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.”