Jonathan Rogers - The Way of the Wilderking

By midmorning on the second day after they had left Hustingreen, even those small, isolated settlements were nowhere to be found. Aidan, Dobro, and Percy were entering Corenwald’s Clay Wastes. Unlike most of the island, here the soil was too poor for farming. Even the forests looked thin and degraded. The stately old longleaf pines of the upland savannah were replaced by scrubby second-growth pine trees. A few trees were as tall as seventy or eighty feet, but even those were so spindly they looked as if a good strong wind might snap them in two. In some places the trees formed dense thickets. In others, they were so far apart that even a person with a strong arm could hardly throw a rock from one tree to the next. Without the protection of the longleaf overstory, the waving wiregrass was overrun by vines and briars. It was exactly the kind of vegetation that made tree walking necessary, but the trees were too irregularly spaced for that.

“You won’t be finding no feechies in this part of the island,” Dobro grunted as he slashed through a briar bush with a pole he had cut from a turkey oak. “Can’t swim, can’t boat, can’t tree-walk.”

“So we’re going to be living in a place that’s too wild for the feechiefolk,” Aidan mumbled.

Dobro slapped at the back of his neck and danced with rage. His skin, so white after his first bath, was now an angry red from sunburn and splotched with the purple welts raised by mosquitoes and other biting insects that swarmed in all of Corenwald’s wild places.

“These bugs is about to chaw me down to bones and tallow,” Dobro complained. “How can you civilizers go pirootin’ around without no mud cover and not go crazy account of the itching?”

“We’re just tougher than feechies, I suppose,” Percy said, cutting his eyes over toward Dobro to see his reaction.

Dobro slapped at another bug. “If I wasn’t so miserable,” he said, “I’d whup both of you and show you how tough a feechie is.” He gave a little wiggle, rubbing his knees together to scratch matching mosquito bites on the inside of either knee.

Dobro moaned, “I don’t mind telling you, these skeeters done whupped and defeated me.”

“Dobro, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Percy chided. “A full-grown feechie defeated by mosquitoes.”

“There ain’t no shame in that,” said Dobro. “No shame at all. You know who’s the boss of the forest, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Percy. “A bear? A panther? Certainly not a mosquito.”

Dobro gave another slap at his bare arm and launched into a story meant to educate his fellow travelers and keep his own mind off his troubles.

“Mr. Wildcat and Mr. Alligator got to argufying about who was the boss of the forest. Up and down they had it, back and forth, who should and who shouldn’t. They got so aggravated till Mr. Wildcat finally reached back with his off-paw and fetched one across Mr. Alligator’s snout. Ker-blip! ”

Dobro reenacted the blow, swinging his open hand in a sweeping, roundhouse motion.

“Well now, Mr. Alligator was astonished that his old friend Mr. Wildcat would strike a blow against him. His eyes filled up with tears. He turned tail like he was headed back into the water, and Mr. Wildcat figured he’d made his point. He sat down on his hunkers and mewed out a song: None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the champeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

“But Mr. Alligator’s tearfulness was just a trick he learnt from Cousin Crocodile. He didn’t even feel that cat’s furry paw against his bony snout. And he sure didn’t have it in his mind to skedaddle from such a fight as that. Naw, he turnt tail so he could reach that sassy wildcat better.

“Mr. Wildcat was strokin’ his chin whiskers and feelin’ mighty bumptious when Mr. Alligator’s tail come whippin’ ’round like a harrycane. That poor cat was flung nearbout to the other side of the river. And by the time he’d paddled to the far bank, lookin’ droopy and bedraggled, Mr. Wildcat decided not to pursue the question no further with Mr. Alligator.

“Wasn’t too much longer before Mr. Bear come by and seen Mr. Alligator looking biggety. He asked him, ‘What makes you hold your head so high, Mr. Alligator?’

“Alligator given him one of them long smiles of his, and then he sings out, None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the champeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

“Mr. Bear figured on that a while, and then he suggested maybe Mr. Alligator weren’t the boss after all, and they commenced to argufyin’. Up and down they had it, back and forth, who can and who can’t, who is and who isn’t. They got so aggravated that Mr. Alligator reached way back with his tail and frammed Mr. Bear across the hunkers.

“That hurted Mr. Bear, you know. But mostly it made him mad. Mr. Bear’s a big feller and don’t fling so easy as a wildcat. He reached up high with his near paw and kerflunked it right down betwixt Mr. Alligator’s knobbly eyes just like he was swingin’ a hammer. Knocked all the bubbles out’n him. Sunk him all the way to the river mud. Mr. Alligator figured he’d had about all he wanted, and he moseyed a good piece down the river afore he knobbed his nose out’n the water again.

“Mr. Bear couldn’t help bloviatin’ a little bit. He stood up on his behind legs and grumbled and growled so as to get his pitch, then he sung out: None of you critters better give me sauce. I am the champeen, I am the boss. Boss of this river, boss of these trees. All of you critters better ask me please.

“Then Mr. Bear figured that if he was going to be the boss of the forest he better go ahead and start bossin’ some folks. So he gathered up all the critters in a clearing where he could give everybody their ’signments. The critters didn’t like it very much, and they all was grumblin’ in their goozlums, but they’d seen what Mr. Bear done to Mr. Alligator, and them what didn’t see it had heard about it. Nobody figured he’d be the first person to backchat Mr. Bear.

“Mr. Bear said, ‘You folks probably heard already, I’m the boss of this here forest.’ That made the critters feel uneasy in their minds, but nobody said nothin’. They just kind of shuffled their paws around a little bit.

“Then, when Mr. Bear was about to start with the ’signments, somebody hollered out, ‘I don’t reckon you the boss of me, old Bear.’

“Mr. Bear’s brow went wrinkly and he stared from critter to critter. He asked, ‘Which one of you folks is givin’ me sauce?’ All the critters just looked down at their paws, afraid Mr. Bear would think it was them what said he weren’t the boss. Mr. Bear said a little louder, ‘Which one of you critters is givin’ me sauce?’

“The voice hollered out again, ‘I’m the one what’s givin’ you sauce, Bear. That’s the way I like my bear meat-with a little sauce.’

“Mr. Bear ain’t grumblin’ no more. Now he’s roaring: ‘Who said that?!’

“The voice hollered out a third time: ‘It’s me, it’s Mr. Flea. And I don’t mind saying, I’m a better man than you, Mr. Bear.’

“Mr. Bear squinched up his eyes and soodled down close to the ground and sure enough, he seen Mr. Flea standing on the top of a daisy flower with his chest poked out and his fists balled up. Mr. Bear give a snort, then he commenced to hee-hawing.

“That just made Mr. Flea mad. ‘I ain’t a man to be laughed at,’ he told him. ‘You better ’pologize to me, and in a hurry too.’

“But Mr. Bear’d done flopped down on the ground and was tee-heein’ and haw-hawin’ like he just couldn’t help hisself.