Lost Hiker’s Delusion
Bad Bone was puzzled. Something about the surrounding landscape seemed more familiar than it ought to be. The Borf party was returning over the same route they had traveled the day before and nothing had struck him as familiar on their earlier passage. He had never visited this region of the Hedgelands before. Why did what he was seeing now seem so very familiar?
As they trekked along on their return to Tramandrivot, Bad Bone’s mind worked on this puzzle. Then, gradually the answer came to him. “Ah, yes,” he thought ruefully, “the lost hiker’s delusion.” As an experienced mountain climber, well-schooled in the ways of the wilderness, he knew that his puzzlement resulted from the same problem that often caused inexperienced hikers to become lost. “The perspective is different coming and going,” he thought. “Many a poor hiker has learned how very different the same mountains and trees look when approached from the opposite direction.” This was the answer to his puzzlement. “What looked strange and new when we approached from the north, now looks familiar as we return from the south!” Yet, some of his puzzlement remained. “But why does it look familiar from this direction, when I’ve never walked this way before?”
He could not shake the mystery. Again and again he tried out possible solutions in his mind. Nothing seemed to answer the question. Then, when the party paused to rest and take food near a beautiful lake, he asked a question. “Does this area live in any of the legends you have heard?”
Bormaso, lying on his back under a tree, lazily pointed at a peak to the right of where they were stopped with the salted lizard tail he was gnawing. “That peak looks like a javelin point from this direction,” he observed. “The grandmothers always tell us that the javelin point flies fast to where it is going. They say that in the ancient times the folk rode the javelin point to sail like the wind through the mountains...”
“...riding the great river that flows down from Javelin Point—standing up in boats that never touched the water,” Bad Bone broke in, finishing the sentence.
Bormaso grinned. “Yes. I see you know the legend also.”
“My grandmother told me the story as a wee beast,” Bad Bone replied simply. “I never paid much attention to it, but the image of beasts standing up in boats that never touch the water always seemed strange and wonderful—I’ve never forgotten it.” He paused, gazing off at the peak that had become the focus of his thoughts. “And the javelin point shape of that peak is so unmistakable from the stories I heard countless times, that it looked familiar to me. I guess the legend had more effect on me than I realized,” he chuckled.
The three friends lounged silently for a time, then Bad Bone spoke up. “Do you think perhaps there is such a river? I mean, one that makes the beasts fly through the mountains like it says in the old story?”
“I have sailed on it,” Bormaso said quietly. “The river definitely exists.”
“What?” Bad Bone exclaimed. “The legend is true?”
“Wait, wait!” Bormaso replied. “Not so fast. To say that the river exists is not to say the legend is true. There definitely is a mighty river that flows down off of Javelin Point. I have sailed on it—and a fearsome ride it is. Rapids such as would frighten most beasts to death...Unclimbable cliffs...Skull Buzzards...It’s a terrible, terrible place.”
“But you rode the river,” Bad Bone said. “Where does it go?”
“That I cannot say,” the Borf Squirrel replied. “As a young beast, I was captured by a Lynx slave trader during a raid and sold.” Bad Bone’s face showed pained surprise. Bormaso looked with kindness at him. “You surely know that some of the Lynx are slave catchers and traders, yes?”
Bad Bone looked away and did not answer. Bormaso, sensing that Bad Bone wanted a moment to himself, took a swig from the water pouch. He was wiping his mouth when his Lynx friend said, “My family has always served the High One, but we are Climbing Lynx, not slavers. I have served the High One honorably, but have never been cruel to any beast. I regret what other Lynx do, but they are not my folk.”
Bormaso put a comforting paw on Bad Bone’s arm. “I do not accuse you of being a slaver,” he replied. “You are now a Borf brother and we have no reason to think ill of each other. I see it as a great sign from The All that a Lynx is now my Borf brother. Welcome, brother,” he concluded, hugging Bad Bone around the shoulder.
The three scouts sat quietly together for a few moments, then Bormaso continued: “While being transported to the Hedgelands along the Norder Passage, our boat capsized and I escaped with several other slaves. Thus, I did not ride the river its full course, and it was a long time ago. I don’t know where the river goes. I only know it must be the one mentioned in the legends.”
“What do you know of the Norder Passage?” Bad Bone asked.
“There is an underground route that crosses from the Estates of the Norder Wolves to the Hedgelands. A portion of the passage follows an underground river—it’s mostly used by slavers.”
“Do honorable beasts travel that way?” Bad Bone asked softly.
“Not that I would know of,” Bormaso answered. “There are actually several branches of the river and all except the Norder Passage are impassable. Even the Norder Passage is treacherous, but it can be traveled. The other branches of the stream are deadly. Because the Norder Passage is the only useable river, and it only goes to the Norder Wolf Estates, not many honorable beasts feel a calling to go that way.”
Bormaso could see that his friend was suffering. “What’s the matter, Bad Bone?” he asked.
“The legends about Javelin Point and the great river and the Norder Passage...” he began.
“What about them?” the Squirrel asked.
“The elders in my family tell of a Lynx of the bygone days,” Bad Bone said, staring toward Javelin Point. “He was said to have gone to the Norder Estates traveling on an underground river—but we never really believed it. It seemed too fantastic!”
“He knew of the Norder Passage,” Bormaso repeated thoughtfully.
“Apparently—does that surprise you?” the Lynx asked.
“The legend of Javelin Point and the mighty river are told by many folk,” he replied. “But the Norder Passage is only known to slavers and trallé traders,” Bormaso said. “If your ancestor knew about it, he knew more about that sort of trade than a simple Climbing Lynx would know.”
So many thoughts swirled in Bad Bone’s mind as he listened to Bormaso. A long obscured story was awakening within him. Listening to Bormaso jolted his mind. He recalled with wonder his experience at Stupid Frog Shallows a few years back. He learned that the Shallows—in the desolate wastes between the Borf lands and the Rounds—were rumored in bygone days to be a hideout for slavers. His own great-grandfather was connected with the Shallows in some way. Was Stupid Frog Shallows on the river of the ancient legends? In the misty past—was his great-grandfather a slaver?
“You think he was a slave trader?” Bad Bone asked quietly.
Bormaso smiled at his friend. “We never know what new faces we will find if we look deeply into our history,” he said. “In a clan as old as the Borf, we’ve had our share of rascals and liars,” he laughed. “The Lynx surely have some black-hearted scoundrels—but what you see when you look in the mirror is what is most important. There may be the tale of a slaver within you, but there are many other tales there also. Borf are a practical folk—we are interested in who you are now and what you will be. Why take a long-dead slaver, who may or may not exist, into the clan, when you have shown us that you are a fine honorable Lynx ready to come on your own without him? We will take you for who you are and what you will be. Let the past die if it is no help to us—that is our way.”
With this assurance to his heart, Bad Bone rose and gave his friends the Borf welcome greeting. “I welcome my Borf brothers into my own story. What else may be there, I cannot say, and may never know. But as you have embraced me as a brother, I, in turn, embrace you.”
The three friends embraced heartily and, joking merrily, prepared to set out once again on their trek toward the Borf homelands. “Fill your water pouches, brothers,” Bormarojey said. “This is the last lake we will see. We’re into some wild and barren land now. There will be no beasts to be seen, and we will find but little water, until we reach Tramandrivot.”
Little did the three friends realize, however, that a Wolf, descending a nearby hillside, quietly observed all that was done.