The Bark of the Bog Owl Read online

  “Enough!” Father’s sharp voice broke Aidan’s trance. The brothers fell silent. Errol put his hand on the old man’s elbow. “Come, old friend, let’s sit down again.”

  The stranger let Errol lead him to his chair. He sat down. But his eyes never left Aidan’s face.

  “Aidan,” said his father. “This is Bayard the Truthspeaker. You have heard me speak of him often.”

  “Yes, Father.” Somehow Aidan already knew who the man was. He had never seen him before; indeed, no one had seen him since he left Darrow’s court and took to the forest twenty years earlier. Most people assumed he was dead. And yet, when their eyes met, Aidan knew who this old man was, just as surely as the old man knew him.

  Only now did Errol notice his son’s disheveled state— the scratched and muddy face, the black eye, the ripped tunic.

  “What happened to you, Aidan?”

  Aidan looked down at himself, not sure where to begin or how much to tell.

  “Whose blood is that on your tunic?”

  Aidan remembered lifting the panther’s body off Dobro. “That must be the panther’s blood.”

  “Panther’s blood? What panther?”

  “I killed a panther, Father. With my sling. It was stalking the sheep. I slew a panther with a stone.”

  The room fell silent. Everyone was thinking the same thing:

  With a stone he shall quell the panther fell.

  Watch for the Wilderking!

  “But Aidan,” continued his father. “Why are you so battered and muddy? A panther slashes and bites. Does it also bruise?”

  “No, Father,” Aidan chuckled. “But Dobro does.”

  “Dobro?”

  “Dobro Turtlebane. We had a wrestling match in the bottom pasture. He’s one of the feechiefolk.”

  At this his brothers began to laugh. Now they got it; Aidan was making a joke. Wilderkings, wandering prophets, feechiefolk—it was all make-believe.

  “Ha, ha! The feechiefolk! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You had me going, Aidan. I almost believed the part about the panther!”

  Errol was laughing, too, as much from relief as from amusement. Then it occurred to him that if Aidan were joking, the joke was at Bayard’s expense. “Be ashamed, Aidan!” he thundered. “All of you, be ashamed! It is ungenerous, it is unmanly, to tease a person who is not …” He had started to say “not sane” but couldn’t bring himself to describe his old friend that way. “Who is not well.”

  Aidan was hurt that his father would accuse him of such disrespect toward Corenwald’s Truthspeaker. “But, Father, I wasn’t teasing. About the panther or the feechie boy.” Errol looked askance at his youngest son. These were wild tales indeed. And yet he had never known the boy to lie.

  Bayard cleared his throat. Now that he had found what he came seeking, he was starting to carry himself more like a normal man—as if the very sight of Aidan had released him from a trance. “Oh, I don’t think Aidan was teasing, old friend. I have met Dobro Turtlebane. A most unruly boy, as I remember, though not much more so than the average feechie.”

  Aidan’s brothers could contain themselves no longer. They laughed uncontrollably and teased their little brother with the outsized imagination.

  “Aidan Errolson, feechie fighter!”

  “He wasn’t fighting feechies; he was training them for his Wilderking army.”

  “From the looks of him, they should be training him!”

  “Out!” Errol’s voice rose above their mockery. “Leave this room!”

  The brothers jostled out of the great hall, still laughing at their brother and the lunatic stranger.

  When they were gone, Bayard spoke. “Errol, I should like to speak to your son. Alone. Could you leave us too?”

  Errol was torn. He did not wish to disrespect the great prophet of Corenwald by refusing such a small request. But on the other hand, he had begun to believe that Bayard was out of his mind. Who knew what seeds he might plant in the boy’s fertile imagination?

  Errol pondered long, then answered, “Bayard, I honor and revere you as one of Corenwald’s great men. You helped lay the foundation on which this nation stands.” Bayard nodded appreciatively.

  After a hesitation, Errol continued, “But would you now convince my son that he—and not the king you crowned yourself—is Corenwald’s true king? Such thoughts are treason.” It clearly pained him to speak this way to the Truthspeaker. “I cannot nurture treason in my house.”

  Now Bayard’s eyes burned. His lips tightened. “If you revere me as you say you do,” said the old prophet, “you will not suggest that I am a traitor to my king—or that I would turn your son to treachery. If I am truly a prophet of the One God, then your son is truly the Wilderking, and you dare not hinder his progress toward that calling. But if, as you believe, I am only an old madman, I ask that you indulge me for the sake of the man I used to be.”

  Bayard’s expression softened. “In either case, old friend, I will not make a traitor of your son. This I solemnly promise.”

  Errol saw the logic in the Truthspeaker’s argument. This wasn’t the reasoning of a lunatic. He was sorry he had offended the old prophet. Rising to leave, he put his hand on his son’s head and looked into his eyes. “My son,” he said, “listen well to what this man tells you.”

  When they were alone, Bayard turned to Aidan. “I have come to find the Wilderking of Corenwald, foretold in the ancient prophecies.” He paused. “Aidan, the Wilderking is you.”

  Aidan stood blinking, unable to make sense of everything that had happened to him on this day. “But I’m only twelve years old.”

  Bayard laughed. “You didn’t suppose the Wilderking would be born an adult, did you? Every great man starts out as a boy. Every great woman starts out as a girl.”

  “I suppose so. But I don’t feel like the Wilderking.”

  “How is a Wilderking supposed to feel?” asked the prophet.

  “I don’t know. I don’t suppose anybody knows. There’s never been a Wilderking before.”

  “Precisely. None but you can say how a Wilderking feels. You are the only one.” He poked a finger into Aidan’s chest for emphasis. “And you don’t have to feel anything in particular.”

  Bayard leaned toward Aidan. “Let me tell you a secret, Aidan.” He looked over his shoulder as if making sure no one was listening, then whispered, “I don’t usually feel like a prophet.”

  Aidan studied Bayard’s face, trying to decide if the old man were joking. He seemed to be serious, but Aidan couldn’t help laughing at such an absurd notion. “The great Truthspeaker not a real prophet? Now you’re teasing me.”

  “No, no, no. I didn’t say I wasn’t a real prophet. I said I don’t feel like a prophet. But my feelings have nothing to do with it. I am Corenwald’s Truthspeaker because the One God shows me the truth, and I speak it.”

  Aidan considered what Bayard had said. “I understand. But the Wilderking will be a man of great courage. I’ve never shown much courage, even for a twelve-yearold.”

  “Today you killed a panther with a sling. Was that not an act of courage?”

  “Courage? I was frightened out of my wits. You should have seen Dobro! He charged the panther like he knew no fear.”

  Bayard chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure of that. Most feechiefolk are fearless, especially when they are Dobro’s age. But where there is no fear, there can be no courage.”

  Aidan was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Courage is the will to lay aside fear because your desire to do right outweighs your desire to avoid getting hurt. You said you were frightened of the panther.”

  “Terrified.”

  “Then why didn’t you run away?”

  Frightened though he had been, Aidan never even considered that possibility. “I couldn’t leave Dobro to be eaten by a panther. I couldn’t leave my sheep either.”

  Bayard smiled. “You felt fear. But you didn’t act out of fear; you acted out of courage. Dobro was fearless. You
were courageous, which is a much better thing to be.”

  “I was also lucky. I could try a thousand times and not hit such a perfect shot at a charging panther.”

  “You could try ten thousand times and not enjoy such success. But you wrong the Providence that preserves you when you credit luck for your deliverance.

  “You are a skilled slinger, but neither skill nor luck explains what happened today. You succeeded for one simple reason: Long before you, or even I, were born, it was foretold that the Wilderking would slay a panther with a stone. Your act of courage fulfilled a prophecy.”

  For the first time Aidan began seriously to consider the possibility that Bayard was telling the truth. “What if you are correct?” he asked. “What if I am destined to be the Wilderking? How should I live?”

  “The same way you should live if you weren’t the Wilderking. Live the life that unfolds before you. Love goodness more than you fear evil.”

  Good advice, thought Aidan, but he was looking for something more specific. He was a loyal subject of King Darrow. Surely he wasn’t destined to lead a rebellion against his king. He didn’t quite know how to ask the question. “If I am the Wilderking, how do I become the Wilderking?”

  No longer playing the role of wise teacher and adviser, Bayard had resumed the mysterious speech of a prophet. “A traitor is no fit king. Live the life that unfolds before you. Love goodness more than you fear evil.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aidan had more questions, but the old man was waking his goats; Aidan could see that he was preparing to leave. “Bayard, there are so many things I don’t understand. The Wilderking is a wild man. He comes from the swamps and forests, not fields and pastures.”

  “Live the life that unfolds before you.”

  “Am I supposed to leave home and go live in the tanglewood?”

  “Live the life that unfolds before you. You need not force yourself on the ancient prophecies.”

  The sleepy goats were getting to their feet. Bayard led them toward the entrance hall. “Tell your father that I cannot stay for supper. I have many things to tend to.”

  Aidan followed him out the front door. The old man inhaled a deep breath of spring air. “Now is the springtime. Look well to your sowing. The harvest will come in its time.”

  He strode down the steps, trailing his goats behind him. As Aidan watched the white ball of hair and beard bob down the cart path toward the River Road, he knew that his future was bound up with Bayard the Truthspeaker. But he still didn’t know whether the old man was a prophet or a lunatic.

  Chapter Six

  An Alligator Hunt

  Dobro Turtlebane

  River Tam, below Hustingreen

  Corenwald

  Dear Dobro—

  I don’t know how often you come to this neighborhood. I don’t even know if you can read. But either way, I hope this letter finds you well.

  Things have been quiet here in the bottom pasture since the day you were here. I’ve just been doing the usual—tending sheep mostly, helping in the fields from time to time.

  I was hoping I’d run into you again. Maybe you’ve headed back to the Feechiefen. Isn’t that where most of the feechiefolk live? Anyway, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Do you know what happened to the panther we killed? Ebbe, the servant, says he didn’t see any panther when he came down here. That doesn’tmake any sense to me, but I never found hide

  nor hair of it either.

  Around here, everybody thinks I made the whole thing up—about the panther, about you, everything. Sometimes I wonder myself if I just dreamed it all.

  Anyway, if you find this letter and if you can read it and if you aren’t imaginary, I hope you’ll meet me here beneath this beech tree whatever day is convenient for you. I’m usually here— tending sheep in the afternoons, exploring the bottomland forest in the mornings.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Aidan Errolson of Longleaf Manor

  It had been weeks since Aidan tacked the letter to the beech tree in the bottom pasture. There it had remained, undisturbed, ever since, as the temperate spring yielded to the heavy heat of a Corenwald summer. After such a promising start—a feechie boy, a panther, a wandering prophet—Aidan’s summer so far had proven disappointing. Life at Longleaf Manor had resumed its normal rhythms almost before Bayard was out of sight. Aidan was back in the pasture with his sheep the day after the prophet’s visit, and there he had been most days since.

  In spite of the prophet’s declaration, Aidan’s brothers did not revere him as Corenwald’s great deliverer. He was still their little brother, still inclined toward make-believe, still likely to bite off more than he could chew. For a little while, they had teased him about his interview with the crazed visitor and his claim to have wrestled a feechie boy and killed a panther. But they eventually grew tired of the joke and paid him no more attention than they had before. The fact that no one ever found any sign of the panther Aidan claimed to have killed certainly didn’t help his case.

  Whenever anyone asked what really happened in the bottom pasture, Aidan always stuck to his story. But even he was starting to doubt. Maybe his older brothers were right; maybe he had imagined the whole thing. The lifeless body of a full-grown panther couldn’t just disappear, could it? Perhaps he only knocked the panther senseless, and it came to its senses and slinked away before Ebbe noticed it. If that were the case, Aidan hadn’t slain a panther with a stone, and all this Wilderking business had nothing to do with him after all. He even began to wonder if Bayard had hypnotized him and put the whole thing in his head.

  And yet he could not forget the old man’s eyes—not the blank gaze that convinced his brothers that Bayard was a lunatic, but the eyes that brimmed with tears of joy when they first saw Aidan. Those were the eyes of Bayard the Truthspeaker, Corenwald’s great prophet. Also, there was Father, who never dismissed any of this as foolishness. He certainly had his doubts. What sane person wouldn’t? But he knew not to take any word of Bayard’s lightly. He also knew that his youngest son was neither a fool nor a liar.

  This was a strange and confusing time for Aidan. All his short life he had dreamed of adventure, of great deeds of heroism. Now Corenwald’s Truthspeaker had looked into his eyes and told him that he, Aidan Errolson, would one day be Corenwald’s greatest adventurer and hero, the Wilderking foretold in song and prophecy. But Aidan wasn’t overjoyed at the news. It wasn’t just that he doubted the truth of the prophet’s words. The doubt, actually, was easier than belief. It was belief that burdened him with the sense—however unrealistic—that the future happiness of all of Corenwald rested on his shoulders. It was belief, not doubt, that kept him up nights.

  Then there was the vague sense that even thinking about the Wilderking prophecy made him a traitor to King Darrow. He didn’t ask for any of this. Even in his most ambitious flights of fancy, he had never imagined himself the king of Corenwald. His dearest hope had always been to serve the king, not to supplant him.

  It was a lonely feeling. To whom would the Wilderking look for advice and counsel? Who could begin to understand what it was like to be headed down such a path? Not his brothers. They didn’t believe any of it anyway. Father was as understanding as he could be, but his understanding was limited by his unswerving loyalty to King Darrow. Bayard was no help. He and his goats were nowhere to be found.

  He couldn’t explain why, but the person Aidan most wanted to talk to was Dobro, the feechie boy. He had a peculiar sense that Dobro understood him in a way that nobody else did. He thought often of the last words Dobro had said to him: “You got what it takes, that’s easy to see. Even if you are a civilizer.”

  Most of his spare moments Aidan spent in the forest along the River Tam, searching for any sign of Dobro. He wandered among the meandering live oaks and spiky saw palmettos, scanning the canopy above to catch a glimpse of a lizard boy swinging from tree to tree. But he never saw anything out of the ordinary. He strained to hear the bark of the bog
owl, but all he ever heard was the constant thrum of insect wings and the squawks, twirps, and chitters of the forest birds.

  However, Aidan’s walks in the forest served a purpose that he little realized. Every hour he spent in the Tamside Forest perfected his skills in woodsmanship. He had always known every bend in the river, every fallen log, every sandbar a half-morning’s hike upstream and downstream from the bottom pasture. Now he knew every tree, every bush, every fold in the earth. He honed his climbing skills; he could clamber up all but the largest trees in the river bottom, like a natural-born feechie. He learned to tell at a glance which vines were best for swinging and which vines made the best ropes. He learned the ways of the wild boar and the bobcat.

  He learned the habits of one animal in particular. An enormous bull alligator had taken possession of a little spit of sand at the river’s edge near the indigo field. Every midmorning for a week, before the hottest part of the day, Aidan had seen the great reptile napping in a little sunning nest it had wallowed out in the sand. It looked to be about sixteen feet long, though Aidan had never gotten close enough to be sure.

  At supper one night, he mentioned this huge alligator to his father and brothers. Father’s enthusiasm was evident. “What I wouldn’t give to have such a beast!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.

  Brennus laughed. “What on earth would you want with an old bull alligator?”

  “To give it to King Darrow,” Father answered, “what else?” The king kept a large game preserve on the far side of the Tam, and Errol often sent wildlife captured on Longleaf to the Royal Game Preserve, including several wild boars, a mating pair of turkeys, even an albino deer. But the alligators in the moat of Tambluff Castle were Darrow’s most prized collection, and an alligator was the one animal Errol had never been able to give him. Darrow’s alligators came from the southern reaches of Corenwald, near the Feechiefen Swamp. They were mostly fifteen to sixteen feet long. Alligators of that size were rare this far upriver. Errol had never found one on his estate that he considered worthy of Darrow’s moat. But this one sounded like it could be just the thing.