Bad Bone again was silent. His thoughts were busy, and his heart full. The offer was tempting. He liked the Borf and he relished the idea of avenging the wrongs the High One had done to Helga and her friends.
“Why does the High One not pursue you?” he asked at last. “If you raid him continually and steal his trallés, why does he not send Royal Patrol Buzzards to destroy you? He has enough, I should think...” Bad Bone was genuinely puzzled about details of Borjent’s story. “The Borf lands are still within the Forever End,” he continued. “You are subjects of the High One, are you not? Surely the High One does not allow rebels and bandits such as you to go unpunished?” Fear of capture played no part in Bad Bone’s questioning, but if he was to join the Borf, he wanted to know how things were.
Borjent laughed heartily as he heard the questions. Looking at his inquisitive friend, he gave his face a very stern expression and moved his lips as if talking forcefully—but actually said nothing. Bad Bone, feeling even more confused, gave Borjent a perplexed look. Borject repeated the stern expression and forceful, but soundless, movement of his lips.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Bad Bone clearly did not understand what Borjent was trying to tell him. With tears of merriment shining in his eyes, the Borf leader clasped Bad Bone’s shoulders in affectionate embrace. “Dear friend,” he said, “do not be surprised that I laugh at your questions.” Pausing briefly to stifle his chuckles, the Coyote continued, “Beyond the Confusion of Hopes the commands of the High One are not heard. That is the meaning of my stern looks and soundless shouting.” He once again chuckled. “The High One makes many words, but there are places that they are not heard.” The Coyote once again looked sternly at Bad Bone and soundlessly shouted at him. Then, smiling at his friend, he said, “The Borf do not hear the High One’s noise.”
“But, what about the Forever End?” Bad Bone asked. “What about the Crowning Glory and the sacred climb? What about the Royal Patrols? What about the Hedge Blades? Surely the High One doesn’t just ignore your attacks and leave you to yourselves?”
“The Hedge is only as strong as the High One’s words!” Borjent replied. “Where my folk live, no Royal Patrol has ever been seen! The Hedge was never completely planted—there is no Hedge beyond the Borf homelands! The High One claims many lands where his words are mere noise.” Borjent shouted again in silence to emphasize his point. Then he chuckled and embraced Bad Bone once again. “The High One’s words are heard in many places, and his Patrols back up his words where it is easy to do so. But, where his words are not heard, and it is not easy for his cutthroat Buzzards to make folk hear his words—in those places, we hear only our own words. The Borf speak for ourselves.”
Bad Bone remembered one of his missions into a wild, barely-settled region of the Hedgelands. He had seen stretches of the Forever End in disrepair. Obviously untended, but still a formidable barrier, he had not imagined that the Hedge might end altogether in some of the far away clan homelands. “A life beyond the reach of the High One?” Bad Bone tried to imagine such a thing.
“My life, I am a Borf!” the fugitive Lynx exclaimed. “When do we leave?” he added, feeling a tingling sense of new-found freedom.
Beyond the High One’s Reach
In the days following his decision to join the Borf, Bad Bone whole-heartedly fell into the life of the nomadic clan. For eight days, festivities of welcome for the new clan member continued. The food of the wandering folk was simple, but plentiful—huge pots of sweet, sticky rice, eaten in paw-sized balls, and the usual roasted lizards. There were nightly dances accompanied by dozens of small lizard skin drums, tuned to different pitches; turtle-shell tambourines; and snake rattle shakers. The adults sang raucous songs and played instruments as they watched the young beasts dance on their front paws and perform acrobatic stunts. Bad Bone commented that he had “never seen creatures with such wonderful strength in their arms” as he watched them dance for hours without stopping. When the nightly festivities ended, the camp fell into a silent, satisfied sleep.
In addition to feasts and frolics, however, Bad Bone’s welcome also included introduction to camp life—rising early to set water boiling in the cook pots, curing snake skins in the sun to make clothing, and caring for the wee beasts with songs and games. Finding safety from his pursuers, Bad Bone also found an acceptance for which he had long yearned. “If brotherhood is more than a word,” he thought, “this must be what it is like.”
When the Borf broke camp, they journeyed through a narrow opening, called Tramandrivot—the ‘Axe Mark’ in Kinshy—in an otherwise impassable razorback ridge.