The Way of the Wilderking (8 page)

Aidan lay awake most of that night, half-expecting trouble from Marvin and his boys. He finally fell asleep a couple of hours before dawn, and when he awoke, Marvin's gang was gone. Cooky had seen the group leave while he was trying to light the breakfast fire in the predawn darkness.

Never had a day seemed fresher. Marvin's departure was like a shadow lifting. The morning sun glistened off the stream, now only a little higher than normal. The birds that had spent the previous day drying out sang joyously in celebration of the new day.

After breakfast Aidan joined Jasper on a walk down the canyon. “The canyon changes after every rainstorm,” Jasper explained. “And the storm we
just had was the biggest one we've had since we've been here. Look, this is what I'm talking about.” He pointed at a spot where the water flowed over flat sand.

“Looks like any other spot on the canyon floor,” Aidan said, not sure what point Jasper was making.

“But it didn't two days ago,” Jasper said. “This was the wash hole. Remember those two willow trees right there? The ones where we always hang clothes to dry?”

“You're right,” Aidan said, looking at the two big trees, then back down at the stream. “But that was a pretty big pool.”

“Took the miners most of a week to dig it,” Jasper agreed. “But it probably took only a few minutes for the flood to fill it back in.” He pointed up the canyon. “The sand and clay that washed down the stream and probably some from up there at the canyon rim got dumped into the pool here until it filled up.”

Jasper pointed at a smooth mound across the way. “Remember the tower that used to stand there? It must have crumbled away and washed downstream.”

“Amazing,” Aidan said. “So the storm tears down the high spots and fills in the low spots?”

“Sort of,” Jasper answered, “Sometimes it makes low spots lower, digging a little furrow into a big trench. Sometimes part of a wall crumbles away and leaves a new tower or chimney that wasn't there before. The only thing you can be sure of is that dirt is going to move around. After a rain like this one,
some spots get buried in sand and clay, and some spots get unburied. No rhyme or reason to it, as far as I can make out.”

Aidan pointed up at a pine tree on the very edge of the canyon. It was the one he had noticed when he first came here, with its roots reaching out into the air. “I remember that tree,” he said. “It used to have a neighbor. Do you remember? It hung upside down by the roots, just a few feet from that tree.”

“It's gone now,” Jasper observed. “The storm must have been too much for it.”

“Wonder where it is now,” said Aidan. “Maybe floating down the Eechihoolee by now, on its way to the ocean.”

“Or it might be out here somewhere. Likely it's buried in the sand,” said Jasper.

Aidan walked toward the canyon wall where the tree had hung, curious to see if it was on the canyon floor. He saw no sign of the tree, but he did see something else that caught his eye. “Hey, Jasper,” he called. “Come over here. What does this look like to you?”

Jasper knelt beside him in the wet sand and examined the flat, brittle piece of wood Aidan handed him. It was a little bigger than a man's hand. A whole row of identical pieces peeked out of the sand like a row of teeth.

“It looks like a shingle to me,” Jasper said.

“That's what I thought,” Aidan agreed. From his side pouch he pulled out a flat digging rock, a leftover from his Feechiefen days, and began digging around
the shingles. They were attached to a wide plank, a piece of roof decking, no doubt. There was a second row of shingles nailed just below the first.

“Do you suppose a piece of roof from an old barn washed down here from a nearby farm?” Aidan asked.

Jasper gazed up at the canyon rim. “The nearest farm I know of is almost ten leagues away. That was a powerful storm, but I don't see how surface water—or really anything less than a river—could carry something this big for ten leagues.” He thought on it a little more. “And besides, when was the last time you saw a shingled roof in this part of Corenwald? All the roofs around here are reed thatch or palmetto thatch.”

“You're right,” Aidan said. “This is like a roof you might see in the Hill Country.”

“Or the old country.” Jasper's brow crinkled. “So how did it get here?”

Aidan dug again with his rock. But even in the wet sand he couldn't make enough progress to suit Jasper, who was growing more perplexed and more excited about their discovery. “I'm going to get the miners,” he announced. “They'll have it dug out in no time.”

* * *

An hour's digging by the miners produced impressive results. They dug out the decking plank within ten minutes of arriving on the scene. Then they found two more shingled planks and a pair of massive roof timbers, almost as big as squared-off trees.

Except for those on sentry duty, every man in the camp came to watch the digging and debate about the findings. Everyone agreed the planks and timbers hadn't been washed down by the flood of two days earlier. They were buried too deeply for that. This flood must have just washed away the sand that had buried the planks and timbers many years earlier. But that didn't explain how they got there in the first place.

One of the soldiers proposed that pirates or criminals had built a house in the canyon for a hideout and a flood had destroyed it. But in a canyon full of natural hideouts, it seemed unlikely that anyone would actually build a house to hide in.

Someone else suggested that the house may have overhung the canyon at one time and fallen into the canyon just as the pine tree had fallen during the storm. But again, who would be fool enough to build a house overlooking Sinking Canyons? The place got its very name from the rim constantly sinking down to the canyon floor.

While the debate continued, the miners continued digging. Soon they made another discovery. Digging out the deeper end of one of the roof timbers, Clayton's shovel clanged against something metal. Soon he had uncovered a thickly corroded plate of curved iron. The field hands were the first to recognize it as a plow blade.

“Oh, Mama,” Dobro moaned. “Oh, Mama, if you only knew what your boy been messing up with!”

Everyone stopped to stare at the feechie, who wrung his hands in genuine distress.

“What is the matter with you, Dobro?” Aidan asked.

Dobro was breathing fast, trying to regain his composure. “Ain't but three things my mama especially tolt me was bad luck to mess up with—three things ain't no feechie supposed to mess up with—and here I am messing up with all three at the same time.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” asked Arliss.

Dobro held up his index finger. “One, civilizers. I don't mean to hurt nobody's feelings, but you folks is bad luck.” He held up two fingers. “Two, Sinking Canyons. Feechiefolks go wherever they want to go on this island, 'cept Sinking Canyons and places that got civilizers. Here I stand in the middle of Sinking Canyons with a crowd of civilizers. And now the next thing to turn up is the very worst luck in the round world: a cold-shiny plow!” He looked as if he might start crying. “Any cold-shiny's bad luck for feechiefolks, of course, but a cold-shiny plow's the worst bad luck of all.”

“What's so awful about a cold-shiny plow?” Percy asked.

Dobro didn't seem to have heard the question. But he closed his eyes and launched into a feechie sadballad:

“It's all right there in the feechie lore,” Dobro explained. “All about Veezo and his magical cold-shiny plow.” He wiped away a tear of self-pity. “In the old times, way before civilizers come to Corenwald, feechiefolks was farmers and villagers, just like you. And the biggest feechie farmer of them all was a feller named Veezo. And weren't he a greedisome rascal! He farmed more land than any other man on the island,
but his feelings was hurt because it weren't enough for him.

“He was settin' in his yard one evening with his lips pooched out when
poof!
A yard fairy turnt up.”

“A what?” Big Haze asked.

“A yard fairy—you know, the kind of fairy lives in folkses' yards. And the yard fairy says ‘Veezo, how come your lips is pooched out?'

“Veezo says, ‘My feelin's is hurt because I ain't got enough land to plow. I plow all the land a man and a mule can plow, but it ain't enough.'

“The fairy says, ‘I see. If you already plowing all the ground a man and a mule can plow, what you need is a magical cold-shiny plow.' And
poof!
There one is, just as shiny and pretty a thing as Veezo ever seen. His eyes gets real big, account of he's so greedisome.

“Then the fairy says, ‘Just don't plow too long a furrow.'

“Veezo's so wondrous he almost don't hear the fairy's warnin', but finally he pulls his eyes off'n that cold-shiny plow long enough to ask, ‘How long is too long a furrow?' But the fairy's gone.

“Next day, Veezo commences to plowin', and he plows the prettiest ankle-deep furrow long enough to grow corn for the whole neighborhood. He figures that must be long enough a furrow, and he ought to turn around, but then he figures he might want a punkin patch too. So he given his mule a swat, and on they
go another piece. Veezo don't even notice now that his magical cold-shiny plow's cuttin' a furrow knee-deep and two foot wide.

“He's about to turn his mule around, but then he figures some watermelons might be just the thing. So he gives his mule another swat, and on they go another piece. He don't notice that his magical cold-shiny plow is diggin' a furrow shoulder high and ten foot across.

“Veezo was just about to turn that mule around when he got a hankerin' for onions and decided he'd plow up a onion patch. He give his mule a swat and on they go. He didn't know he was plowin' right through his own yard because his furrow was deeper than his head and fifty foot wide! He just kept on plowin', happy as a jaybird, and his cabin dropped into the furrow, then his barns dropped in the furrow, and finally the clay just tumbled in on top of Veezo and buried him and his magical cold-shiny plow too.

“And that's why feechies is swamp folks, forest folks. Veezo's neighbors seen what come of farmin', and they takened to the woods where they could get their nourishment without cuttin' furrows with no cold-shiny plow.”

Dobro looked solemnly at his hearers. “And the moral of the story is:
Don't go messin' up with cold-
shiny plows.
”

“I thought the moral was don't go messin' up with yard fairies,” Percy chimed in.

But Dobro paid him no mind.

“Hey, Dobro,” Percy teased, “you don't suppose that's Veezo's cabin and magical plow we found, do you?”

Dobro looked thoughtfully into the hole the miners had dug. “I reckon that's as good a explanation as anything you civilizers has come up with.”

Hiding out was dull work. Perhaps that was why the men at Sinking Canyons took such an interest in Jasper's archaeological dig. It gave them something to do, something to talk about, a mystery to figure out. They held lengthy debates over whether it made more sense to dig shallow over a broad area, or more deeply in a tighter, focused area. Many of the men kept their own catalogs of the objects found at the diggings, separate from the official record kept by Jasper, who hoped to donate his work to the university in Tambluff as soon as the Errolsons returned to Corenwalder society.

Not that there were many findings to record. They found more timbers and some floorboards they believed came from a separate building. They also found a brass pot and a rusted pair of iron tongs wedged between a couple of timbers. But for the most part, it appeared the smaller items that had been in those buildings at one time—tools, cooking utensils, clothing, furniture, all those everyday objects that told the story of a people's way of life—had disappeared,
probably washed away through the years. Only the big timbers and the iron plow had the heft to stand their ground and be buried in the sand, then be uncovered again so many years later.

It was the plow that had everyone flummoxed. Maybe, just maybe, a man would have reason to build a house here in the Clay Wastes. Maybe he was a hermit. But not even a hermit would try to farm this land, not when he could go anyplace else on the island and make a better crop with a lot less effort.

Some of the miners had floated a theory that the Eechihoolee River once flowed through the canyons and had changed course. A river at flood stage could carry timbers a good long way. After all, that was how the timber rafters got their logs from the forests to the seaports. That still didn't explain how the iron plow blade got there. And besides, the Eechihoolee wasn't all that close. If it had changed course in the last hundred years since Corenwald had been settled, surely somebody would have known something about it.

Work in the diggings was going a little more slowly than Jasper had hoped. Much of the miners' time was occupied with digging a new washing pool where the old one had been ruined, and when they finished with that, Errol had put them on a new tunneling project on the other side of the canyon.

Errol and Aidan were at the new hideout when Clifford, the on-duty sentry, ran up with news of approaching men.

“How many?” Errol asked.

“Eighty, maybe ninety,” Clifford answered.

A look of concern crossed Errol's face. “Armed?” he asked.

“You might say that,” Clifford answered. “Some have rusty old swords; some have clubs or staves.”

“Horseback or on foot?”

“On the march. I guess you'd call it marching,” Clifford answered. “Oh, I almost forgot. They're wearing some kind of uniform. Green tunics and black hats with egret feathers.”

“Oh no,” Aidan groaned. “Aidanites! They've found me!” Percy doubled over in a fit of laughter.

“Come, men,” Errol urged. “Away from the tunnels. No sense letting our guests see where our hideout is.”

The Aidanites were already in sight. They were tromping up either side of the braided stream—a good policy if they were trying to keep their boots dry, but a terrible policy if they needed to keep their location and movements secret. They left thousands of boot-prints that wouldn't wash away until the next good creek rising.

Aidan intercepted the men near the new washing pool, his comrades behind him. Just as he feared, they were Hustingreen Militia, led by Milum, the red-bearded Aidanite they met outside of Hustingreen. Milum stood at attention and popped his right hand over his heart in salute. The rest of the Aidanites saluted, too, though not very crisply. Milum dropped to one knee in front of Aidan. “Your Majesty, the
Hustingreen Militia, reporting for training camp and at your service.”

“Training camp?” Aidan barked. “This isn't a training camp. It's a hideout.” He looked over his green-clad followers. “Though it's obviously not a very good hideout!” He waved the backs of his hands at them, the way he might shoo a dog. “Get on,” he shouted. “Go home!” He stomped a foot, but the Aidanites just stared vacantly at him.

“But what about the other militias?” Milum asked. “We're supposed to help get everything ready for them.”

Aidan felt his stomach tighten. He struggled to speak calmly. “What other militias?”

Milum chuckled at first, assuming that Aidan must be pulling his leg. Of course the Wilderking knew which militias. How could he not know? Soon he realized, however, his king in exile really didn't know the plan. “Why, all the militias,” Milum said. “The Bluemoss Boys, the Middenmarsh Militia, the Eechihoolee Regulars, the Berrien Militia, the Mountain Screamers. And all the others. The rest of the Hustingreen force is only a couple of days behind us.”

Aidan felt light-headed. “You can't …” he began. “We can't … You've got to go home.” He looked to his father for help.

Errol pulled him aside. “Here's the thing, Aidan,” he whispered. “These boys can cause us a lot more trouble back home than they can cause us here. At
least here we can keep an eye on them. Let's hear more from this Milum before we send them away.”

Aidan turned back toward the Hustingreen Militia. “Men,” he intoned, “welcome to Sinking Canyons. You may fall out, pending further orders.” He turned to Milum. “Captain, a word with you, please.”

Milum joined Aidan and Errol in the shade of an overhanging cliff. The three men squatted and sat on their heels, as Corenwalder men often did when speaking of serious matters.

“Who told you there was an Aidanite training camp in Sinking Canyons?” Aidan asked.

“Lynwood, Your Majesty. Who else?”

“First,” said Aidan, “you've got to stop calling me ‘Your Majesty.' I'm not king. I'm not even king in exile. I'm Aidan Errolson. You clear on that?”

“Yes, Your Maj— Yes, Aidan.”

“Good. Now, who's this Lynwood?”

The look on Milum's face was one of pure astonishment. “Lynwood Wertenson.”

“I should have guessed,” Errol mumbled. “That upstart merchant has never been a friend to Darrow.”

“He's the chair of the Committee,” Milum added by way of clarification, but that clarified nothing for Aidan.

“What committee?” Aidan asked.

“The Secret Committee for the Ascendancy of the Wilderking,” said Milum. “They're the governing body for all the local Aidanite auxiliaries and militias.”

“This Lynwood,” Aidan asked, “he's sending all the Aidanite militias to Sinking Canyons?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many militiamen is that?”

“Three thousand, maybe four.”

“And how does this committee know I'm in Sinking Canyons?”

Milum smiled. “Aidan, everybody in Corenwald knows you're in Sinking Canyons. Everybody in Corenwald knows you come out of the Feechiefen in the company of a feechie. Every villager in Corenwald knows the Wilderking Chant by heart and can explain what every line of it has to do with Aidan Errolson.” He smiled. “Don't you see, Aidan? Corenwald is waiting for you to claim the throne. King Darrow has lost his grip on the kingdom. Discipline has broken down in the army. Corenwald needs you, Aidan. No disrespect, but it looks like you and maybe King Darrow are the only people in Corenwald who don't realize it.”

Aidan could feel the blood rising to his face. He thought he saw the vein appear on his father's forehead as well. Did anyone's oath of loyalty to King Darrow count for anything? “That's enough treasonous talk for now,” Aidan said sharply.

“No disrespect, sir,” said Milum, realizing that the interview was over.

A long silence prevailed between father and son after Milum left. “He's right about King Darrow's army,” Errol said at last. “You've heard it a hundred
times from Ottis, Wimbric, Hamp, and all the soldiers who have been living with us in Sinking Canyons. They say what Milum said. Discipline has broken down completely.”

Errol broke off and stared across the canyon at the militiamen who wandered around, not sure what to do next. “You can be sure the Pyrthens know how the army has frittered away resources and morale carrying out King Darrow's worst impulses. The Pyrthens' spies are everywhere. The amazing thing is they haven't invaded already.” He pointed at the militiamen. “Three thousand men. Maybe four thousand. They want to be an army. We could train them into an army.”

Aidan looked at his father with horror. Was he speaking treason too?

“Aidan, don't you understand? When the Pyrthens come again—and they will—those three thousand men may be the only army Corenwald has left. We couldn't defeat the Pyrthens in a pitched battle. But we could make them sorry they came. Hit-and-run attacks. Rearward attacks on their supply train, horse rustling...”

“Feechie warfare,” Aidan said, beginning to catch his father's vision.

“That's right,” said Errol, with growing excitement. “I'm an old warhorse, and this wouldn't normally be my style, but you make do with what you have. The Last Campers are the best archers I've ever seen. They can teach those villagers to shoot. Our
twelve army scouts will make a good beginning to a reconnaissance force. And the miners can show the militiamen how to dig shelters for themselves in the canyon walls.”

Errol put his hands on Aidan's shoulders and looked intently into his eyes. “Bayard the Truthspeaker isn't here, so I'll tell you this myself: Live the life that unfolds before you. A small army is coming to Sinking Canyons. They want to follow you. That's what is unfolding before you today. You didn't ask for it. You didn't seek it. You didn't want it. But here it is. These men mean to follow you. They need to follow you. Will you lead them?”

“I'm not their king,” Aidan said.

The vein on Errol's forehead appeared again. “Stop making excuses, Aidan!” The vehemence of his father's response surprised Aidan. “I never said you were anybody's king,” Errol continued. “I asked if you would lead these men. You're not a boy anymore. You're a man. Don't make any more excuses. Just tell me whether or not you will lead these men.”

In that moment of challenge, in that moment of seeming conflict, Aidan felt the blessing of his father pass to him. “Yes, Father,” he said, “I will lead them.”

Errol nodded, pleased with his son's answer. “Good,” he said. “And just because you're leading, that doesn't mean you can't follow too. Lord willing, you'll lead these men to follow King Darrow.”