Bad Storm Breakin’
A few months before Helga’s triumphant return to the Rounds, her brother, Emil, went on a journey which was to have profound consequences for her story…
“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. 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 in the wind.
“Crutt!” he 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. Caught in the open, with no hope of immediate relief, Emil battled a sense of dismal foreboding.
“Yar!” he muttered after a few moments of self-pity. “Whether bad or not, you only find it in the end—so I better 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. Grimly determined, Emil pushed forward. When the full force of the storm hit, however, 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 Helga 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. Slogging on through the fierce storm, the miserable young Wood Cow wandered along, hoping to see something familiar.
Blundering 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’m completely lost, that much is clear. My first task is to find out where I am. After that, it will be a long backtrack to get on course again. 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. Stumbling along, 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. Everyone 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 didn’t 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. Conversation froze in mid-sentence, there was absolute silence, no beast even twitched.
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 can’t 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’s 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 a 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, 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 holes left by missing timbers. The fire burned nicely and gradually the small corner of safety became warmer.
At first, the Moose did not respond to Emil’s presence. 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,” 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 threadbare 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.”
When the jug was half-full, Emil carried it back over by the fire. Reaching into his pack he pulled out the soggy remains of a barley loaf. A dripping mass of gummy flour was all that was left of what had once been a fine fresh loaf. Emil chuckled as he tore the soggy mess into bits and put them in the jug of water, then held the jug out over the fire with a pitchfolk he found leaning against the wall.
“There we go, old spot. We’ll just have our hot food and drink as a single batch—call it Innkeeper’s Best and I wager it’ll be no better or worse than the soup he serves to the regular guests!”
The old Moose laughed, and could not help sitting back up as he said with great ceremony, “Ah, yes, Mr. E, the bread could not be more ruined if we had drug it behind us in the rain. It’s a putrid mess, or rather has a certain look of moldy beauty that cannot but be a gift to the belly of any beast already close to death!” With a dramatic flourish, the Moose collapsed back on the bed howling: “He-He-Ho, Yabbo-Zee! I’m dead...No, I’m faint...No, I’m sick o’ the head and my liver’s black as pitch and my name is not a word to be spoken by a sane beast! He-He-He-Ho! Quick! Salt and proper peas for me!”
The wild words of the old Moose left Emil uncertain if his companion were acting or delirious.
The Moose fell silent and looked sternly at Emil. “So, is the gruel ready yet? Surely you’re not going to starve a poor old Poolytuck are you?”
Chuckling good-naturedly, Emil said, “Wait just a bit, you old faker. You’re not so thin as to die before it boils.”
Soon each one was taking swallows of the red-hot gruel, straight from the jug. The famished beasts literally bolted the steaming liquid down, grinning from ear to ear, tears streaming down their faces from smoke getting in their eyes as they huddled by the fire.
Later, the rain tapered off; at last the storm was passing. Emil and the Moose, who was known as LeftWit-70114, sat around swapping stories. Neither beast had mentioned the climb to Maev Astuté, although the subject had not left Emil’s mind since he had heard that the Moose intended to make the climb.
Since Wood Cows refused to draw lottery numbers, Emil had no climbing date attached to his name. He liked that. It was a slight comfort to remain aloof from the Maev Astuté project, which he despised.
Maev Astuté was more than the ancestral home of the High Ones, the Hedgeland’s royal family. It was also a royal tomb, with each of the High Ones buried in the castle. It was believed that by this means, they each would one day become gods. Construction of the fantastic castle never ended. Continuing generation after generation, the castle rose higher into the sky. With the reign of each new High One, Maev Astuté rose more sharply into the sky as a new level was added. Each level served as the home of the High One and his royal court. When he died he was buried in a magnificent burial chamber on his level. The life work of each Hedgeland monarch was to build a new level, to serve as the home and tomb of the succeeding High One.
The great construction project had begun in the barely remembered times before even the Forever End was planted. Ancient traditions told of a day when the great castle spire would be “forever visible.” In that day, Maev Astuté would so dominate the skies that “the heavens themselves would be but vassals of the High Ones.” The line of High Ones would form an unbroken link between the earth and the very heavens themselves. On the day the great castle became “forever visible” the line of High Ones would be divinely reborn and they would return to rule the earth. For loyal Hedgies, the sight of Maev Astuté year-by-year rising into the sky was a promise of future glory. On clear days, the fantastic castle sparkled brilliantly in the sun, its highly-polished white marble a dazzling spark of light high above everything else. Inexorably it climbed higher and higher into the heavens.
While a few Hedgies might complain about the brutal conditions of the climb—as they went skulking in the shadows, muttering under their breath—everyone knew that complaining about the climb was at best bad manners, and at worst, dangerous.
Wood Cows did not complain—they simply refused to go. The price of that refusal was to confirm the Wood Cows’ status as social outcasts, despised and cut off from every social benefit and every esteemed profession. In the eyes of most Hedgies, Wood Cows were Zanuck—“fly droppings” in Kinshy—and treated with contempt. In the Hedgie world, there was nothing lower and more contemptible than one who refused the sacred climb.
Just slightly above the Zanuck were the Poolytuck—“sitters” or “loafers”—beasts who did not oppose the climb but were too old or weak to undertake the ordeal. Being unable to climb to Maev Astuté was a great humiliation. Although allowed to choose a stand-in, only the weakest Poolytuck did so. Mockery and indignities of every sort were heaped upon the Poolytucks. Accepting this humiliating treatment was better, however, than the alternative that awaited any Poolytuck who dared complain about the taunts and unchallenged cheating of merchants against them. The fate of those Poolytucks was to be carried up the mountain by the Royal Patrol and heaved into a deep glacier crevasse.
“It’s a miserable night, and a black life, friend,” LeftWit-70114 wheezed as if a he had only a teaspoon of air to spare for an entire sentence. “Yet, tomorrow I begin the sacred climb.”
“Aye, it’s a night not favorable for any beast,” Emil agreed. “But tomorrow you’ll not be on the mountain,” he continued. “You’re hardly fit to lift a mug. Tomorrow, you’ll be walking in the sun toward O’Fallon’s Bluff, carrying my pack and coins back to my father and sister. I’ll be climbing the mountain in your place.” Emil’s tone, his look, his words—all expressed a resolute recklessness that would not be turned aside. “I will climb for you, as one of the stand-ins that even the cruelty of the High One allows for a Poolytuck. You will go to O’Fallon’s Bluff and finish my duty to my family. You can rest there until you recover your health.”
And so it was that Emil found himself on the sacred climb—and turned the entire Wood Cow way of life on its head...