Ola came to the Drownlands each spring and autumn, during the great trading seasons. He always found travelers in need of help at trading time. “The creatures are always in troouble with the bandits and getting’ lost,” Ola explained. “There’s always a need for Ola.” Wandering the Drownlands, he meditated, played his flute, and rescued travelers in trouble.
Among the maze of bayous and lakes, time seemed to stand still. The sheer isolation and vastness of the Drownlands seemed to make yesterday, today, and tomorrow useless ideas. Underground springs created a lush wetlands. Expanses of grass and reeds were interspersed with groves of giant trees that towered above the wetlands in places. Here and there were snaking runs of lesser trees and scrub bushes along bayous. Any effort to leave the canoe seemed pointless—there was little solid ground, much quicksand, and the grass was impenetrably thick. The streams, lakes and bayous were the only ‘roads.’
Helga could understand why Ola said this was a land of hideouts. A bandit could easily lose himself here and never be found.
Finally, after seven days, Helga noticed signs of commerce. Other canoes, small boats, and large flat-bottom barges pushed with poles gradually became more and more frequent. All were filled to overflowing with creatures and goods, many loaded so heavily that they seemed in danger of capsizing. Where there had been hardly a sign of life, now there seemed to be boats of every description coming from every direction.
King Stuppy Marit’s Trading Post was the only permanently inhabited outpost in the Drownlands. The nearest trading center other than King Stuppy’s was more than a week distant by canoe. If it had to do with commerce or trade, it came to King Stuppy—including assorted ‘bad goods’ from theft and banditry. Stuppy’s sign said it plainly: “KING STUPPY MARIT’S TRADING POST—We Buys It All, And Sells It All; Keep Your Questions To Yourself!”
As their canoe nosed up to the dock, Helga did not feel good about what she saw. Surely there were a great number of honest traders here, but the sly and sinister face was everywhere. Boats, so loaded with passengers that they hung off the sides, also bristled with machetes, cutlasses and pikes. Apparently a safe voyage was not always assured. One large, flat-bottomed boat loaded with Jackrabbits, Muskrats, Beavers, Geese, Raccoons and Coyotes—and every space between them crammed with bags of cornmeal, oats, pinenuts, and barrels of pickled fish—flipped over with a huge ‘SPOOLSH!’ sending passengers and goods into the water. Quickly, small pirogues of King Stuppy’s Dock Squirrels rowed out to help the unfortunate creatures and rescue what could be saved of the cargo. Helga thought it was a miracle that more boats did not swamp, so amazingly overloaded were they.
Creatures came down out of the isolated bayous and lakes twice a year, loaded with all the things they had grown, made, stolen, or caught. King Stuppy operated ferryboats that he sent up some of the largest bayous—to the North in the Spring and to the south in the Fall—picking up passengers along the way, bringing them to his trading post. Since there was only one ferryboat trip, out and back, each year, they packed every possible passenger aboard. And the cargo! Piles of ornately woven grass mats, hats, and bags. Sacks of meal and grains. Barrels of candied berries and ciders. Finely-made and rustic furniture. Crates of dried mushrooms. Cases of pickled roaches and beetles. Baskets of turtle eggs. Vendors hawking brightly colored pants and shirts from the boat—small canoes coming out to buy as the boat moved along. Sometimes, the ferries would have racks of huge catfish hanging, drying by the dozens in the sun, as Barge Goats poled the vessel along.
The smells and sights were so intense that it made Helga woozy. Although she’d lived a hard life and endured great hardships, she still could not comprehend the dirt and filth at King Stuppy Marit’s. Drooping moss overhung everywhere, giving the place a damp, half-rotted feeling. Inside the public house, the walls and ceiling were caked with layer upon layer of residue from cooking fires and pipe-smoke. Rough tables were smeared with spilled food and littered with dirty tin plates piled high with gnawed bones and gristle, crusts of coarse bread, and the scooped-out skins of baked lizards. The floor was wet and slippery from many spilled tankards of Drownlands Grog. Piles of filthy burlap sacks were scattered here and there with creatures lounging on them smoking long clay pipes and drinking Ale. King Stuppy’s establishment did not impress her.
Though she had been raised from age five by Roundies—and had seen many different kinds of life—Helga retained the cleanly manners of her native Wood Cow folk and found King Stuppy’s Trading Post revolting. She was a Wood Cow at heart. Although she would never forget the Roundies who had rescued her, loved her, and cared for her, she did not expect to ever see them again.
A Certain Cantankerous Wood Cow