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It was a lovely April morning when Helga began her year of service on the running wagon team that powered the Drownlands Cutoff Weekly. The Weekly was named for the first stop on its route, although in the course of a week the running wagon also made stops at more than a dozen other stations in the most remote parts of the Rounds, before coming back to its home station to start the circuit again.
Although worn and battered, the Weekly was clean and sturdy. Even if a little scruffy, the Weekly retained much of its original elegance of style, including an ornate set of running-lamps.
As the last baggage was loaded, the runners took their positions at the crossbars along the wagon tongue and prepared to pull the Weekly away from the station. The runners were eager to depart: shaking limbs and bouncing up and down to loosen tight muscles, rubbing chalk dust on the crossbars to make them easier to grasp, and slapping each other on the back in encouragement. A tall and lanky Coyote, with rings in her ears and long curling hair ending in a luxurious braid, wore the brilliantly colored headband of running-wagon steward. Responsible for the final check, she gave an encouraging look to each of her fellow runners. Seeing an empty spot at the eighth position, the Coyote gave a groan of frustration and made for the door of the station.
Just as she reached the station entrance, a frantic Jackrabbit burst suddenly out of the doorway, nearly slamming the door into the steward’s face. Without stopping, the previously missing runner scrambled clumsily into position at the wagon. His comical haste attracted the notice of the travelers who chuckled heartily as they peered through the passenger compartment windows.
“Now, my trammies,” the Coyote cried, “all together, as if Nate Te’Sharn actually wished the Weekly to run out on time, as much as he wished to sleep.”
“I don’t care two coppers for the time,” replied the Jackrabbit. “A body can’t rest in the rough bunks here...and the Dock Squirrels rattling trunks and boxes and cursing a blue streak all night long...How’s a body to rest?”
“Once we get rolling, you’ll forget being tired,” the Coyote replied. “Soon the warm sun will be in your face and you’ll be hearing ‘The Cutoff in Four’ before you know it...then, you’ll be having lunch and not fret your tired bones, I’ll wager,” the steward said good-naturedly. She could not feel harshly toward the tardy Jackrabbit. She knew that runners could be bleary-eyed and half-rested despite the day off between legs of the running-wagon circuit. As the Weekly pulled away from the station, it gradually picked up speed and, at first, rolled along with so little effort by the runners that it seemed to be powered only by the beat of the runners’ feet.
But the easy progress did not last long beyond the Cutoff Station. The verdant lushness of the Drownlands wilderness is flanked by a seemingly endless wasteland of hard rock and dust running far to the south. The Smothercap Steps—foothills leading to the Smothercap highlands beyond—bald granite hills piled one on top of the other mile after mile. The single winding road through this desolate and harsh country gave the wagon runners exhausting work for more than twenty miles until the road once again broke free from the wilds.
“Yi-hep-ay! May-ni-ay-hep!” The wagon runners strained against the crossbars as they labored along the rough, bumpy track. Heads bent forward in exertion, the runners stumbled over ruts and stones, as if they might fall and be trampled by the other runners. Nevertheless, the runners continued doggedly on.
The last long hill before the Cutoff Station slowed the runners as they struggled for breath. Then, reaching the long, flat ridge the steward called out: “The Cutoff in Four!” The traditional call, shouted out as the wagon passed the Four-Mile marker before the next station, sent a surge of joy through the runners. They would soon have a rest. Finding renewed energy, the runners put full strength to their task and the wagon surged forward. Raising their heads, smiling broadly, runners laughed and joked as they strained toward the station.
Standing at the station as the running wagon pulled up, was a stout, stubby Beaver dressed in a station-master’s uniform. Smackie, the Cutoff station-master, was an old friend of Helga’s. Smackie often came over to tell jokes at celebrations at the Rounds and, during those visits, always stayed with Elbin and Sareth. The station-master was renowed for his unending store of jokes and the fact that his huge teeth made a humorous smacking sound against his lip when he spoke.
But, as the running wagon pulled up at the station, Helga noticed that the station-master’s usually good-natured expression was absent. In fact, she had no sooner stepped away from the crossbar, then Smackie suddenly threw his arms around her neck and burst into tears!