Milky Joe
As the mid-day sun beat down, a caravan of Wood Cow carts and wagons, accompanied by a contingent of Royal Patrol soldiers, halted at Bazoot’s Store. A country store at the remote fringe of Hedgie settlements, Bazoot’s sat at a place where the Forever End crossed a wide and fairly level meadow. In the clearing in front of the general store, some fifty Digger Hogs and Axe Beavers loitered, lounging around a small, dirty fire. The campsite of dingy tents, the dirt-caked tools, the smell of new-sawn logs—all explained the large, ragged break that had been created in the Hedge.
The travelers used the stop to take on additional water and make some final adjustments to their carts and baggage. Then, one by one, wagons bumped through the crude gap in the Hedge. Skull Buzzards inspected each one to make sure no stowaways were aboard. Once through the Hedge, each family took its own bearings. Most joined a long wagon train headed west, but a few intended to settle just beyond the Hedge, and Helga’s family had its own plans.
The inspections were maddeningly slow. While they waited, parties of exiles talked in excited, but anxious tones. Before the opening stood some thirty or forty Hedge Blades—the elite battalion of Skull Buzzards assigned to guard the Forever End. Gazing grimly out from beneath their broad-brimmed, steel helmets, they crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking advance toward the Hedge. When an inspection was complete, the line parted to allow passage, and then closed again to await the next approved party. Presenting a long line of razor-sharp swords—each 4 feet long—there would be no passing through the Hedge without their consent.
Scurrying back and forth among the émigrés, a few of Bazoot’s clerks sold items to the travelers. Breister was glad to purchase some rivets to repair a fastening that had unexpectedly popped loose. In the midst of the crowd, Bazoot himself was pushing a barrel of Strawberry Fogg, “Hey-Hetty, me bully-wats! Cold Fogg, swallers and cups—last chance for civilized drink!” The fat Woodchuck waddled merrily, long hair and apron flapping in the breeze. Here and there the jovial storekeeper stopped to turn the spigot for customers taking a last swig of Fogg before beginning their journey into the unknown.
On a bench close by the line of Hedge Blades, a Wolf sat with a heavy ledger lying across his knees. A second Wolf—an albino, small and thick-necked, with a large bristly moustache—stood nearby flipping gold coins high in the air. Attracted by the glint of the flying coins, a crowd was gathering around him. Helga found something familiar about him—the clouded, pink eyes; the hard, chiseled jaw—somewhere she had seen him before. But his powerful voice shook her memory as he shouted out a rhyme:
Jokes ’n tricks upon the King,
A pocket full of coins
Twenty-seven rings
To every beast as joins
Milky Joe is here to take you
To live a life of ease
Line up all you nameless whos
For riches as you please
Come along with Milky Joe
Throw off your toil and woe
Let the King foam and mutter
While you eat jam and butter
The recruiting pitch succeeded, at first, in attracting a few young Wood Cows to listen curiously. But soon parents called their young ones back. “Don’t you go listening to that hogwash peddler!” one scolded. “Keep your ears clean of that trash flim-flamer!” another parent hissed. “He’s a lying shill, he is! Why, that Milky Joe is nothing more than a slaver—hanging around troubled folk, trying to snare unsuspecting idiots and kids. Babbling against the King and talk of riches will always suck in a few down on their luck or looking for adventure. But it’s a pit of hell—mark my words!”
Helga winced as another comment reached her ears “Yah, he’s got twenty-seven rings alright, iron ones that go right around your neck! Why else do you think he can scoff at the King right under the noses of those Hedge Blades? He just signs you up, and sells you right off to the King’s own bloodsuckers!”
The touch of cold iron seemed, for a moment, to be palpable on Helga’s neck. She shuddered. Unease trickled through her heart. She’d heard stories about Milky Joe, but they had always before been almost fanciful—a “boogy beast” sort of tale. She’d never thought of him as being real, but now that he was sitting just a few feet away, she felt a deep sense of dread. It was as if she knew Milky Joe was deeply evil, but at the same time, could not remember exactly what she knew. The chill passing through her was not fear, but a confused feeling that she had seen the white wolf with pink eyes before...heard his booming voice...knew him from somewhere...