Scrodder’s Tattoo
Christer and Helga picked their way across a rough, scree slope, carefully following an old miner’s track that cut downward across a mountainside. They moved as quietly as possible through the intense dark of a clear, but moonless night, with Christer padding along in the lead. His keen night vision astonished Helga, as he pointed out objects she was completely unable to see in the darkness until they had moved considerably closer. Christer’s confidence in the dark allowed him to move quickly, despite being loaded with large bundles of snake skins strapped to a willow-frame carrier on his back.
Christer trotted along lightly, almost soundlessly, his heels hardly touching the ground. Helga struggled to keep up, stumbling along noisily, often tripping over rocks or losing her footing on the scree.
“Arrgh!” Helga fumed, losing her balance again and nearly taking a long slide down the slope.
“Christer—how much further?” Helga whispered, picking herself back up. “I’m afraid that all the racket I’m making with draw the Wrackshees down on our heads!”
“Shat, Helga!” Christer replied, “we’re nearly at the bottom, and anyway, can’t you see them? Can’t you hear them?” Motioning for her to stop, he cupped his ear as if listening. Helga stopped and strained her own ears, but noticed nothing unusual. The smile spreading across Christer’s face, however, told her that whatever it was that had caught his attention was good news.
“Snake-takers,” Christer said, grinning.
With that hint, more because she could see some shadowy forms ahead then because she could hear anything distinctly, Helga realized that they had, indeed, rendezvoused with the Snake-takers. As she and Christer drew nearer, Helga could make out brawny figures—some with arms and legs like logs—lounging and resting in every imaginable position.
Christer started downward again, following the track to the spot where the scree ended and the troop of Snake-takers had halted. Helga followed, overjoyed to think that the long night’s journey might at last be ending, stumbling and sliding behind Christer as fast as she could, no longer concerned about her noisy advance. She paid a price, however, for her haste and once again lost her balance, pitching forward and dancing and leaping the rest of the way down the slope to keep from falling hard.
Reaching the bottom of the slope, Helga bounded past Christer, arms windmilling wildly, as her momentum carried her on. Finally coming to a stop, breathing hard, she slowly made her way back to where Christer stood with a strongly-muscled, burly Climbing Lynx. Giving them a big, yellow-toothed smile—cheeks bulging out like balloons, a dirty straw hat pushed to the back of her head, belly hanging over a large silver belt buckle, crumpled jeans, lizard-skin boots—the Lynx pulled a leather pouch out of her pocket and opened it. Pulling several dried weevils out and tossing them into her mouth, the Lynx crunched the hard dried husks with gusto, offering the pouch to Christer and Helga.
“Go on now, beasties, they’re shur’in not a-gonna bite you,” the Lynx laughed. “These crunchy little guys help to keep you awake, travelin’ all night, and they stick to your ribs right well!”
Helga watched the Lynx toss probably two dozen of the hard-dried weevils into her mouth as she talked. As she looked around, Helga could make out others of the Snake-takers also eating and drinking, taking advantage of the break to nourish and refresh themselves. They were clearly a lean and hardened lot, tough and seasoned by years of running the snake-taking routes through the mountains. Although she had always heard stories about the strenuous life and legendary stamina of such mountain traders, she had never really wondered what such active beasts ate to keep up their strength.
But now, observing the first Snake-takers she had ever seen, it was clear that Snake-takers were not fussy. Pouches holding every type of dried insect and bug were being passed from beast to beast, with the loud Crunch-Crack-Crunch of hard cockroach nuts being eaten making a faint staccato amidst the laughter and talk of the relaxing beasts. Here and there other beasts gnawed on huge crystallized knobs of pine pitch—which, to Helga, looked like they were chewing on the heel of a boot. Still other beasts were scoffing on great wads of pine branch tips, putting one sweet, woody shoot after another in their mouths and grinding them fiercely with their teeth, cheeks puffing out with gobs of pulverized material sucked on for nutrients. And, regardless of the favored snack, every beast drank from the lake—flattening on their bellies, sticking mouths in the water, and slurping deep draughts.
“Helga, meet Darnt,” Christer said, introducing the Lynx. “She’s the trader who deals with the Snake-takers in these parts—knows the mountains well and will see that the Snake-takers get you through safely to the coast. She says the mountains are crawling with Wrackshees now.”
“Yash, Christer! Wrackshees everywhere! No one moves except in great danger now. Even you may not get out alive if you return the way you came. Sn’akers say they must keep moving—stop only for brief rest—they must keep moving, travel light—no heavy food or water packs—only what they can carry. They must keep moving—travel by night only. The Sn’akers must go now. You must go with them! Wrackshees are just behind!”
“Me?” Christer exclaimed. “I can’t go with them—there is no way I could keep up with their pace. I would delay them too much—I’ll go my own way back.”
“Nash! There is no way back tonight!” Darnt replied. Then, she pointed toward the night sky, calling Christer’s attention to various constellations, talking rapidly all the while. “Yash there, Christer!” she said, pointing towards an area of the western sky. “Yash! Scrodder’s Tattoo! The Heart of Ink guides the Sn’akers through the Dismal Drain—that’s the only way passable and safe. There’s Wrackshees swarming down behind you across the ridges now. They nearly caught even me a while back, except that I was hunkered down behind a crag, and in the pitch black, wind blowing away from me, they missed me. Had they caught my scent, I’d be a slave now.”
“The Dismal Drain! You’re out or your mind, Darnt! I’ve known more beasts to go in there than to come back out,” Christer exclaimed. “The Drain’s a wasteland—solid, barren sandstone, and fierce wind blowing all the time—there’s no way to follow a track. Even if there were a bit of dust to follow a track, the wind erases it in minutes. I’ve heard of lots of beasts that go in there and never come out...they say the mirages in the daytime trick beasts—making them think they see a way out, but they really just wander and wander, day after day, following mirage after mirage, until they run out of water and die. I’d rather face the Wrackshees than just leave my bones to bleach out in the Drain.” Christer knew that the Drain—made of dazzling white sandstone polished to a mirror-like surface by the constant wind carrying fine particles of the eroding sand—was a death trap.
“Yash, Christer,” Darnt replied, “that’s why you must go with the Sn’akers—they follow the Heart of Ink—that’s the only way—and travel only by night. In the daytime, even if you ignore the mirages—which most beasts can’t—the sunlight dazzles so brightly off the white sandstone of the Drain that you can’t find directions anyway. Nash—travel only by night. The Sn’akers set their course on the Heart of Ink, the brightest star in Scrodder’s Tattoo, and keep moving by night and hiding by day. I’ve made arrangements for them to take you and Helga through to the coast—and that’s your only way out now. Take it or die a slave at Tilk Duraow!”
Pointing toward Scrodder’s Tattoo, Darnt continued, “There, you see it—the Heart of Ink is almost at the center of the Tattoo, but hangs almost by itself in the blackness around it.” Darnt paused briefly, then repeated, “Sn’akers find their way by the Heart of Ink. Hide and sleep during the day, travel only at night. That will take you across the Dismal Drain in safety. Tonight is the most dangerous portion of the trip—by morning you will be across the mountains and beyond the main Wrackshee areas, still dangerous but the worst will be over.”
“I reckon you’re about right, Darnt,” Christer replied with a smile, “but I don’t want to slow them down, and I can’t keep up the pace—especially in the dark.”
“Nash, Christer,” Darnt replied, “Sn’akers carry you and Helga in the pole-rolls. The Wrackshees have kept most honest beasts from traveling for now, so they’ve got enough empty space in the pole-packs for the two of you. Go with them to Port Newolf and you can find your way home from there.”
Darnt paused as the Sn’aker leader barked out a command, “Going! Now! Quick to the packs! Bring the pole-pack over here!”
In an instant the Snake-takers were on their feet and again lifting their packs into place—two large packs per snake-taker, one to the front, the other to the back, sturdy straps connecting the packs securely across the shoulders and around the waist. Snake-takers were renowned for strength and endurance and this band of mountain beasts was no exception to the rule: most were so tall and brawny that their huge packs appeared small against their bodies. The powerful arms and legs of Zanists and Pogwaggers pulsated with readiness—iron-spring muscles quivering for their leader’s command to go. Seemingly tireless when on a trading run, Zanists and Pogwaggers needed only ten hours to take their cargo sixty miles, including rest stops. Helga could easily see the intense coiled energy that would carry her and Christer quickly across the mountains to the coast.
Helga noticed that the Sn’akers had once been well clad—cotton pants reaching half way down the thigh, a cotton shirt, open in front except for loose lacing to keep it from flapping in the breeze, and triple-layer soft leather moccasins on their feet. But that had apparently been at the beginning of their trip, as now only bits and pieces of clothing were still in use. It took many partially-clad beasts to guess at the full-picture of what the troop normally wore before the exertion of their labor caused their clothes to begin to come off piece by piece. By the time they had been running for several hours, racing over the mountain paths, the Snake-takers needed hardly any clothes to keep them warm, even in the coolness of the mountain nights. Proud of their speed, and knowing no other kind of life than this, most Snake-takers, by the time they had run an hour or so, wore little more cloth covering them than was needed to signify a decent beast.
Three brawny young Pogwaggers, two Grizzly Bears and a Horse—perfectly matched in height and bulk—trotted over to where Darnt stood with Helga and Christer. Helga could see that the youthful Sn’akers were barely older than herself, but the harsh work of a Sn’aker runner had clearly taken its toll, leaving their faces looking worn and aged beyond their years.
Two long hollow poles ran across the shoulders of the three powerful Snake-takers. Sturdy reed mats slung on the poles—two before and two after the middle Pogwagger— formed teardrop-shaped sacks. Kneeling down, the Pogwaggers allowed the sacks to touch the ground, opening the sacks to their fullest extent.
“Climb in,” Darnt said, motioning for Helga and Christer to wriggle in at the open end of the sacks.
“But when the pack carriers get up, we won’t be able to move!” Helga exclaimed. “The pack will close tight around us and we’ll just have to lie there like a bound-up bundle until the Pogwaggers stop again and let us out! What kind of way to travel is that?” Helga was astonished at such treatment.
“Nash, my good beastie,” Darnt replied, “and what would you expect from traveling with a snake-trading run? They’ve got to move fast and careful in the dark—they can’t have passengers shifting around and getting themselves comfortable, it makes the packs wobble. That’s too hard on the runners—slows the runners and it’s dangerous on mountain trails. The runners got to control their cargo—not the other way around! That’s the way it is.” Darnt looked seriously at Helga, then continued, “You want to make yourself comfy, then you get yourself to the coast by yourself. You go with the Sn’akers, you go their way.”
Looking sorrowfully at Christer, Helga shrugged and knelt down to crawl into one of the pole-sacks. She was surprised to find it was already occupied. Looking at Darnt in confusion, she pointed to the sack next to the one she had first approached. “Snake-takers get two hours off to rest,” she explained. “There’s a few of the runners resting while the others are running. Sn’akers keep a couple of slots open for those who get injured or sick—or to let passengers on urgent business ride if we can. That would be you,” she chuckled. “Come on there, friend,” she continued, “wake up and get back to work!”
The Zanist who had been sleeping in the pole-sack got up and, shaking out his arms and legs, prepared to go back to work as a runner. “There ya are,” Darnt said, “climb on in there—one of you on each side. They will fill the front two pole-sacks with snakeskin bales to balance the load. Now get on in there and settle in for the ride.”
Sighing with resignation and casting one last longing gaze at the night sky, Helga crawled into the open pole-sack indicated by Darnt. Christer wriggled into another. Helga was hardly straightened out in her sack when the command to depart was given, “Going! Now! Quick on your stumps! Lively and forward!”
With an amazingly smooth lift, the Zanists and Pogwaggers leaped to their feet in unison and set off at a rapid trot. The evenness and synchronized harmony of their movement created only the slightest rocking motion to Helga’s sack. The gentle swaying and soft padding of the runners feet in their triple-layer soft leather moccasins soon soothed Helga into a deep sleep.