Bekka of Thorns

  Bekka of Thorns

  by

  Steve Shilstone

  Wild Child Publishing.com

  Culver City, California

  Bekka of Thorns Copyright © 2009 by Steve Shilstone

  Cover illustration by Wild Child Publishing © 2009

  For information on the cover art, please contact valerie.tibbs@gmail.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Jackelyn Woolley

  ISBN: 978-1-936222-28-5

  If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by www.wildchildpublishing.com.

  Wild Child Publishing.com

  P.O. Box 4897

  Culver City, CA 90231-4897

  Printed in The United States of America

  Introduction

  No one I know can read the words I am writing now. Truth. The portal to the dangerous world where this language lived has been sealed for bars and bars of eons. Such is the so that they say. Please excuse any awkwardness of phrase I might use if by some miracle you, a creature of this language, are reading these words. You see, in my head I have to translate from Boadlian, my own language. This strange set of runes, yours maybe, I guard as my own special secret here where I sit writing in this hut by the Well of Shells. I am the lone creature on this world that can read what I write. Such I know. The stories collected by Roamer Harpo and Roamer Lace so long ago and written down using these symbols were every one of ’em sent through the portal between the dangerous world and mine a fair short blink before it was sealed off. Truth to tell, I can raise my head and see not ten paces from my doorway the sealed off portal. It is the well, the Well of Shells. How simple it looks, a low circular stack of stones, a portal between worlds. Roamer Harpo and Roamer Lace traveled the rainbow beyond life deep back in time. Over the years, this hut, their hut, collapsed into ruin. When the portal reopens one day, truth I believe it will, and this story has reached a you of that world who can read what I write, what a wonder that will be. So is the very sad and thusly. I’m sorry. That’s a Boadlian phrase that doesn’t translate easily. I’ll put that aside and move on. I write these words in purple ink on oat parchment. My pen is a quill plucked from a beeket bird. I sharpened the quill, made the parchment and prepared the ink myself. Cor teng gwa. That is how you say ‘Well, I did have some help’ in Boadlian. Kar helped. Karro of Thorns. She is my best friend. She shared the adventure I’m ready to tell.

  I am Bekka of Thorns. I have almost eleven full bar years of living. Kar, too. Karro, I call her Kar. She calls me Bek. She has almost eleven bar years, too. We arrived at three days of age together in the Nursery Bower that time ago! We were born bendo dreen, bramble dwarves. We have yellow green eyes, mine are brighter, I think, and yellow green skin. Our eyebrows are copper rust and our hair the same such. Kar’s is wavy. Mine curls. We don’t look like sisters because we aren’t. Kar has a round face. Mine is sharp. All bendo dreen wear black highboots, gray jackets and gray pantaloons. Our shirts are clan. Mine is purple. Kar’s is green. All of us carry chonkas, ‘tambourines’ so said in this language from the world down the Well. We attach ’em to our braidbelts. Kar and I traded belts. She wears my purple. I wear her green. The ribbons on my chonka tambourine are purple. I let them fall in flow. Kar ties her green ribbons in tight clusters on her chonka.

  Where we dwell is in the bramble bower hedge on the border boundary between Fidd Leee Boad and the W’s Three, the Woeful Wanderers’ Wasteland. Bendo dreen, bramble dwarves, rarely or never venture far from the hedge. One did many long bars of eons ago. Bandy of Thorns was his name. Bandy of Legend. His story is one of the best. Kar and I share it more than any of the others. It has the Rainbow Giants, the swumpogglers and the Triplet Princesses Three! Such is quite so. It’s good! It made me think dangerous thoughts when I was the youngest of younglings. I thought Chedge dwa? That means Why not me? Why not me a Legend? Why didn’t I travel far from the hedge and find a story? Telling stories and hearing them is wonderful, and such is what we bendo dreen do. But to be a story, that would be better! That’s what I thought. I never let anyone hear my ideas, not even Kar. I didn’t want her, I don’t know why, to think that I was a jark dweg, too. That means ‘cracked melon’. She is one. I don’t care. I like her that way! But later I shared. And we did it!

  I’m moving this quill across an oat parchment page now, using the strange secret code language of a sealed off world, maybe yours. I will tell a story lived by us, by Kar and me! We had our great adventure far away from the hedge. It began one bar year ago! It will start with ‘Gwer drollek’. That means ‘Once upon a time’. It’s how we bendo dreen begin our most important tales.

  Chapter One

  Finding the Books

  Gwer drollek in the bramble bower hedge on the border of the Woeful Wanderers’ Wasteland the most important day in my life began. I rolled awake, put on my pantaloons, jacket and highboots. I hurried to peek through the briars at the Roamer hut and the Well in the meadow. The morning I’d promised to myself had arrived. I was wound tight and ready to venture away from the protection of the hedge. I fair trembled. I meant to examine alone the collapsed hut, ruins of the Roamer dwelling. I shivered with excitement on top of the trembling as I crept quietly down the tunnel of twigs. The chanks of my chonka, my tambourine, were taped with slagleaves so they would make no sound to disturb the sleeping dreen, dwarves. I squeezed my eyes tight shut in an effort to control the trembling when I reached the low bend where I would squeeze through to the outside. Never before that day had I taken a single step out of the hedge. Oh, I‘d walked under it many times in grodwa. That means ‘tunnels’. But never once had I squeezed my way out to beneath open sky unsheltered, free of the bramble twist ceiling’s protection. I took a deep breath and pushed through. I kept my eyes tight shut.

  Jeg gwa dwin! That means ‘I was out!’ I opened my eyes and reeled at the wide empty. So wide empty! So high empty! I had to sit down. I sat and took long slow breaths. Dwin, I thought, I’m out. Oh, look! The Roamer hut, the sealed portal Well, all clear to see, all open, all there! Before my courage could fail, I jumped up and ran to the tumbled ruins of the hut. I burrowed under through sagging bends of beam and felt a comfort in the digdown hole. It was like a nest bower, but not. It had a proper gloom of dim, but not the tangled riot of branch and thorn. Tilted, fallen and cracked though the walls were, they did not twist like as in the hedge. Instead, they were straight like tabletops, like shelves. And there were shelves, truth was such. Broken shelves, slammed together, fallen, splintered. My arrival sent eetchbaig, that means ‘spiders’, scuttling into darkness. My gaze followed their dusty retreat. I almost didn’t believe my eyes. Was I seeing what I saw? The Gwer drollek story of Roamer Harpo and how he was chosen to be the Chronicler by the lavender witch and how the waterwizards gave him the books and all the rest of it jumped into real for me when I saw what was lying at my feet. A pair of dust-covered objects, outlines square, famously square! I brushed a finger across one of the shapes. Purple! Famously purple! I snatched ’em up, both of ’em, rubbed ’em clean, coughed and sneezed in the cloud I created. Books! Purple! THE books of the tale of Roamer Harpo. These were they. I held ’em! I had history in my hands. I dared to open one.

  My mind went kelpatt. That means ‘running in happy jumps’. These are the books that taught Roamer Harpo the language
of the world down the Well! And later Roamer Lace. Now I’m holding ’em! This one has recipes, look, for the purple ink! And yes, here, for the oat parchment pages! Oh! And this… Such strangeness… Symbols… Oh… I can learn!

  I held ’em in my hands, the books that made the Roamers into Chroniclers. I turned the pages carefully, reading the simple Boadlian text and marveling at the shapes of the strange accompanying runes. These runes, fair to say such, these runes I am scribing right now! I could not read these then, so said, but I admired their shapes, such is truth. I vowed on the spot to study the books and learn the language. I vowed to have an adventure away from the hedge and to write it down later in the language of the lost world down the Well!

  I boiled with an eagerness to get going. But my next task was to somehow convince my friend Kar, Karro of Thorns, to go with me. I wanted adventure, but not truly alone. Ngwan twog bendo dreen. That means ‘After all, I am a bramble dwarf.’ We like to have someone to share our stories.

  I hid the books under my jacket and hurried back to the hedge. I wanted to return before I was missed, before anyone else was up, before the march to the Assembly Bower to hear the morning story and collect our rations of thorns.

  Chapter Two

  Telling Kar

  I made it by the thinnest of scrapes. The CHONK CHANKA CHONK of the Wake up Summons greeted my return fall through the hedge and into the tunnel. I scrambled up and was able to nod at Orangers emerging from bowers all along the way. It was an Orange Day. Bendo dreen with orange ribbons fluttering from their tambourines lined up to lead the march to the Assembly Bower. Many of ’em were pulling their red gloves on, grumbling, and complaining like as is always done when it’s your color’s day. I complain on Purple Days. Kar complains on Green Days. Hidden inside us we like the Days though, because doing the feeding and hearing the stories is really fun. Such is truth.

  My secret filled me to the brim. It would spill over soon, but not yet. I ran to my nest bower and slid the books—the books!—behind the bench where no one could see ’em. Next I went grinning along, hurrying to Kar’s bower. I reached it and stood at the entrance peeking in. Kar rolled on the floor struggling with her highboots like as she always does. They were tight, too tight, but that’s the way she likes ’em. She saw me standing there and stopped thrashing. She went limp, pretending to faint. She does that, too. Pretends to faint. She’s dramatically crazy. She is a jark dweg, a cracked melon. So what? I like her that way. I said that before, didn’t I? Well, it’s truth. She opened her eyes and gasped.

  “Water,” she whispered, “or thorn drippings…anything… Help me… The grin… Too big… The teeth… Can’t survive….”

  She pretended to faint again.

  “Get up, Kar. I did something. I want to tell you. It’s a secret. Listen.”

  She popped open her eyes and sat up.

  “Wait! Let me get ready,” she said while she thumped the heels of her boots against the floor.

  “You don’t have to get ready. I’ll just….” I stepped forward. The secret couldn’t wait another minute.

  She stopped me with a stare. “Bek! Do you know me?” she interrupted.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  And so I waited. She thrashed around until her highboots were on and got to her feet. She thought for a nince, blinking her eyes. She picked up her chonka, her tambourine, from the bench and set it on her head. She stuck out her arms like wings. She lifted her right highboot off the floor and stood there balanced on left leg only.

  “If I hear secrets standing like this, I can keep ’em,” she said. “Go ahead. Tell me. No, wait! I should hop three times.”

  She hopped three times. Her tambourine hat fell off. Such is Kar. So. I am used to her. We are together all the time when it isn’t Purple or Green Day. We recite our favorites at each other. We investigate. We try to figure out who our parents are! Such knowledge is forbidden to bendo dreen. We have our ideas. Our mefwa. That means ‘secrets’.

  CHONK CHANKA CHONK CHONK

  The Orangers were ready for the rest of us. I wouldn’t have time to say much. We were required to march to the Assembly Bower right away. Kar looked at me, tilted her head, and raised her eyebrows. We had to go, but she waited.

  “Oh, it’s too big to say fast,” I told her. “Come on, we have to march. I’ll tell you after the morning story and thorns.”

  Kar shrugged, picked up her chonka, and we joined the line in the tunnel. We marched, and chonkas chankled all around us, except mine, which was still taped. I couldn’t stand it. I had to lean forward to whisper in Kar’s ear.

  “I went to the Roamer hut. I found the books,” I whispered.

  Kar spun and staggered. She crashed against the wall, slumped, and slid to the tunnel floor, pretending to faint. Others knew about Kar. They just marched on by, shaking their heads and sighing. I crouched next to her. Others knew about me, too. They marched by frowning. Kar opened one eye.

  “Really?” she said.

  “Really,” I answered.

  She pretended to faint again.

  Chapter Three

  Old Mondo’s Story

  I hissed at Kar, “Get serious!” I shouldn’t have. She never does. I managed to haul her up by her jacket collar and got her moving again. We straggled in, the last to enter the Assembly Bower. We received a goodly spray of nasty looks and mutterings.

  “Sorry, everybody,” Kar said loudly. “Bek and I were a nince late, truth, but here we are now and ready to be very quiet and listen. So, all you have to do is to start and we will shut right up suchly and so. You won’t hear a squeak or a jingle from us. You won’t mmmmmpppphhhhh….”

  “mmmmmpppphhhhh” is when I slapped my hand over her mouth. The Orangers lining the aisles shook their heads and chonk chankled their tambourines to call us to order. I stood at attention. Kar stood at a sort of attention the way she does, properly rigid for the most part, but the other part is her tongue stuck out and waving from side to side. Old Mondo swept into the bower and up the aisle. The Orange Story Cape flowed from his shoulders.

  “Welcome, bendo dreen all, to this glory I decree an Orange Day! Orangers, raise your chonkas!” he proclaimed.

  The Orangers chonka chankled their tambourines and snapped ’em to their belt clips. The five-sided mirror descended from above. Thus was the signal given for us to sit and listen. Kar and I always liked Orange Days best because Old Mondo was an explosion of thrills and excitement. He did tell stories that very well. Before he could start, I felt Kar’s fingers grab my chin and turn my head so such that I was forced to look at her. “Well? Tell me about it!” her face demanded silently with its raised eyebrows, bulging eyes and thrust out chin.

  “Later. In the shop after story and thorns,” I quickly whispered.

  A blanket of ‘Ssshhh’s and ‘Well, I never’s and ‘Can you believe ’em?’s fell on us. I cringed down. Kar didn’t.

  “Younglings there! Are you prepared to hold your tongues, belt ’em and tie ’em down? I have chosen a Gwer drollek story for this glorious Orange morning,” called out Old Mondo.

  I nodded, and Kar said loudly, “Oh, good!”

  “Fine then. Here it happens,” said Old Mondo, and he wove his tale like Roamers of old. “Gwer drollek far off somewhere in the Woeful Wanderers’ Wasteland, it was said by those who were rumored to know that there existed deep underground a fabulous city of gold where winged emerald greenwings flew the long cavern canyons and dwelt on ledges jutting from the great tunnel walls.”

  Pacing and turning, crouching and beckoning, he caught me and all the rest, even Kar, up in the story of woeful wanderers searching for the underground gold of Rumin, city of the emerald greenwings. Eyes wide with madness, grinning wide, he swung his arms and clutched at the air, a true picture of a woeful wanderer. He snakily slithered to become the sorceress witch posing as Bodgy of Thorns. He whimpered as Blinky, the lost emerald greenwing Urprince. He stumbled about as the Babba Ja Harick, lavender witch of the D
anken Wood. He growled and writhed as the racketous garl. It’s a sign! I said to myself. It’s a sign! Rumin! Rumin! We’ll go find Rumin for our adventure! Old Mondo spun the story to its finish and brought us all to golden sands by the Wide Great Sea. Kar nudged me hard with her elbow and brought me back to the Assembly Bower. The Orangers bustled, handing out cups of sweet thorns. The lines formed. I was the only one still sitting. Such was how lost I’d been in the tale.

  “Today I’m going to chew my thorns to a paste, then suck ’em up my nose and swallow. No one’s ever done that, I bet,” said Kar.

  “No, I bet not,” I agreed dreamily, already planning our trip to find Rumin.

  Kar does things every day no one else has ever done. No one would want to do ’em, but that doesn’t matter. She does ’em. We received our cups, and I ate my thorns without tasting ’em. My mind drifted far from the hedge out in Woeful Wanderers’ Wasteland. Soon the rest of me would join it! I looked at Kar and grinned. Others stared at her, too, but not with grins. Frowns, and looks of disgust, as was the usual.

  “It tastes good this way,” said Kar, sniffing and swallowing.

  “Let’s go to the shop. I’ll tell you about the you know,” I said quietly.

  She fell to the floor, pretending to faint.

  Chapter Four

  In the Repair Shop

  We went to the shop where we apprenticed, repairing tambourines. Zinna, our teacher and Mistress of Construction and Repair, left a note telling us she was off forging chanks in the tunnel foundry beneath the hedge. Kar and I got to work. I assembled chanks on pin dowels and attached ’em to the rims. Kar stretched the membranes, tucking and fastening. Later on we would gloss and ribbon. As we worked we talked like this:

  “Tell me now. Did you really? Out to the Roamer hut?”

  “I did. All the way! Outside the hedge! The books! I got ’em! I read parts. How to make the ink, the purple ink, was there. The oat parchment recipe! I saw it. The other book… It had the language of the world down the Well. Roamer Harpo’s book straight from the Gwer drollek story! He held it in his hands! He learned how to write the Chronicles… Roamer Lace learned. I will, too! I’m going to learn it!”