The problem was, he could not find it. Each year a traveler would drop a hint, or tell a story, that seemed to give a lead to the location of the Mountain. Each year, he sent out explorers in a different direction. The searchers never returned. Sometimes, a straggler would stumble back to King Stuppy, arriving half-starved and in rags, having lost his mind wandering in the wilds for months with little food or water. The straggler, if he could speak coherently about his experiences, always reported the same thing: the King’s explorers had perished, not by attack from enemies, but by becoming so completely lost, in such remote wilds, that they simply starved or died of thirst.
King Stuppy was not deterred by these unpromising results. None of his subjects knew the fate of his exploring parties. So far as anyone in the Drownlands knew, King Stuppy was sending criminals into exile. For anyone in King Stuppy’s realm that transgressed against his rule, there were only two possible punishments: either become one of the King’s adventurers, or Ride the Log. Except for those poor creatures specifically sentenced to Ride the Log, most who angered King Stuppy chose to go exploring. The king promised them freedom and a share in the riches if they found the Mountain that Moves But Stands Still and brought proof back to him.
That King Stuppy had no intention to honor his promises did not matter. He was a patient Cougar. He would keep sending out explorers. If they did not return, it did not matter—it disposed of troublemakers. If, however, they did return one day with proof of the location of the Mountain...Well, then he would have a special reward for those brave beasts who had brought him his fondest wish. They would Ride the Log. Only King Stuppy would know that secret.
Helga surveyed the menacing ring of King Stuppy’s thugs. It did not look good for Burwell. In her injured condition, she could not use her Yeow-Yeow skills. Physically, she could not fight her way through King Stuppy’s guards. Yet she could not bear the thought of a poor, innocent Bayou Dog being made to Ride the Log. She must do something.
Unhappy creatures condemned to Ride the Log were tied to logs and set adrift in the Drownlands. Floating with the currents and unable to help or protect themselves, the poor condemned creatures died slowly, or sometimes were quickly picked apart by hungry insects and fish. It was not a pretty way to die. Piteous pleas for mercy and help were said to echo through the Drownlands when such a punishment occurred. Fear of riding King Stuppy’s logs made few creatures wish to oppose him.
Helga could not allow it to happen. The punishment was brutal and against all justice. The poor Bayou Dog had done nothing terrible as far as Helga could see. And he might know something that would help her find her father. She must save him. The ring of cutlasses surrounding her was threatening, but not advancing. The guards wanted only to stop Helga from interfering with the King, not capture her. The ways of the Wood Cows were unknown in the Drownlands. They were so rare that everything about Helga was seen as interesting and exotic. She could use this curiosity about Wood Cow ways to her advantage.
Lifting up the flicker-pole she used as a walking stick, Helga began to work it with skillful, fluid movements. As the unusual staff began to produce it’s melodic humming, her guards, at first, looked on in amusement and interest. They had never seen such a sight! Helga’s beautifully fluid movements as she furiously worked the pole, were astonishing. She observed the amazed, unsuspecting stares of her guards with mingled amusement and hope.
Gradually at first, then in torrents of wingbeats, the sky filled with every type of bird residing in the Drownlands! Large and small, noisy Jays and reserved Robins, rough-talking Hawks and genteel Eagles—all came in to find roosts at the Trading Post. Dozen after dozen they dropped from the sky, covering every available inch of roosting space—on buildings, fences, hats, heads, shoulders, arms—anywhere they could lock their feet.
As the birds began to rain in from the sky, panic seized the crowd and chaos ensued. Helga, well aware of what was to happen, took advantage of the turmoil and panic to grab Burwell and Bwellina, who had also tried to come to Burwell’s aid, and led them to safety. Ola jumped in his canoe and helped the others board. The small canoe rode very low in the water under the heavy load of passengers, but Ola pointed out, laughing, that “overloaded boats is the Drownlands tradition!”
Ola shoved off hurriedly, and he and Burwell paddled furiously away from King Stuppy’s Trading Post. All were grateful to be leaving. Burwell wheezed with joy of a different sort.
As they paddled away into the backways of the Drownlands, Helga asked Burwell many questions. “Have you actually seen a Wood Cow? Where? When? What did he look like? Did you talk with him?” The questions burst from Helga like a torrent. Unfortunately, she learned that most of what Burwell had said were his fibbing embellishments of a story he had heard from the station-master at the Drownlands Cutoff.