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

you are the High One...your power is without equal. Even more, your mind is greater than all. Why do you insist on wasting your potential? You might buy more cheaply the things you crave, and sell more dearly the things you steal, if you would use your inventiveness to improve our tidy little trade. You have invented a great traveling machine—one such as the world has not before seen. It could carry our commerce easily over the mountains. It would save months of journeying by foot and boat. The riches you have now would be a mere pocket of dust in comparison.”

Fropperdaft was not listening. Instead, he was talking non-stop, as if no one else was speaking. Delivering his observations on the mechanisms and theory of his most recent invention, he strode rapidly around the room, waving his arms wildly as he worked equations in the air and pointed out the details of his invention as he saw them in his mind. 

“You see, dear Colonel,” he said, “the fundamental problem with traditional passenger or cargo balloons is that they are dependent on air currents to move. They move only as fast as the wind and go only where the currents carry them. But, I have invented a balloon that does not depend on the winds! With a very precise boost at launch and a continuing source of propulsion, the balloon can be steered wherever the pilot wishes.” Giving the bellows a mighty squeeze for emphasis, a shower of sparks shot off of the forge onto the stone floor directly in front of Colonel Snart.

Then he continued. “Adding a bicycular fan-jet to the balloon allows the passenger, with minimum effort, to greatly boost propulsion power. The jets can be manipulated to enable precise control and steering—even in strong winds!” His metallic voice became even more loud and harsh: “With this bicycular balloon, the construction of Maev Astuté will accelerate. Stones will fly up to the castle by the dozens with the aid or my invention. Maev Astuté will ascend into the heavens rapidly. I will be the greatest builder of all the High Ones. Why should Maev Astuté crawl into the skies, one level at a time? I will finish Maev Astuté! Erelong I will be a god!”

“Yes! Yes!” Colonel Snart exclaimed, “Your bicycular balloon will be the invention of the age! It will revolutionize travel. But don’t waste it on building Maev Astuté! Let it carry the tidy little trade...We both will be wealthy beyond any dream we have ever had. I will send you as many additional slaves as you need to build Maev Astuté. The work can continue as it always has. But let me use the bicycular balloon for the tidy little trade.”

The High One gave another powerful squeeze to the bellows sending another shower of sparks around Colonel Snart’s feet. “You see, dear Colonel,” he replied, “trade cannot compete with divinity. A god no longer craves fine cheese. I will build the glory of Maev Astuté! What other High Ones have labored for over centuries, I will exceed a thousandfold.”

Walking over to a set of double doors, Fropperdaft continued, “Behind these doors is my finest invention. You will be the first to see it.” Opening the double doors, he revealed a sleek bicycle with several silver metal cylinders attached behind and below the seat.

“Notice, dear Colonel, that this unique machine looks like an ordinary bicycle. However, looks are deceiving. When a rider mounts the machine and pushes forward, this bicycular balloon slides onto a launcher that accelerates the machine to a high speed. Then, at precisely the moment it reaches maximum velocity, it shoots out of the castle through an automatic door. It flies into open air and the balloon inflates. The boost of the launch, with speed added by the rider peddling the fan-jet mechanism, propels and steers my airborne wonder! If my calculations are correct, my bicycular balloon will easily lift a full-load of stones and steer through the fierce and unpredictable mountain winds. With many of my new machines, Maev Astuté will be finished rapidly.”

The High One looked majestically at Colonel Snart. “Soon, you will see...” His words were broken off by the sudden entry of a Royal Patrol detachment. They were escorting a Wood Cow who was obviously their prisoner. The Wood Cow carried a frail and unconscious Coyote over his shoulders. The Skull Buzzard wearing a commander’s insignia stepped toward the High One and whispered in his ear. Fropperdaft’s face became pale for an instant, but then took on a harsh scowl. He was shaking with rage.

“You! Wood Cow! Drop to your knees and lick my boots right now, or die! How dare you disrupt the sacred climb! You have killed a Royal Patrol! No insult like this has ever occurred before in all the ages of the Hedgelands. Drop to your knees and grovel! Beg for mercy! Lick my boots! Plead for your life!” The High One stormed on and on in a very bad temper, his voice rising to a higher and higher screech. The more he screeched and ranted, the less he seemed actually to be present. The shock of such an unparalleled affront seemed to have sent him into a blind rage.

For his part, Emil said nothing, but his mind was racing. While Fropperdaft screeched, becoming less and less aware of what was happening, Emil surveyed escape possibilities. The Royal Patrol guards were agog, never having seen such a spectacular show of bad temper. Their watchfulness was not sharp, Emil noted.

Only Colonel Snart seemed to have his wits about him, watching Emil’s every move. He seemed to sense that the Wood Cow was dangerously clever and brave.

Emil spoke softly into the Coyote’s ear: “OK, old fellow, don’t worry. It’s going to get a little rough for a few moments, but with the help of the Ancient Ones, we’ll be out of here in a jiffy.” The unconscious Coyote did not reply.

In one swift movement, Emil suddenly tossed the Coyote off his shoulders and, with a single mighty heave, sent the poor creature sailing directly into Colonel Snart’s face. The startled colonel had no time to react as the body of the Coyote hit him full force, knocking him backward toward the forge. Staggering backward, Colonel Snart reached to break his fall and put both his paws directly onto the red-hot coals of the forge.

“YEOOOOWWW!” Colonel Snart howled and leaped away from the forge holding his burned paws. In the same instant, Emil scooped up the Coyote once again. Holding the poor creature tightly under his arm, he dashed toward the open double doors where the bicycle was parked.

The sudden commotion brought the Royal Patrol back to their duty. “Grab him,” the Skull Buzzard commander yelled. “Stop him! Don’t let him get away!”

But it was too late. Emil threw himself on the seat of the High One’s bicycle—as he supposed it to be—and pushed off, hoping to escape. He succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. With the Coyote draped over his shoulder, Emil had the ride of his life. The High One’s bicycular balloon worked perfectly. Launched with exactly the velocity Fropperdaft had calculated, and peddling furiously, Emil and the Coyote sailed high over the Don’ot Stumb Mountains.

For days following all these unparalleled events, the High One secluded himself in his Throne Room. The Hedgeland folk were anxiously watchful. What would the High One do? The sacred climb had been disturbed. A Royal Patrol had been attacked and killed. Rumors flew that the same Wood Cow had brazenly attacked the High One’s brother within the Throne Room of Maev Astuté and escaped with the most precious possession of the High One. Something awful would surely be coming out of Maev Astuté. But what?

 

A Mission Accepted

Fropperdaft was annoyed. He was groping about on the floor for a screw he had dropped. It was the third time he had dropped the same screw. As he crept about trying to find it, he banged his head on the underside of his workbench. OUCH! It was the second time. He felt a headache coming on. The morning had not gone well. Earlier he had broken a bolt off as he tightened it. Another bolt had stripped its threads. A gear tooth had snapped off. He seemed to be all thumbs. What a day! Very annoying.

It was all the fault of that insolent Wood Cow that had upset him. An attack on one Royal Patrol with Skull Buzzards dead. An attack on another Royal Patrol within the confines of his very own Throne Room! An attack on his brother. Stealing his most prized invention and escaping. Such things could not be contemplated. It was too astonishing for words. It gave him a headache—even without his other troubles.

But that would soon change. Fropperdaft had decided that historic and urgent actions must be taken to destroy the Wood Cow society once and for all. The upcoming celebration of Clear Water’s Day—with its theme of purification and cleanliness—offered a perfect opportunity to cleanse the Hedgelands of the foul odor of the Wood Cows.

From time immemorial, the High Ones had issued a royal proclamation especially for Clear Water’s Day. And Fropperdaft had decided that this year’s proclamation must be changed. “I must recall the first proclamation I sent and replace it with a new one. Time is short. There is no time to have the proclamations returned to me via Weasel Courier. I will have to call upon the Messenger Jays. That is the only way I can change the proclamation in time for Clear Water’s Day. The Jays must carry a message to the Keepers of the Light, directing them to destroy my first proclamation and substitute the new one.” The High One smiled malignantly as he considered his plan.

At that moment, he heard the sound of Bad Bone coming up the stairway to the Throne Room. Chain mail boots sounded swish-luckt...swish-luckt...swish-luckt on the stairs. No one else wore chain mail boots. It could only be Bad Bone. The High One smiled. He had a job for his friend. Fropperdaft felt happier to think about that. He chuckled. “Yes, indeed,” he thought with some returning glee, “I have a fine assignment for him.” Reaching to pick up the lost screw, his mind focused on the approaching meeting with Bad Bone. Without thinking where he was, Fropperdaft stood up. CLUNKKK! His head slammed hard into the edge of the workbench. “Bah! Sharant! Blast that Wood Cow,” he fumed.

A moment later, Bad Bone entered the room. An exceptionally large and powerfully-built Climbing Lynx, he wore the traditional deep blue tunic of the Order of a High Peaks Worthy. Fingerless gloves and boots of finely made chain mail completed his dress. He had a reputation as the greatest climber in the Hedgelands. Unlike the rest of the Hedgies who had a climbing date as part of their name, Climbing Lynx had no number. They were trained to climb from birth and were on the stairs to Maev Astuté throughout their lives. Scattered through the line of stair climbers, the Climbing Lynx kept the line moving and in step. Their example and exhortation, backed by the terror of the Royal Patrol, kept the stair-climbers in perfect order.

Bad Bone was a special case, however. In his chain mail boots, Bad Bone could swiftly cross even the roughest terrain with great speed. He moved like a speeding shadow. A small grappling hook on a rope was coiled at his belt, and he carried a longbow. He could climb virtually anywhere quickly. For this reason, the High One called on him for special missions of state.

“The Wood Cow has ruined my day, Bad Bone...He’s ruined my work,