There was a long period of silence as the two unlikely comrades gazed at each other with respect. Then, Breister said gravely, “Enough of this—there’s little time. That mob of Buzzards is crawling all over the place. You must get away.” He urgently motioned his friend to depart. “You’re the best climber there is. Now go and climb for all you’re worth—time is short.”
“I have learned the mountains well,” Bad Bone replied. “There are places that no pursuer will be able to track me. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine—it’ll be a solitary life, but I need some time to think. It will be well for me.”
As Bad Bone turned to leave, Breister said, “There’s a pair of my reed boots near the workshop door. They should fit over your chain mail and deaden the sound. You’ve got to go quietly.”
The Lynx disappeared into the darkness, leaving Breister on watch in case the Royal Patrol returned.
It was a very dark night. With the outhouse lamp broken, Breister was left to peer through the gloom. Few beasts were stirring. A pair walked past on the way home from the tavern—singing and joking. Wisps of fog hung in depressions here and there, softening the yellow glow from the windows of houses scattered farther down the road.
As he kept watch, Breister could hear more than he could see. The large bell at Thedford’s Crossing, counting off the last hours before the Wood Cow settlement would be deserted...The babble of voices at Glad Bean’s Road House, having a final game of draughts and finishing off the last keg of Gulletwash...The mournful cry of Brigitte, the Steffes’ infant, wailing for the last time in the house where she was born...So many generations, spent in tidy houses nestled under O’Fallon’s Bluff...In a few hours, it would all be history.
Milky Joe
As the mid-day sun beat down, a caravan of Wood Cow carts and wagons, accompanied by a contingent of Royal Patrol soldiers, halted at Bazoot’s Store. A country store at the remote fringe of Hedgie settlements, Bazoot’s sat at a place where the Forever End crossed a wide and fairly level meadow. In the clearing in front of the general store, some fifty Digger Hogs and Axe Beavers loitered, lounging around a small, dirty fire. The campsite of dingy tents, the dirt-caked tools, the smell of new-sawn logs—all explained the large, ragged break that had been created in the Hedge.
The travelers used the stop to take on additional water and make some final adjustments to their carts and baggage. Then, one by one, wagons bumped through the crude gap in the Hedge. Skull Buzzards inspected each one to make sure no stowaways were aboard. Once through the Hedge, each family took its own bearings. Most joined a long wagon train headed west, but a few intended to settle just beyond the Hedge, and Helga’s family had its own plans.
The inspections were maddeningly slow. While they waited, parties of exiles talked in excited, but anxious tones. Before the opening stood some thirty or forty Hedge Blades—the elite battalion of Skull Buzzards assigned to guard the Forever End. Gazing grimly out from beneath their broad-brimmed, steel helmets, they crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking advance toward the Hedge. When an inspection was complete, the line parted to allow passage, and then closed again to await the next approved party. Presenting a long line of razor-sharp swords—each 4 feet long—there would be no passing through the Hedge without their consent.
Scurrying back and forth among the émigrés, a few of Bazoot’s clerks sold items to the travelers. Breister was glad to purchase some rivets to repair a fastening that had unexpectedly popped loose. In the midst of the crowd, Bazoot himself was pushing a barrel of Strawberry Fogg, “Hey-Hetty, me bully-wats! Cold Fogg, swallers and cups—last chance for civilized drink!” The fat Woodchuck waddled merrily, long hair and apron flapping in the breeze. Here and there the jovial storekeeper stopped to turn the spigot for customers taking a last swig of Fogg before beginning their journey into the unknown.
On a bench close by the line of Hedge Blades, a Wolf sat with a heavy ledger lying across his knees. A second Wolf—an albino, small and thick-necked, with a large bristly moustache—stood nearby flipping gold coins high in the air. Attracted by the glint of the flying coins, a crowd was gathering around him. Helga found something familiar about him—the clouded, pink eyes; the hard, chiseled jaw—somewhere she had seen him before. But his powerful voice shook her memory as he shouted out a rhyme:
Jokes ’n tricks upon the King,
A pocket full of coins
Twenty-seven rings
To every beast as joins
Milky Joe is here to take you
To live a life of ease
Line up all you nameless whos
For riches as you please
Come along with Milky Joe
Throw off your toil and woe
Let the King foam and mutter