grinned at each other. Breister, seeing this, reached across from where he was sitting and said, “I join myself to this circle, and now there are three.”

The friends smiled broadly at one another. “Family is an unbroken circle of friends,” Toshty said softly. “So even folks without family can be family!” Tears filled his eyes. “Even a crazy old Owl, with mixed up relations who hate each other can have a family...Thank you, friends. That is a wonderful thought.”

Stupid Frog Shallows

As the running wagon began its journey to the Drownlands Cutoff, Breister reflected that this very running wagon had played a role in bringing Helga back to O’Fallon’s Bluff three years before. After seven years apart, they had been reunited. Replaying in his mind the story Helga had told so often, gave Breister hope that perhaps once again this running wagon might play a role in reuniting him with his daughter...

~ ~ ~

It was a lovely April morning when Helga began her year of service on the running wagon team that powered the Drownlands Cutoff Weekly. The Weekly was named for the first stop on its route, although in the course of a week the running wagon also made stops at more than a dozen other stations in the most remote parts of the Rounds, before coming back to its home station to start the circuit again.

Although worn and battered, the Weekly was clean and sturdy. Even if a little scruffy, the Weekly retained much of its original elegance of style, including an ornate set of running-lamps.

As the last baggage was loaded, the runners took their positions at the crossbars along the wagon tongue and prepared to pull the Weekly away from the station. The runners were eager to depart: shaking limbs and bouncing up and down to loosen tight muscles, rubbing chalk dust on the crossbars to make them easier to grasp, and slapping each other on the back in encouragement. A tall and lanky Coyote, with rings in her ears and long curling hair ending in a luxurious braid, wore the brilliantly colored headband of running-wagon steward. Responsible for the final check, she gave an encouraging look to each of her fellow runners. Seeing an empty spot at the eighth position, the Coyote gave a groan of frustration and made for the door of the station.

Just as she reached the station entrance, a frantic Jackrabbit burst suddenly out of the doorway, nearly slamming the door into the steward’s face. Without stopping, the previously missing runner scrambled clumsily into position at the wagon. His comical haste attracted the notice of the travelers who chuckled heartily as they peered through the passenger compartment windows.

“Now, my trammies,” the Coyote cried, “all together, as if Nate Te’Sharn actually wished the Weekly to run out on time, as much as he wished to sleep.”

“I don’t care two coppers for the time,” replied the Jackrabbit. “A body can’t rest in the rough bunks here...and the Dock Squirrels rattling trunks and boxes and cursing a blue streak all night long...How’s a body to rest?”

“Once we get rolling, you’ll forget being tired,” the Coyote replied. “Soon the warm sun will be in your face and you’ll be hearing ‘The Cutoff in Four’ before you know it...then, you’ll be having lunch and not fret your tired bones, I’ll wager,” the steward said good-naturedly. She could not feel harshly toward the tardy Jackrabbit. She knew that runners could be bleary-eyed and half-rested despite the day off between legs of the running-wagon circuit. As the Weekly pulled away from the station, it gradually picked up speed and, at first, rolled along with so little effort by the runners that it seemed to be powered only by the beat of the runners’ feet.

But the easy progress did not last long beyond the Cutoff Station. The verdant lushness of the Drownlands wilderness is flanked by a seemingly endless wasteland of hard rock and dust running far to the south. The Smothercap Steps—foothills leading to the Smothercap highlands beyond—bald granite hills piled one on top of the other mile after mile. The single winding road through this desolate and harsh country gave the wagon runners exhausting work for more than twenty miles until the road once again broke free from the wilds.

“Yi-hep-ay! May-ni-ay-hep!” The wagon runners strained against the crossbars as they labored along the rough, bumpy track. Heads bent forward in exertion, the runners stumbled over ruts and stones, as if they might fall and be trampled by the other runners. Nevertheless, the runners continued doggedly on.

The last long hill before the Cutoff Station slowed the runners as they struggled for breath. Then, reaching the long, flat ridge the steward called out: “The Cutoff in Four!” The traditional call, shouted out as the wagon passed the Four-Mile marker before the next station, sent a surge of joy through the runners. They would soon have a rest. Finding renewed energy, the runners put full strength to their task and the wagon surged forward. Raising their heads, smiling broadly, runners laughed and joked as they strained toward the station.

Standing at the station as the running wagon pulled up, was a stout, stubby Beaver dressed in a station-master’s uniform. Smackie, the Cutoff station-master, was an old friend of Helga’s. Smackie often came over to tell jokes at celebrations at the Rounds and, during those visits, always stayed with Elbin and Sareth. The station-master was renowed for his unending store of jokes and the fact that his huge teeth made a humorous smacking sound against his lip when he spoke.

But, as the running wagon pulled up at the station, Helga noticed that the station-master’s usually good-natured expression was absent. In fact, she had no sooner stepped away from the crossbar, then Smackie suddenly threw his arms around her neck and  burst into tears!

“What is it Smackie?” Helga asked. “Not heard any good jokes lately?”

“Oh! (schmack) Woes and torments! I’ve got (schmack) trembling (schmack) and vibrations (schmack) in my brain!” the station-master sobbed. “I am (schmack) ashamed of carrying (schmack) on like this. I beg your (schmack) pardon.”

“There, there, Smackie,” Helga replied, trying to console her unhappy friend.

“The strange,” Smackie continued, “(schmack)…” Sobs again carried him away and he did not finish his sentence.

“What is strange?” Helga asked.

“The stranger (schmack) arrived at the Cutoff station (schmack) yesterday—a young Lynx (schmack)—you know (schmack) we never see Lynx ’round here (schmack)! Anyways, the Lynx (schmack) pestered and pestered (schmack) me to tell him how (schmack) get to the Norder Estates.  He said he was (schmack) on some high-faluttin’ mission (schmack) from the High One (schmack) and he got himself lost (schmack) on the Ocean of Dreams (schmack). Instead of ending up in (schmack) the Norder Estates, he ended up in the Rounds (schmack). He was wantin’ terrible (schmack) bad to get to the Norder Estates (schmack)—said the High One (schmack) would beat him up (schmack) awful (schmack) if he failed.”

“What did you tell him?” Helga asked.

“Why, I told him the (schmack) truth,” Smackie replied. “I told him straight away