A while later, Bad Bone sat chewing dried snake meat and sticky wads of rice from the satchel he carried. He watched a rain cloud sweep over the mountainside below them. Borjent walked up and dropped to the ground beside him. “The rain is a good thing for us,” he smiled. “It makes the trees grow to massive size. Some of the cedars are over a thousand years old. What we see of the forest from here is one of the best roadways imaginable for Borfs. The gigantic trees form a dense canopy—a network of huge limbs and mossy vines. Where the limbs and vines fail us, our folk have strung net pathways from tree to tree—think only of the ground, and you will never escape from the Confusion of Hopes,” he observed. “But consider the canopy, and all the directions are open to you. A strong Climbing Lynx like you will find it wee beast’s play.”
“I don’t like water,” Bad Bone remarked glumly, “but it looks like a tremendous adventure!” he concluded with a smile.
“The rains come off of the Great Sea, which is just beyond that last line of low peaks you see at the horizon,” Borjent replied. “The clouds drop most of their rain as they rise up over this high ridge, so one side is very wet, and the other much drier.”
“Wee-heww...” Bad Bone whistled as his eyes took in the sharp contrast between the two sides of the mountain ridge.
“The ridge is a sort of demarcation line,” the Coyote continued. “Along the Misty Coast of the Great Sea, rain clouds develop every afternoon and move inland. Rain pours down on the wet side of the ridge all night long. But on the other side, it rains only a little—you never suspect such a contrast until you reach the summit.”
“Well, I still don’t like to get wet,” Bad Bone laughed.
“And you won’t,” Borjent said. “We will cross the Confusion of Hopes in a few hours—the route is easy for us. We will be on the high ground again, and heading into our homelands, before the rains begin. We will camp here tonight and set out just after dawn tomorrow.”
Bad Bone smiled broadly. “I’ll be up early and see to the cook fires,” he said, showing his pleasure at the plan.
“Well, not so fast, my friend,” Borjent laughed. “I’ve got a task for you before you cross the Confusion of Hopes and go to our home.” He paused and rolled out a reed mat in front of them. “When you lived among us while you healed, we accepted you, but did not fully trust you. You were a Lynx in service to the High One and we dared not show you everything about our life. But now, as a new member of the clan, there is something that you must see.” He pointed to the mat, which was actually a rude map. “Two day’s trek from here, some distance into the forests on the dry side of the ridge, lies a caravan way-station, Mis’tashe. Caravans travel back and forth between Port Newolf, on the Great Sea, and the Hedgelands, carrying slaves and trallés. They halt at Mis’tashe to take on food and water.” He could see from his friend’s intent gaze that Bad Bone was listening with great interest.
“The Borf never attack the caravans in that region. The terrain is too difficult and there is no easy escape with captured trallés—there are more favorable places to launch our raids,” he continued. “The caravan masters know they are safe at the way-station, so they do not mount heavy guards.” He pointed at the map with a stick, tracing a route. “A skilled climber like you can approach the caravan rest stop from this direction. I want you to lead a small scouting party and see what a trallé caravan looks like—you will need this understanding to help us later in our raids. Are you ready for such a mission?”
“Fitted with iron in my knees, and fire in my eyes, brother!” Bad Bone declared.
“I ask you to take Bormarojey and Bormaso,” Borjent directed, naming two seasoned Borf Squirrels that Bad Bone knew well. “You will put the ‘dead beast’s eye’ on the caravan,” he instructed. “No one pays attention to the gaze of a dead beast,” he explained, seeing Bad Bone’s quizzical look. “You are to scout the caravan with such stealth that you are noticed as much as the gaze of a dead beast.” Giving thorough instructions with the assistance of the map, Borjent directed that the scouting party leave immediately. “You will rejoin us at our home camp in not more than five days,” he concluded. The beasts going with you are well-used to the route. You will do well.” So saying, he left the Lynx to reflect on all he had learned and prepare himself for his mission.
Finishing his simple repast, Bad Bone went to gather the other members of his scouting party. He found the two Squirrels sitting at the bottom of a tiny waterfall spilling out of a crevice in the rock above them. Holding gourd cups under the falls, they used gulps of cold water to wash down the dry snake meat they were eating.
Calling to Bormarojey and Bormaso, he told them of their mission. Silently, a general smile moved across their faces. They were pleased to go with Bad Bone on the proposed journey. Bormaso spoke what was in the heart of both Borf Squirrels: “That a Lynx goes with Borf to cast the dead beast’s eye on one of the High One’s caravans is something new under the sun. The High One’s sleep will be disturbed before he hears the last of this.”
Casting the Dead Beast’s Eye