“Pogs,” the Grizzly replied slowly, as if considering how many words to use. “You Roundies ruined the Pog-Bogs and have driven all us Pogwaggers to famine and want. You want a reason I hate and despise you—well, there you have it. If I were free I would hope to slit your gut from chin to toe. I should have done it when I had a chance, but I thought seeing you sold into slavery would be better.”
This explanation sent Helga’s mind reeling. Pogs? Those little annoying frogs whose croaking in the Pog-Bogs kept everyone sleepless during the spring? Pogs? She was sitting here with a well-muscled Grizzly hoping to kill her, because of tiny frogs? How hard the Roundies had worked to drain the Pog-Bogs to open up more space for cornfields, potato patches, and carrot beds. And how soundly the Roundies slept, now that the Pogs were gone. The world was, indeed, a strange and uncertain place.
“But, I’ve never seen a Pogwagger anywhere near the Rounds. I don’t even know anything about Pogwaggers—why, you’re about the first Pogwagger I ever saw. All I know is that you Pogwaggers live somewhere in the Drownlands,” Helga said. “What do Pogs in the Rounds have to do with you Pogwaggers living somewhere, far away, that I have no idea about?”
“Our clans have lived in Open Wets of the Drownlands for generations,” the Grizzly replied, calming down somewhat, but still viewing Helga with disgust. “Our folk used to live by catching Waggers—a big lizard that feeds on full-grown Pogs. There’s two kinds of Pogs you have in the Rounds: female Pogs that come back to the Pog-Bogs to lay their eggs and die, and the young, newly-hatched Pogs—what we call Pog-Willies—the ones just a few weeks old. When Pog-Willies reach a certain size, they leave the Pog-Bogs and migrate to the Open Wets of the Drownlands. There, the Waggers feed on them, and our folk catch the Waggers—we eat them and use their skin, claws, and teeth for lots of things.” The Grizzly paused and gave Helga an especially harsh look. “That is, that’s the way it used to be—when there were still Waggers around.”
“What do you mean, when there were still Waggers around,” Helga asked.
“When you Roundies drained the Pog-Bogs, that was the end of the Pogs,” the Grizzly said in a cold, even voice. “And when the Pogs stopped coming to the Open Wets, the Waggers died off as well—no Pogs, no Waggers; no Waggers, and we Pogwaggers go hungry.” The Grizzly stopped and looked sadly away, as if visiting another place in her mind.
“When I was a small beast,” she continued, “I lived in a bag-house—that’s a lizard skin tent—with my parents, my grandmother, my brothers and sisters, and, usually about 20 Waggers. Yep, we kept the Waggers in cages at one end of the tent and we lived at the other. Waggers are extremely hard to capture. Sometimes you’re having a good day and catch several—and that might be all you’ll be able to catch for weeks, so you want to keep them! Grandmother always kept a swamp grass fire burning in the middle of our bag-house. She would cook up a thick porridge of swamp cabbage, Wagger meat, and wild pumpkins in a large cauldron, and let it simmer all day. I swear, just the smell of that soup would drive me nearly crazy—it smelled so good!”
The Pogwagger seemed to be in a reverie, transported in her mind to those days of her youth. After a time, she turned and look Helga dead in the eye, “But all of that is gone now—all gone now, vanished forever,” she said icily. “The Pogwaggers are scattered to the winds now—everyone scrabbling for some way to live. Our whole way of life is gone—destroyed—everything we had depended on the Waggers. Now we eke out a living as we can, or sit and sadly watch everything we knew fall apart. The young mostly leave and do anything they find to do, or get tempted into—like me and this scheme to steal some snakeskins and take some slaves to sell. But, as you said, that was a plan that should have stopped a bit shorter than it did.”
A Prime Lot of Butter
Helga and the Grizzly fell into silence as the Wrackshee flotilla continued its way downstream under the starry sky. Gradually, the gentle rocking of the boat lulled them to sleep. Neither one stirred from their peaceful sleep until they were jolted awake by the Wrackshee leader loudly giving commands. “Snuck’s Ear just around the next bend! Prepare to dock! Get the varmints ready for sale!”
Blinking in the bright light of morning, Helga was unable to see what was happening on the river because of the gunwales. However, as the Wrackshee flotilla rounded the river’s bend, she could see that they were approaching a rocky wall with a huge chunk of rock sticking out in the unmistakable shape of a gigantic ear! Whisps of smoke curled around the ear, adding to the weird sight.