Chapter 12 Big Timber
The Big Timber spread before them like bait in a hidden snare.
In another time and place, Roland would have been spiritually moved by the majestic white pines--massive trees with roots anchored to the core of the earth, and needled branches that bored holes into the heavens. But his journey into the realmlands had stripped nature of its impartiality so that its displays of grandeur no longer touched his soul. No matter how breathtaking or idyllic the setting, the malice of unseen pursuers spoiled the view. Wherever he looked, he sensed the enemy. In the presence of such a deadly adversary, one does not stop to admire the scent of his clothing or his fine head of hair or the tasteful decor of the room. One looks only for the hidden danger. Roland was so alert to that danger that he saw the ancient, untamed beauty of Big Timber was nothing more than a screen that obscured the machinations of his tormentors.
Windglow briefly cut through the tension by announcing, “I believe we may have escaped for good this time. We are well into the Lumberjack domain and I cannot imagine the Raxxars encroaching in this land."
"Yes!" exclaimed Roland, pumping his fist.
"Granted, it seems that the only things that happen these days are those I can scarcely imagine.”
But even Digtry expressed guarded optimism that they had finally outflanked the Raxxar dragnet. However determined the forces that Roland had stirred up back in the Second Realm, however fanatical the Raxxars' courage and lust for violence, they would think long and hard about encroaching on the Lumberjack domain.
The Lumberjacks, possessors of the gift of raw physical strength, held sway over Big Timber--the vast conifer forest that sprawled from the northwestern border of the Third Realm nearly to the gates of Tishaara. They harbored a particular distaste for Raxxars, whom they would kill on sight, as if they were poisonous spiders.
“Any chance of sleeping in a warm, soft bed tonight?" asked Roland. "With pillows?”
“We may reach their camp tonight; we may not,” Windglow answered. “As for soft beds and pillows, I would not give voice to that desire. These are Lumberjacks. Comfort is not a priority for them. Neither theirs nor ours.”
“How about a bath?” said Delaney, almost to herself. “Have they heard of soap?”
Although the hygienic miseries of wilderness camping had not diminished in the least, the bonds forged with her companions in their escape from the gray blindness of Cloudmire had least reconnected her with hope. While she said little and zoned out frequently, she no longer shriveled under the demands of the least everyday task. The occasional dimple delved into her cheeks, and once Roland even detected a flash of fire in the dark eyes behind the tangled ropes of greasy hair.
It seemed, however, that Delaney was finally beginning to crawl out of her shell only to make room for Windglow. His glee over their escape from Cloudmire had quickly burned off. His perpetual smile was a crudely pasted-on disguise stripped of any semblance of real joy. The man who had once tried, with diminishing success, to bolster everyone’s spirits with inexhaustible enthusiasm and unquenchable good cheer walked without purpose in his step or conviction in his voice, his eyes dull with pain. His perpetual smile became a crudely pasted-on disguise stripped of any semblance of real joy.
“If one of us requested a bath, the Lumberjacks would laugh us out of Big Timber,” said Windglow, somberly. “But perhaps they would make an exception for you, Delaney.”
“Sexist, are they?” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
She rolled her eyes but let the matter drop.
“Hey, as long as I’m dry and off the ground and not sleeping on rotting vines, tree roots and rocks, I’ll be a happy camper,” said Roland.
“Amen to that,” said Berch. The pace and conditions of Cloudmire had taken their toll on his health. A salve that Windglow concocted from some golden-petaled, juicy-stalked stem growing near the water helped quiet the painful flares in his joints. But he still walked stiffly and in pain, especially in the damp morning hours.
“What are the Lumberjacks like?” Delaney asked.
“They can be generous and fun-loving and frisky as bear cubs, if such is their mood,” Windglow replied dutifully and without particular interest, almost as if he were reading from a very dull textbook. “Do not, I beg you, mistake that to mean they are polite or kind, or even civil. Not meaning to speak ill of our friends, they are known to be stubborn and quick-tempered. Not particularly clever, either, if you will pardon the observation. They are fanatically protective of their forest and they can hold a grudge for centuries. Fortunately, Tishaarans have always managed to stay on the right side of them.
“How’s their food? That’s all I want to know,” said Berch.
Windglow pinched a deerfly ensnarled in his hair. “There is a saying in Tishaara that a Lumberjack breakfast is to be eaten and not believed.”
Their spirits boosted by anticipation and the relative safety of the forest, the group gradually shed their exercise of caution. They straightened up out of their habitual crouches and made little effort to conceal themselves as they wound their way through the towering pine forest.
All at once, the smell of cold ashes jumped out at them. Not wood or smoke, but ashes--as if they had entered a house some days after a fire had gutted it. Even Digtry, who was battling a head cold, had no trouble identifying the acrid smell.
Before long, they came across its source--the wet remains of a fire that had burned a wide swath of the forest to charred stumps and ash.
“What has happened here?” gasped Windglow.
“Lightning?” suggested Berch.
Digtry studied the scene carefully, examining bits of blackened debris.
“The Lumberjacks must be sick about this!” moaned Windglow.
“No need to get all bent out of shape,” scoffed Berch. “It’s a fire. That happens.”
“Pretty small by forest fire standards,” said Roland, surprised to find himself backing Berch. “Where I come from, these things can burn for miles. And burns are a necessary part of forest ecology.”
“I don’t see more than 40 acres taken out here,” Berch went on. “I call that good luck, not bad, when you think about what could have happened, this being pine and all.
Windglow was not inclined to debate the point. But something about the scene so disturbed him that when he resumed their hike, he reverted to his previous skittishness. Digtry said nothing, but slowed their pace noticeably.
Shadows had mopped up the last few penetrating patches of sunlight by the time they came upon the wafts of a more fragrant smoke filtering through the great pines.
As he sniffed the air, Roland pictured a block of pine heaped upon a crackling fire, and imagined the sizzle of sap boiling out of the wood. The cool evening air, the comforting smells of a campfire in the forest, and the dangled promise of a bed injected him with a surge of energy. Yes, that’s what a campfire is supposed to smell like. Out of the desolate wilderness at last!
“Come on, Digtry, I’ll race you to the camp.”
Digtry, however, put a restraining hand on Roland’s arm. He was struggling more than ever with the symptoms of his illness. Puffy skin nearly buried his red, glazed eyes, and he kept snorting low to the ground to clear his nose.
“I’m not comfortable showing up this late at night,” he sniffled.
“Now what’s the problem?” demanded Berch.
All eyes turned to Digtry, his form silhouetted in the dusk. It was the first time Roland had detected the slightest trace of uncertainty in him. Even when lost in the nightmare of Cloudmire, he had always projected confidence. But he frowned into the black forest ahead of them, his mind grinding at some problem.
“Darkness feeds suspicion,” he said at last.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“And cowardice, you fleak-eared lickspigot,” came Puddles’ agitated voice.
“You said these Lumberjacks were allies,” said Delaney, nervously. “What are you afraid of?”
Digtry, whose face was now shrouded in darkness, did not answer. Finally Windglow broke the silence. “Much as it pains me to say it, Digtry has a point. `Meet the Lumberjacks in daylight out in the open, with your hands empty, and make plenty of noise to announce your arrival.’ That is the book on Lumberjacks. So it has always been. I must agree with Digtry that a little caution is not out of order. Can you possibly put up with one more night before we join them?”
The others complained bitterly, but Digtry stood by his decision, with just enough support from Windglow to quash any open dissension.
Cloudmire had spoiled all their food beyond salvaging, and so hunger gnawed at Roland all that long night--not the usual empty, longing sensation or a hollow gurgling in his bowels, but the sharp pain of a knotted stomach. He rolled this way and that to avoid the exposed roots beneath his blanket. But the moment he found a comfortable position, mosquitoes whined in his ears.
Nor was he the only target of the marauding insects. Fanning the air to ward off an especially persistent squadron of tormenters, Delaney cried in frustration, “Aaaah! I can’t stand it! Why won’t they leave me alone?!”
Roland leaned over her and swatted the air by her head. Without quite realizing what he was doing, he offered, “Here. Put your head next to me and I’ll keep them away from you.”
To his surprise, Delaney took up his offer without argument. Her hair was too greasy and lousy, the lingering essence of Cloudmire too repulsive, and the mosquitos too annoying for him to take much pleasure from her closeness. Yet he was glad to finally be of help to someone.
"Arrrgh! she cried, trying to burrow into his chest to get away from the pests. This totally sucks! I wish they would all die! Every one of you bloodsucking vampires, just die a horrible death!"
“Tishaarans teach that all creatures exist for a reason,” said Windglow. “Even mosquitoes.” Obviously, he was not getting any sleep, either.
“I was wondering when we were going to get one of these tree-hugging, ‘balance of nature’ speeches!” broke in Berch. That made it almost unanimous. The regular pattern of Digtry’s congested breathing indicated that he alone was untroubled by insomnia or hungry insects.
Berch’s disdain for Windglow seemed to have grown even since Cloudmire. He especially scoffed at Windglow’s “smarmy moral platitudes,” as he called them. “I’m not buying it. God could have given the birds something less irritating to eat than bloodsucking bugs, if that's what he had in mind. Delany's right; mosquitos are the devil's spawn and I'd kill every last one of them if I had the chance.”
“Begging your pardon,” said Windglow, “but there is a higher purpose for mosquitoes than as food for predators. They remind us that the world has been created for our enjoyment, but not for our pleasure alone. We share it with those who are not like-minded nor even pleasant. The mosquito teaches that we cannot conform everyone to our way of life or thinking, nor can we seek to destroy all who displease us.”
Despite the misery, Roland found the line of reasoning intriguing; Berch did not.
“New age crap,” he grumbled.
Such scorn did not deter Windglow. “Be cautious when you call upon the Creator’s wrath. There is evil in all of us. The righteous flames that you would call down to destroy the mosquito would also consume you. Although I detest another’s behavior, I have no right to question his existence any more than those who hate me have the right to question mine. The mosquito is the best teacher of tolerance, for either I learn to live and live well despite the aggravation she provides, or I live miserably.”
This was not the occasion for Delaney to appreciate Tishaaran philosophy. She thrashed and grunted and complained in Roland’s arms all through the night until, mercifully, specks of daylight finally broke through the heavy curtain of giant pines.
At almost the same moment, they heard chopping in the distance. In no time at all, the travelers were up and racing toward the activity and the hope of civilization. As they approached, the aroma of wood fires and griddle cakes and smoked meats drove them almost mad.
Roland’s first view of a Lumberjack explained why one did not want them for enemies. Although of no more than average height, the Lumberjack sported a chest that could have been hewn from one of the great pine trunks that surrounded them. He swung a ponderous single-bladed ax that sank deep into the tree and spat out chips the size of a serving plate. Thick knots of muscle, plainly visible even through his heavy flannel shirt, rippled and quivered as he wielded the ax. Sweat flew off the ends of a curly black beard and long black hair that hung out from under a thick woolen cap.
A dozen or so other Lumberjacks worked around him. Some used their hatchets to lop off branches as easily as if they were brushing through strands of a spider web. Others sliced through huge trunks of white pine with tightly-stretched saw blades. Blond, brown, black, and red beards billowed from beefy cheeks and bushed out around bull necks.
“Anyone home?” honked Digtry, whose symptoms had grown no better over the night.
“Who’s that?!” barked the Lumberjack whom Roland had seen first. Seeing them, he broke into a startled grin. He stopped what he was doing and rolled udp the sleeves of his red-and-black plaid shirt, displaying arms hairy enough to pass for charred sod. “Come, come!Haul your scrawny little bird bones over here and let’s have a look at you.”
“Hmmmmm. Pity’s the word. If you had to depend on looks for a living, you’d starve.”
Windglow instantly clamped Puddles’ mouth shut. “Actually, we are hungry" he said. That is not meant to imply that your speculation as to our means of employment is accurate.
The Lumberjack slammed poor Digtry on the back. “Hey, little man! You hungry? Is that what your friend is trying to say, wrapped in all those fancy words?”
“Yes, ” sniffled Digtry.
“That’s what I like--a plain-spoken man. You are a man, aren’t you, despite your size?”
Digtry did not rise to the bait. Grinning, the Lumberjack surveyed the rest of the group. Spotting Delaney, his jaw dropped and he cried, “What the devil is this, a garden party? Are you out of your minds, bringing a Jill to a Jack camp?!” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Please, sir, how might we address you?” asked Windglow.
“How might you address me? How about `your royal highness?” chuckled the Lumberjack. “How about `Master of the Universe?’ I can tell you one thing, that bootlicking `Sir’ talk won’t get you anywhere in this camp.”
“He’s asking what your name is,” explained Digtry, calmly.
“Splinterwood. Ezemiah Splinterwood. Don’t give a spider’s spit how you spell it as long as you smile when you say it,” he said, with a grin that displayed a set of slightly askew, granite-like teeth.
“Mr. Splinterwood,” said Windglow, “I don’t mean to-”
“Then don’t!” roared Splinterwood. “Mean what you say and say what you mean and stuff the rest in a maggot’s snout!”
“The point is, begging your pardon,” said Windglow, “we really are famished. We have not eaten for several days.”
“Well, there’s your problem! You don’t eat, you gotta expect to be be hungry.” He turned and thundered above the logging din, “Breakfast!” This time he singled out Berch for his welcoming gesture, a heavy arm slung around the shoulders. “I’ll tell you one thing and it’s for sure. Luck gets no better than that what brings you to a Jack camp at breakfast time, when we’re in a sharing mood. Which I am at the moment, though Lord knows what you’ve done to deserve it.
"I've already had my breakfast. I'm trying to get some work done and the day's half wasted as it is. But most of the Jacks are just sitting down to it now--lazy clods. I'll show you where they are."
The day half wasted? Roland doubted the sun had actually made it past the horizon yet. Meanwhile Berch scowled, steaming with resentment as the Lumberjack shepherded him under his wing into a cavernous lodge.
After stomping the caked mud off his boots at the entrance, Splinterwood threw open the mighty doors. A waft of indescribably delicious aromas overwhelmed them even
before they saw the stacks of warm, fluffy buttermilk pancakes and waffles piled nearly to the low ceiling. Blond, black, brown, and red beard billowed from beefy cheeks and bushed out around bull necks at ever varnished slab table crammed with plates of sausage and bacon, trays full of juices, side dishes of eggs dripping with melted cheese and tubs of sweet butter and whipped cream. Pure maple syrup steamed in huge wooden pitchers alongside bowls of plump berries swimming in their own brilliant juices. Cold milk frothed over the rims of ceramic mugs so large that Roland needed two hands to lift his.
The Lumberjacks did not seem to notice them, nor indeed each other. They attacked their meal with silent single-minded purpose. The only sounds to be heard were those of glasses slammed on the table knives scraping across plates, benches adjusted, loud chewing, and the occasional belch.
Roland and Berch stuffed themselves to the point of nausea, Delaney only slightly less so. For the first time in all their travels, Digtry appeared genuinely distressed. He politely aimed his sneezes into the floor and looked mournfully at each forkful. “All my life I’ve heard of Lumberjack breakfasts,” he said. “Here’s my chance and I can hardly taste a thing.”
Suddenly breakfast was over and the silence broke. “Ho! Lost little sheep, you say! Bring the pitiful wretches here!” roared a giant among the lesser giants at a long table. His scalp of white hair seemed too small for his head. A tightly curled beard framed his face. His cheeks were wide and windburned, his eyes teary with laughter. He reminded Roland of Santa Claus on steroids.
“Shove back the benches, unless you’re still hungry. Which if you are means you aren’t mortal,” the man continued. “Come on, we can’t welcome strangers with their bellies stuck to the table.”
“He wants us to stand,” explained Digtry. The travelers rose awkwardly, feeling very much on display for the amusement of the Lumberjacks. Following Windglow’s example,
Roland bowed as low as his inflated stomach would allow. Berch refused to participate in such a debasing exercise, but no one seemed to take offense.
“My friends and I are overwhelmed by your generosity,” said Windglow. “I do not remember when I have eaten a finer breakfast.”
“You can’t remember what never happened!” boomed the white-bearded man. “Now who are you? We can put up with squandering our food on charity cases as long as we know whose belly it’s going into.”
“My name is Windglow, if you please.”
“If I please, eh? Well, it don’t set me to doing cartwheels, but it ain’t going to wreck my day, either. My name is Broadmaul and I don’t give a frog’s arse whether you fancy that or not!” His voice rumbled in the low bass range, pushed along by a steady flow of laughter. “Now what brings you babes up here?” he asked, mussing up Delaney’s hair and hoisting a red-faced Roland onto his lap.
“We seek safety on our way to Tishaara,” said Digtry.
Broadmaul’s eyes disappeared into his curly locks as he set Roland back on the floor. “On your way to Tishaara? From where? Even I know the only thing north of here is the Fourth Realm. West of here lies the ocean. You folks got no business with the Pharitans. So how can you be on your way to Tishaara?!”
“Actually, we came from the Second Realm, but we got detoured to the north and east,ast in a roundabout way,” explained Windglow. All other routes were blocked by Raxxars.”
“Raxxars!” shouted Broadmaul. The Lumberjacks thumped the great maple tables and howled with what seemed a mixture of glee, scorn, and amazement.
“Scared of those chicken-chested zombies, are you?
“Great flying fists! Are the bat-rats creeping out of their holes again?”
“True, you haven’t much beef on you for fighting the Razorfeet.”
Even grouchier than usual from his poor night’s sleep, Berch had taken all the guff he cared to from these careless, rude hosts. He could endure hardships and deprivation with the best of them, but under no circumstances was he going to be treated like a snotnosed kid by people younger than himself. “Give me a weapon and I’ll meet those Ratsars any time, any place,” he said, grimly.
“For heaven’s sake, Berch, they are only teasing!” whispered Windglow, who already had his hands full restraining an irate Puddles, while placing himself as a buffer between Delaney and Broadmaul's wandering paws.
“Ho! Listen to this!” said Broadmaul, cringing in mock terror. “Make way before Grandpa the Grim Avenger! Hmmm, I dare say you may have cracked a few heads in your time, but I don’t believe many of us here were born the last time that happened.”
The hall resounded with laughter.
“Yeah, just ask that stinking wolf carcass back in the mountains there how feeble this old codger is!” Berch snapped.
The party atmosphere of the hall could not have vanished any more quickly than had a mountain fallen on it from above. The Lumberjacks gaped in outraged astonishment, as if Berch had just committed the most egregious breech of protocol imaginable--something akin to blowing his nose on the queen’s best dress. Broadmaul’s watery eyes dried into a blazing desert. His teeth retreated behind his thick lips.
Windglow quickly nudged Berch into the background. “A curious world we live in. Bewildering times, I fear. You see, Berch, here, is not really from these realms at all and so could not be expected to . . .” His voice trailed off into deadly silence.
Abruptly, Broadmaul pulled out of his foul mood, and his jovial nature bobbed back to the surface. “Well, we don’t have time to sit around swapping riddles with strangers,” he declared. “Not while there’s still daylight. Ho, men! The benches sag from all this sitting. Nine o’clock and not a drop of lard sweated out yet! Move it! First blister wins an extra hour of sleep tomorrow! Stick around, as my guest,” he said, pointing a beefy finger at the travelers. “We’ll hear more of your story tonight when the work is finished.”
Boots thundered across the floor. The stampede of workers left the suddenly uneasy travelers alone with a few of the younger Lumberjacks who scurried about cleaning up the mess.