The Bark of the Bog Owl Page 2

  The brothers laughed at Percy’s joke, but if the old man heard it, he gave no indication. The boys’ laughter was cut short when the front door swung open and their father Errol clattered down the steps. They stared in amazement as their father dropped to his knees and kissed the callused hand of the unknown wayfarer. They could make no sense of it. Their father was one of the Four and Twenty Noblemen of Corenwald, one of King Darrow’s closest advisers, yet he was paying homage to this dusty stranger who, from the looks of things, didn’t have the sense God gave a snapping turtle. Errol’s eyes were wet with tears as he spoke. “Reverend friend and teacher, you are most welcome to my house.”

  The old man patted Errol’s head, but he didn’t speak or otherwise move. The nanny goat snuffled at Errol’s hair, trying to decide whether to eat it.

  “Father!” Jasper marveled. “Do you know this madman?”

  Percy broke in. “He thinks we’ve got King Darrow hidden somewhere.”

  Errol rose to his feet and glared at his sons. “You will speak respectfully of this man! He is worthy of your honor. He is Bayard the Truthspeaker, Corenwald’s greatest prophet!”

  If the twins were amazed before, there were no words for their astonishment now. This man was Bayard the Truthspeaker? The great prophet and counselor their father and grandfather had spoken of so often? Had he come to this, tramping around the countryside in the company of goats, babbling nonsense?

  Errol turned back to Bayard. “It has been twenty years since you last visited this house. To what do we owe this happy honor?”

  Bayard pierced Errol with those green eyes and said in a low tone, “I am here to find the king who dwells in the House of Errol.”

  Errol blushed slightly and cleared his throat. He glanced at his sons, then looked down at his hands for a few awkward seconds. “What am I thinking?” he suddenly said, with a forced smile. “The sun is blistering. Please, Bayard, come inside and take some refreshment.”

  Leaving everyone behind, the old man headed up the stairs leading to the entry hall, taking the steps two at a time. The goats had already mounted the first step when Percy caught them by the horns, one with each hand. “Hold on there, Billy. Hold on, Nan! Where do you think you’re going?”

  Bayard stopped on the sixth step but did not turn around: “They go where I go.”

  Percy looked to his father. “In that case,” said Errol with a broadening smile, “they are heartily welcome in my house.” Shaking his head in wonderment, Percy let go of the goats’ horns, and they scrambled up the steps to catch up with their master.

  Errol spoke to the three baffled servants who had watched the scene through the entry-hall window. One scurried to the kitchen, and the other two ran out the front door. “Let’s retire to the great room,” directed Errol. “What other room is suitable for so great a guest? Jasper, Percy, you will join us; I have sent servants to fetch your brothers.”

  In the great room, Errol placed Bayard in the seat of honor near the huge stone fireplace. The goats sat on the floor, on either side of his chair. Errol and his two sons sat in chairs across from Bayard. The efficient servant arrived immediately with a tray of refreshments and placed it on the hearth beside the old prophet. On the tray were a pitcher of ale for Bayard, a pitcher of water for the goats, three drinking bowls, and a plate of cheese.

  “Goat cheese,” offered Errol, suddenly embarrassed. Bayard gave no indication that he had heard him. He poured a bowl of ale and sniffed it. Closing his eyes, he took a sip and nodded approvingly. Then, to the amazement of everyone in the room, he set the ale on the floor in front of the billy goat, who began lapping it eagerly. He poured a second bowl of ale for the nanny. For himself, he poured a bowl of water. He left the cheese untouched.

  After a painful silence, Errol addressed his sons. “Bayard here was a friend of your grandfather’s. When they first came to this part of the country, it was nothing but swamp and tanglewood, ruled by panthers, bears, and wolves.” Bayard said nothing; he appeared not to be listening. The billy goat lapped up the last of his ale and burped loud and long.

  Errol soldiered on. “Boys, that was a generation of great pioneers. They carved a civilization out of pure wilderness—a place where they wouldn’t answer to any tyrant, only to their consciences and to the God who made them free men.”

  The old wayfarer seemed perfectly unaware of anyone else in the room. Jasper and Percy were embarrassed for their father. They had never seen him so thunderstruck, not even in the presence of King Darrow himself.

  After another awkward pause, Errol continued. “I’ve known Bayard all my life. When I first marched out to battle against the Pyrthens—I was about your age—it was Bayard here who pronounced the benediction on the troops.”

  Not so much as a flicker of recognition passed across the old man’s face. The nanny goat was chewing thoughtfully on a hanging tapestry that had been in Errol’s family for generations. But at least she seemed to be listening. Percy cast a sidelong glance out the window, hoping that his brothers would soon arrive from the fields. Brennus, the eldest brother, always seemed to know what to say and do. But then again, so did Father, yet Bayard the Truthspeaker was proving to be more than he could handle.

  Errol was still droning on, “And when the people of Corenwald decided they wanted a king, who do you think placed the crown on Darrow’s head?” There was a brief silence, and Percy realized his father was looking directly at him, expecting an answer.

  “Bayard?” Percy’s answer sounded unsure, like a question, even though his father had told him this story a hundred times.

  “The very same! And he remained Darrow’s chief adviser until—” here Errol stopped short. “Well … ahem … in any case, the point is, you, my sons, are in the presence of Corenwald’s greatest man—King Darrow excepted, of course.”

  Jasper and Percy looked closely at the old visitor. One of his goats was tugging at the sleeve of his robe. The other was chewing on his sandal. He certainly didn’t look like Corenwald’s greatest man, with his white hair and beard shooting off in all directions, and those green eyes staring off into the distance.

  Their thoughts were interrupted when two more young men entered the room. They were Brennus and Maynard, the eldest two of the Errolson boys, just in from the hayfield. They had been scything the season’s first hay crop, side by side with the hired hands. Still covered with dust and sweat, Brennus and Maynard stood blinking in the dim light of the great room.

  Errol was about to introduce the new arrivals when Bayard rose to his feet. Still gazing well past his audience, he began to chant a verse that all Corenwalders knew. It was the Wilderking Chant—an ancient prophecy, as old as Corenwald itself:

  When fear of God has left the land,

  To be replaced by fear of man;

  When Corenwalders free and true

  Enslave themselves and others too,

  When mercy and justice disappear,

  When life is cheap and gold is dear,

  When freedom’s flame has burned to ember

  And Corenwalders can’t remember

  What are truths and what are lies,

  Then will the Wilderking arise.

  To the palace he comes from forests and swamps.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  Leading his troops of wild men and brutes.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  He will silence the braggart, ennoble the coward.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  Justice will roll, and mercy will toll.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  He will guard his dear lambs with the staff of his hand.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  With a stone he shall quell the panther fell.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  Watch for the Wilderking, widows and orphans.

  Look to the swamplands, ye misfit, ye outcast.

  From the land’s wildest places a wild man will come

  To give the land back to
her people.

  Bayard looked into Errol’s eyes. “I am here to see the Wilderking of Corenwald. He dwells in the House of Errol.”

  For the first time, Errol felt himself losing patience with the old man. Errol was a great patriot, and his loyalty to the king was unshakable. “Speak no more of any king but Darrow. Darrow is king of Corenwald, and he dwells not here. I have pledged my allegiance to Darrow; I have risked my life for Darrow; it is by Darrow’s pleasure that I hold these lands. And any man who raises himself up against King Darrow will learn what my sword is made of.”

  Bayard seemed entirely indifferent to Errol’s outburst. He paced across the room and stood before Brennus. He studied the eldest Errolson from his head down to his boots and back up again. At twenty years old, Brennus certainly cut the most kingly figure of all the brothers. He was tall and handsome. He carried himself with an air of command. He was accustomed to getting his way.

  Bayard nodded his head. “Your name is Brennus, the eldest son of Errol, by rights the heir to Longleaf. But in your bones you feel that you were born for greater things.” Brennus shifted nervously, uncomfortable at having his secret ambitions spoken in front of his family.

  Bayard continued, “Indeed, I see a regal bearing in your face. You are strong of limb, adroit with sword and shield. Men would rejoice to follow such a leader.”

  The old prophet gave Brennus one more look, as if arriving at his final assessment: “But you, Brennus, are not the Wilderking.”

  Bayard turned next to Maynard, the second brother. In all things, Maynard was second to Brennus: second in age (he was eighteen), second in stature, second in talents. Convinced that he would never quite measure up to his elder brother, Maynard had sharpened the skills of cunning. His eyes were permanently narrow from a lifetime of scheming.

  Bayard began, “You are Maynard, Errol’s second son. You know the prize does not always go to the one who is first by birth or first in ability, first in strength, or first in the field. Sometimes the prize—even the prize of a throne—goes to the one who has learned to put himself first, even if birth and talents have not. This you have learned to do, Maynard.” Maynard averted his gaze, angry at having been so revealed, but even still, a greedy glint was visible in his eyes. Bayard continued, “But you are not the Wilderking.”

  Bayard faced the twins. “The twins I have met already: Jasper and Percy. Jasper, you are the scholar of the family. Only fifteen years old, yet you surpass even your father in the lore and history of Corenwald. Every prophecy you have learned by heart, and every date, every battle, every family of note in the kingdom. This is the knowledge that serves a ruler well. A king must know his kingdom.” Jasper stood a little taller; a smile of pride played about the corners of his mouth. “And yet, you are not the Wilderking.”

  Bayard turned to Jasper’s twin brother. “That leaves only Percy, does it not?” Percy could not believe what he was hearing. He had always been viewed as the family’s underachiever. His only real accomplishment had been to maintain a wry grin, almost without interruption, for all of his fifteen years. Could he possibly be the Wilderking?

  “You, Percy, may not have much up here,” Bayard tapped Percy’s forehead with a gnarled forefinger, “but here,” he pointed at Percy’s heart, “here, Percy, you will surpass your brothers.” The old prophet’s face softened into a smile. “But you must learn not to mock and tease the aged wayfarer who comes to your door.”

  Bayard turned to Errol. A perplexed expression clouded the old man’s face. “Errol, I do not see the Wilderking among your sons.”

  Errol’s relief was obvious. His old friend seemed to be returning to his senses. “Well, Bayard, now that we’ve settled that, let’s sit down to a proper meal together, shall we?” He nudged a goat aside and put his arm around Bayard.

  Bayard didn’t seem quite satisfied. “But, Errol, do you have another son?”

  Errol stopped and counted his sons, his lips moving slightly. “But of course I have another son! How could I have forgotten? Aidan, my youngest, is tending sheep in the bottom pasture.”

  “I wish to see him.”

  “Certainly, of course! He would be heartbroken if he missed Bayard the Truthspeaker. I shall send for him at once.”

  The faraway look returned to Bayard’s eyes, much to Errol’s alarm. “No, Bayard,” he began, “hold on a minute. You’ve got the wrong idea.” One of the brothers snickered. All four were trying not to laugh.

  Chapter Three

  Dobro Turtlebane

  Set upon by a terrible tree monster, Aidan’s courage failed him completely. He went cross-eyed with panic as the crouching beast got closer. When it was only one stride away, it raised up on its hind legs and stood upright over him. Just when Aidan was sure he would faint from sheer terror, the wind shifted and the creature’s astonishing smell hit him like a wave. It was a fishy, slippery smell, sharpened by the pungent odor of wild onions and rancid berries. It was a horrible, eye-watering smell, and it revived Aidan from his swoon like a whiff of smelling salts.

  Aidan’s vision began to clear, and he could see that despite the scaly skin and long tail, the monster’s form and movements were almost human. Beneath that terrifying bony crown, the creature’s face, for all its wild ferocity, was almost boylike. Aidan shook the last of the cobwebs from his head.

  The monster was a boy! He was unlike any boy Aidan had ever seen, but he was a boy nevertheless. He didn’t have a many-pointed skull; that was a helmet made from the shell of a snapping turtle. He wore a tunic made from a whole alligator hide; that explained the scales and the tail. The tunic was cinched at the waist with a cottonmouth snake, held fast with its own fangs rather than a belt buckle. From his waist dangled a side pouch fashioned from the wedge-shaped head of an alligator garfish.

  Aidan rose to his feet. The wild boy was a head shorter than Aidan and skinnier too—not puny but a wiry, tough sort of skinny. His skin was a grayish-brown, though Aidan couldn’t tell if his skin was actually that color or only coated with river mud. The boy’s face was pinched and fierce, and his eyes stared wild and unblinking beneath a single long eyebrow.

  Aidan had never seen such a person, but he thought he knew what he was. He was one of the feechiefolk. Aidan’s grandfather had told him many tales of this wild, nomadic tribe that traveled up and down Corenwald’s many rivers and swamps. These creatures were equally comfortable in the water or in treetops and were rarely seen by “civilizers,” as they called the Corenwalders. According to Aidan’s grandfather, feechies had an uncanny, almost magical ability to disappear into the forest or under the water anytime settlers were nearby. He had described their fierce, warlike spirit but also their unquenchable jollity. But then again, Grandfather had often invented wild tales to entertain his grandchildren.

  The house servants often threatened to throw him to the feechiefolk when he misbehaved, but Aidan had always assumed the feechiefolk were imaginary creatures, like leprechauns or boogiemen. Yet here before him stood what appeared to be an actual feechie boy. Aidan had no idea what this wild boy might do next. He was fierce—no question about it—but not exactly threatening. On the other hand, he didn’t appear to be friendly either. He was just wild; there was no other way to describe him.

  The two boys regarded one another. At last the wild boy’s nasally voice broke the silence. “Are we going to tangle or not?”

  Aidan stood flabbergasted. It had never occurred to him that this wild child of the river bottoms might speak a recognizable language. The feechie boy placed his hands on his hips and leaned in closer. “You heard me, young civilizer. Let’s tangle.”

  Aidan blinked twice, not quite sure he understood. “T-tangle? Do you mean fight? You want to fight?”

  “Sure, I reckon!” answered the river boy, bending into a slight crouch and raising his fists in front of him. For the first time a little smile flickered on his muddy face.

  Aidan swallowed hard. He wasn’t feeling quite as wild and adventurous as he
had a little while earlier. “Wh-why would we want to fight?”

  The river boy straightened up and cocked his head. He seemed genuinely perplexed. “You want a reason? For fighting? Hmmm … I reckon I could think of something.”

  He scratched his head with one hand, counted on his fingers with the other, and after a short pause looked up again. “All right. Here goes. But I ain’t had a chance to polish it up yet, so don’t laugh.” He hummed a little to get his pitch, then sang to the same march tune Aidan had sung a few minutes earlier:

  Dobro of the Tam I am

  And I could whip you easy.

  I’ll make you weep cause you smell like sheep,

  And your looks are kind of greasy.

  The verse was not up to Aidan’s standards, of course, but Dobro of the Tam seemed proud of it. “See,” he said, “you not the only rhyme-maker on this river.” A self-satisfied smile showed several greenish teeth, as well as three gaps where greenish teeth should have been.

  Aidan thought he caught a glimpse of the feechie good humor his grandfather had told him about. The river boy was smiling. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Perhaps he could escape without getting torn limb from limb. On the surface, Dobro’s song was a challenge and an insult, but for some reason it had put Aidan at ease. It was a funny song, made funnier by Dobro’s ridiculous gap-toothed grin. Being a poet himself, Aidan appreciated the wild boy’s effort. And considering it was spur-of-the-moment, it wasn’t all that bad.