The Secret of the Swamp King (7 page)

A fifth man, tall with a curling mustache, leaned on the side of the wagon. He was obviously their leader. He had the biggest hair of all. His elbow rested on a burlap-wrapped bale, about the height and width of a small breakfast table. He squinted at Aidan, and his mouth twitched slightly beneath his bristling mustache, but he didn't say anything.

Massey's surprise soon gave way to indignation. “What is this?” he demanded. “Why are you pointing those things at us like we was enemies or criminals?”

The lead wagoner seemed satisfied that Aidan and company were unarmed. He gestured for his men to lower their weapons. “In the forrrest,” he explained, addressing Massey, “you can't be too keerrrful.” In the man's speech, Aidan noticed the rolling
r
's of Corenwald's hill country dialect.

Floyd noticed it too. “You boys ain't from around here, are you?” he asked. He observed the shiny red of deep sunburn on their cheeks and noses, and the insect bites that dotted every inch of skin not covered in buckskin, and he couldn't resist a little dig. “Eastern
Wilderness can be pretty mean on a bunch of hill-scratchers.”

One of the crossbowmen, taking offense, leveled his weapon at Floyd's chest, but his leader reined him in again. “I rrreckon we're plenty mean ourrr own selves,” he said with a hint of menace.

Massey paid little attention to the stranger's remark. There were a lot of tough talkers in the Eastern Wilderness. Massey was pretty tough himself, and he hadn't given up hope that these strangers would be of assistance. “The reason we flagged you down,” he said, “was because we need some help.” The lead wagoner said nothing but merely stared at Massey. Massey carried on. “We was floating a raft of timber down the Tam to Last Camp and beached it on a sandbar. We'd be obliged if you could help us get it back into the water.”

The mustachioed stranger paused before answering. “I don't rrreckon we can. We got to get wherrre we going.”

Floyd and Massey were astonished. “That ain't how we do things in the wilderness!” spluttered Floyd. “We help each other out, carry each other's load. 'Cause one of these days you gonna need somebody's help.”

“Well, as you pointed out alrrready,” said the stranger, “we ain't from around herrre.”

Massey was furious. It wasn't only the strangers' refusal to help that enraged him—after all, sometimes a person wasn't in a position to help—but their total disregard for the ways of the wilderness was infuriating. That's when he realized what Aidan had known when he first set eyes on the wagoners. These were plume
hunters, probably the ones who cleaned out Bullbat Bay. The bale in the wagon, no doubt, was a bale of plumes.

“What's in the wagon?” asked Massey. He knew he was probably picking a fight, but he didn't care.

The wagoners stared him down. “It's a cotton bale,” lied their leader. “We'rrre taking it to market.”

Floyd laughed at the bold-faced lie. “You got a cotton patch in the woods somewhere?”

“Yeah,” said the tall stranger. “That's rrright.”

Massey pointed at the bale in the wagon. “Kind of little for a cotton bale, ain't it?”

“We ain't verrry good farmers,” answered the lead wagoner. The crossbowmen smirked.

Massey's thick neck was bulging, and his face turned as red as the sunburned wagoners'. “You're a liar, stranger! I know that's a bale of bird plumes.”

The four crossbowmen raised their weapons again and fingered the triggers. “That's rrright,” sneered their leader. “What do you aim to do about it?”

Aidan could see that letting Massey and Floyd do the talking wasn't going to work. And they certainly weren't going to be able to fight their way out of this mess. Besides being outnumbered, he and the alligator hunters didn't have a weapon among them. He spoke for the first time since they had hailed the wagon. “Ahem,” he gestured at the lead plume hunter. “Could I have a word?” He gave a broad, knowing wink. The plume hunter waved him over, and they stepped off the trail while the rest of the plume hunters continued to hold Floyd and Massey at arrowpoint.

Aidan spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “My friends here are a little old-fashioned. Not what you'd call men of the world. But they're harmless.”

The stranger didn't react, but he seemed to be listening. Aidan continued: “The way I look at it, if folks in Tambluff—or Pyrth, even—want plumes, they're going to get plumes. They might as well get them from you. Am I right?” The stranger raised his eyebrows. He was warming up just a little.

“Here's the thing,” said Aidan, leaning in a little closer. “I know a man who'd be very interested in your plumes.”

“I've alrrready got a buyer,” answered the plume hunter.

“Where's your buyer?” asked Aidan. “Tambluff? Middenmarsh?” The stranger didn't answer. Aidan was undeterred. “That's a long way to haul such a valuable load.” He pointed at the armed men who were menacing his friends. “It's a long time to pay four guards.” He paused dramatically. “I know a man at the edge of the wilderness.”

“I'm listening,” said the stranger. He was calculating what the saved travel days would mean to him.

“Follow this trail to its end at the River Road.” Aidan was whispering now. “Turn north on the River Road, and the first farmstead you come to is called Longleaf. Ask for Errol.”

“This Errol,” asked the plume hunter, “does he pay market price?”

“He'll give you exactly what's due you,” Aidan assured him.

“'Cause plume hunting ain't easy,” said the hunter, “and I aim to collect what I've got coming to me.”

“Don't you worry about that,” said Aidan. “Errol will give you everything you've got coming to you.” He found it hard not to smile at the thought of his father giving these rogues what they deserved. That would put a spring back in the old boy's step. Aidan only wished he could be there to see it.

“Tell you what,” said Aidan. “You call your guards off my friends there, and I'll even write you a letter to hand to Errol when you get there.”

The plume hunter thought a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he said. He motioned to the crossbowmen again, and again they pointed their weapons at the ground. The tall stranger looked under the seat of the wagon and found a sheet of palmetto paper, an inkpot, and a quill pen made from an egret plume, gaudily fluffy and as long as Aidan's forearm. Such a dandyish writing instrument seemed comically out of place in the wilderness, but the plume hunter seemed proud of it. Aidan nodded in mock appreciation and began writing:

* * *

Standing with Massey and Floyd, Aidan waved to the plume hunters as their wagon disappeared down the trail.

“What was that all about?” asked Massey when the wagon was gone.

“Boys,” answered Aidan, “today wasn't the day for us to take care of those lying, thieving, no-account, big-haired poachers. But I sent them to somebody who will.” The alligator hunters looked quizzically at him. “Remember yesterday when Father said he'd like to get his hands on a few plume hunters?” They nodded their heads. “He's about to get his chance.”

Aidan glanced to the northwest, back toward Longleaf, wondering what would happen to the plume hunters when they got there. That's when he noticed darkening clouds in the west. Lightning split the sky, followed by rumbling thunder. He pointed at the approaching storm. “That might be the help we need!”

The rain started before they got to Bullbat Bay. It was a frog-strangler, with big, heavy drops driving down, whipped into the men's faces by an angry wind. It was the kind of rain that could raise the level of the river a few inches if it could keep it up long enough, or if it rained
enough along the creeks that fed the river upstream from the raft. And all they needed were a few extra inches of water.

By the time they got back to the sandbar, the river had risen enough that the
Headstrong,
though not yet clear of the sand, was starting to sway a little in the water. The raft's crew stood on the sandbar, exposed to the lashing wind and rain, cringing at the earth-shaking thunder and rejoicing in the power of a creation that could lift a hundred-ton raft of logs and place it back on its path. When the rising Tam freed the
Headstrong,
Massey, Floyd, and Aidan were on it, eager to continue their voyage to Last Camp.

By the time the rain stopped, Aidan was having second thoughts about sending five armed and dangerous plume hunters to his father's house. He pulled a sheet of palmetto paper out of his pack and cut a narrow strip. He wrote a brief message to his father.

He wrapped the message around the leg of Jasper's homing pigeon with a piece of twine and let the bird go.

Watching the pigeon dart upriver toward Longleaf, Aidan felt good about the old warrior's chances against the five unsuspecting plume hunters. Errol had no shortage of strong men to call on for such occasions. More to the point, as official magistrate of Hustingshire and the Eastern Wilderness, Errol had the authority to deal with criminals in those regions. Aidan felt sure it would revive
his father's spirits to administer a bit of frontier justice on the very people who represented the demise of the wild Corenwald he knew so well. Aidan turned his face back toward Last Camp and smiled.

The whole population of Last Camp—six hunters, a camp cook, and fourteen very eager hunting dogs—was waiting at the landing when the
Headstrong
nosed into the bank. It was nearly dark, three days since the raft had left Longleaf and more than two weeks since the men at Last Camp had seen Floyd and Massey. Amid much hooting, back slapping, and coonskin cap tossing, the three raftsmen stepped ashore with the swaggering confidence of real rafthands.

“Here's your stockade, boys,” announced Floyd. And because he could never resist tweaking Cooky, he added, “Now, where's my supper?”

“I thought you was drownded,” grumbled the crusty old cook, his wiry gray beard wagging. “It's bad enough you two coming back alive right before supper,” he waved his ladle toward Aidan, “without you bringing an extry mouth for me to feed.”

Aidan couldn't help but smile at Cooky's exaggerated gruffness as the old man stumped back to his cooking fire. “I won't eat much,” he called after him. “And I won't stay long.”

Floyd presented Aidan to the group. “Boys,” he said, “this is Aidan Errolson from Longleaf. Aidan, this here's Burl, Chaney, Big Haze, Little Haze, Isom, and Hugh. You already met Cooky.”

Aidan shook hands with each of the men, repeating each name to be sure he had it right. He liked these men already. They were weather-toughened and strong of limb, and in their broad, open faces he saw a confidence that allowed them to be genuinely welcoming of the stranger in their midst.

“I know you,” said Big Haze. “You're the boy killed that giant.”

“Well,” answered Aidan, “he wasn't actually a giant.”

“If he weren't a giant, he was something mighty like a giant,” interrupted Massey. “Anyway, Haze, you got it right. This is the same Aidan Errolson. I seen him handle five plume hunters too.”

“With at least four crossbows between them,” added Floyd. “And he ain't a half-bad raft pilot neither.”

“Hey, Cooky,” called Burl, “I hope your supper's better'n usual tonight. We got a sure-enough hero amongst us.”

Cooky scowled over his stew pot. “Any hero don't like my cooking can fix his own supper. That goes for flea-bit deer hunters too.”

There were no permanent buildings at Last Camp. The stockade, when built from the logs they brought, would be the first. There were four or five wagons, including Cooky's covered mess wagon, and several deerskin tents encircled the fire. But there were more empty
tent sites than there were tents. Last Camp usually bustled with at least twenty hunters—more in the autumn—but the place was nearly deserted now.

“Where is everybody?” asked Floyd. But he suspected he knew the answer.

“Culler and Minty are hunting deer over at Longpond,” said Burl. “They're camping up there tonight. But everybody else has quit us.”

“Hadley and Munce said they wanted to try farming,” offered Hugh, “and Redden went back up north to the mines.”

“Folks just sort of drifted off,” Little Haze added. “Wiley went to work with his uncle, who's a butcher in Tambluff. He figured that was better work than getting shot at every night.”

“It's got worse since you left,” explained Burl. “Most nights now we're getting attacked. Nobody's got hurt or killed yet. Whoever's shooting up the camp just wants to scare us.”

“They doing a thorough job of that,” said Isom. “All that hollering in the trees scares me as bad as the arrows and spears.” He gave a little shudder. “Makes my blood cold.”

“I want to start on that stockade at first light tomorrow,” said Chaney. “It won't be long before some of them arrows or spears hurts somebody, whether they're trying to or not.”

By that time, Cooky was ladling up supper, a stew made of rabbit and possum. Aidan ate his hungrily, and his genuine enjoyment of the meal softened Cooky
toward him. The campfire conversation was lively. Massey and Floyd gave a full account of their river adventure—from their near destruction of the Hustingreen waterfront to their run-in with the plume hunters.

But Aidan, of course, was the main attraction. Except for Little Haze, who hadn't been fighting age at the time of the last Pyrthen invasion, all of the hunters had been at the Battle of Bonifay, attached to the same infantry company. Even Cooky was there, serving as their mess sergeant. So they had all witnessed Aidan's combat with Greidawl. They eagerly relived the day of Corenwald's greatest victory—the reawakening of a valor that had nearly dwindled away, the terror of the Pyrthen thunder-tubes, the exhilaration of the last charge across the plain that drove the invaders from the island. They insisted on hearing the details of Aidan's trek through the caverns under the battlefield and the climactic explosion of the Pyrthen flame powder that set the rout in motion.

Talk turned inevitably to the strange happenings in the Eechihoolee Forest. “The best part of the whole thing,” said Burl eagerly, “was after we run the Pyrthens into the swamp, and they come running back to surrender.” He chuckled at the thought of the Pyrthens' panic-stricken faces as they tripped over one another to be the first to hand themselves over to the enemy.

“After a quarter hour in the Eechihoolee, those old boys weren't looking so proud and shiny,” added Floyd. “Their faces was as ashy as a possum's. And their eyes
was like this.” He held two disks of sweet potatoes to his eyes to imitate the Pyrthens' bulging eyes. He ran around the circle of the fire, still holding the sweet potatoes to his eyes. “Help me!” he shouted in an exaggerated Pyrthen accent. “Save me from the lizard people! Save me from the tree alligators!” But the sweet potatoes obstructed his view, and he tripped over a chunk of firewood, much to the amusement of the others.

“What chapped my hide,” said Burl, “was the way our own officers tried to explain everything away. Said it was just crazy talk, said the Pyrthens was seeing things that wasn't there.”

“Ain't that just like town folks and hill-scratchers?” Massey interjected. “Anybody who's spent any time out east here knows different. I've seen a lizard man my own self.”

“I've seen one too,” offered Chaney.

“We've all seen 'em,” Isom added.

“Sometimes you look across the river there,” said Burl. He pointed to the south bank of the Tam. “And them trees is just alive, just crawling.”

“Crawling with what?” asked Aidan.

“I don't know exactly,” answered Burl. “But all that hollering and hooting we heard that day in the Eechihoolee right before the Pyrthens come running back out, that wasn't the only time any of us Last Campers ever heard it.”

“It's a long way from here to Tambluff,” said Massey. “In Tambluff, you can go for days and never have dirt underneath your boots, only cobblestones. You can tip
your high-plumed hat at a lady on the street and neither of you think about how that plume got from a bird's back to your head. You can watch the alligators lazying in the castle moat and pretend you've faced the beast. In Tambluff, you can believe we've got the whole creation under our control. Seems strange to me that the folks who make the decisions for this whole kingdom live in such a place as that.”

“But out here,” said Isom, “the nursery tales of feechiefolk and the Wilderking don't seem all that fantastic—no stranger than the world that buzzes just across the river and in the forests all around us.”

Big Haze looked across the fire at Aidan. “You're sitting at the edge of the world, Aidan. How does it feel?”

Aidan smiled. “I like it here. It feels more like home than Tambluff Castle.”

The hunters cheered and laughed, flattered by Aidan's remark. Tambluffers were a rarity at Last Camp, and even rarer were Tambluffers who accepted the hunters on their own terms.

“Well, if you don't mind my asking,” said Burl, “what brings you to Last Camp?”

Aidan measured his words. “I'm out here to fetch something for King Darrow.”

“You ain't the tax man, are you?” asked Cooky.

“No,” Aidan assured him and laughed.

“So what have you come to fetch?” pressed Chaney.

“Ain't no use asking,” Floyd interrupted. “Me and Massey had him surrounded three days on a raft, and we never got it out of him.”

Before anyone had a chance to ask another question, the forest erupted in a series of blood-curdling cries:
“Haaa-wwwweeeeee! Haaa-wwwweeeeee! Haaa-
wwwweeeeee!”
The hunters dove to the ground and tucked themselves into tight balls in order to make smaller targets for the arrows that came whistling into the camp. Half a dozen arrows embedded themselves with a
thwack
in the logs where the hunters had been sitting. Another arrow glanced off Cooky's stew pot, ringing it like a bell and careening into the forest on the other side of the camp. A spear stuck in the ground less than two feet from Aidan's boots.

“Aidan! Get down!” shouted Massey. “It ain't over yet!”

But Aidan didn't get down. Among all the people at Last Camp, only he understood exactly what the forest hollers were: feechie battle cries. And he felt he could do something to stop the attack. He grabbed a small log that was half in the fire and brandished it for a torch, trying to catch the gleam of feechie eyes in the forest. Then, even as arrows continued to sail into the camp, he belted out a blood-curdling yell of his own:
“Ha-ha-ha-hrawffff-
wooooooooo … Ha-ha-ha-hrawffff-wooooooooo.”

The woods grew still as the echoes of Aidan's watch-out bark subsided. Aidan thought he heard the slightest rustle in the treetops—a rustle that grew more distant as the attackers receded into the forest. Still bearing the torch, Aidan ventured a few steps beyond the camp into the trees, as if in pursuit of the attackers. But they were gone.

“What just happened?” asked Floyd. He was looking at Aidan with undisguised awe.

“What was that holler you just did?” asked Isom, equally amazed.

“It sounded,” gasped Chaney, “like the bark of the bog owl.”

But Aidan didn't hear them. He was inspecting one of the short, white-feathered arrows the feechies had shot into the camp. “Who fletches an arrow with egret feathers?” he asked aloud. And the arrowhead was equally perplexing. It was made of burnished steel.