Helga: Out of Hedgelands by Rick Johnson (historical books to read TXT) 📕

“And that will be my father!” Helga hollered. The news threw Helga’s mind into turmoil. In the shadows cast by the firelight on the cave walls, Helga seemed to see the stricken ship, with shadowy bands of Wrackshee slavers flickering all around them.

Trembling in every nerve—passionate fear, terrifying memories, and excitement mingling in a potent outburst of enthusiasm—Helga suddenly leaped up and ran to the cave opening, beckoning for the others to follow. “Come on! Why do we wait? Hurry! There is no time to waste!” Seeing that her friends just stared at her as they continued to lounge around the fire, rage and astonishment surged through Helga. “Are you dead? Senseless? Do we plan to let our friends become slaves? Come with me, or I will go alone! We must act without delay!” Helga exploded. “The sailors need our help and all of them are in the greatest danger!”

“Whoa n’ wait a bit,” Christer said slowly, “just hold on while we figure a bit. There’s no time to waste, that’s for certain, and I’m fully agreed with you there—but there’s room for figuring to even up the odds a bit, if you ask me.” Christer paused, clucking his tongue happily, as if he had just told a joke no one else understood.

“What’s first,” Christer continued, “...what’s first, is that you can go the way the Sn’akers go and beat the Wrackshees at their own game. The Sn’akers’ business is to elude the Wrackshees and no one does it better. A party of Sn’akers stops near here tonight to pick up our snakeskin bales and take them to Port Newolf. If you don’t mind riding with the bales of skins, they can carry you, too! That’d be the fastest and safest way to get to the wrecked ship. If they’ve got room in one of their litters, the Sn’akers will gladly take you with them—they hate the Wrackshees and will be happy to help.”

“Yar!” Roolo cheered. “Now we’ll be out of here and off to help our mates! When will the Snake-takers be here?”

“Hold on partner,” Christer replied, “you’re not going anywhere fast. Only Helga can go with the Sn’akers—their litters will be pretty full as it is and they won’t have room for you all. And only the Snake-takers can run swift, but silent in the dark—too many is too much in Wrackshee country. So you just settle down with your Wheeze and rest a spell.”

“What!” Roolo cried. “Stay here, while our mates are in danger and send Helga out to face the Wrackshees alone? That’s crazy!”

“Just hear what’s second,” Christer replied. “Helga going with the Snake-takers will get her to the ship and maybe to her father. So, while Helga takes the faster route to the ship, you and Bomper can take a longer route around and meet her there. You’ll be plenty safe skirting around the Wrackshee areas and you’ll still be at the ship in good time. So that’s my two thoughts.”

Although everyone wanted to continue the journey together, they also saw the wisdom in Christer’s plan.

“Aye,” Roolo said, “there’s no reason to run unnecessary risk and Helga has the most to gain from going on ahead. We’ll meet again at the ship.”

“Heh-heh-heh,” Christer chuckled, “so it’s settled. An hour after the twilight turns to dark, we leave to meet the Snake-takers.”

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