graceful fingers. An occasional breeze brought the slightest relief from the sun’s heat, as well as a piney whiff of the turpentine that oozed from the longleafs.
Just below the village of Hustingreen, Aidan rested on the white bank of Bayberry Creek where it flowed into the Tam. Leaning against the swelling buttress of a black gum tree, he remembered something Father had shown him once on the Western Road. Just east of the BonifayPlain was a little pond—a limestone sinkhole, actually— about thirty strides off the road. According to Father, that pond formed the headwaters of Bayberry Creek, which followed a southeasterly path to the very spot where Aidan now stood.
Aidan faced the northwest, sighting upstream along the Bayberry. If he could follow the creek to its source, he would come out on the Western Road, only a league or two from his destination. It wouldn’t be easy going, for there was no road that way, but surely the shortcut would save him at least four or five leagues. And besides, in the shady creek bottom he could avoid the direct sun of the open road.
He decided to try it. He left the River Road and made for the tanglewood. The bottomland forest quickly enveloped Aidan in its twisting branches and trailing vines. The trails he followed were not made by people, but by deer and bear and wild boar. In places there weren’t even animal trails, and Aidan had to make his own.
The sun filtering through the dense treetops cast a greenish light on Aidan’s surroundings. The shade of the big gum trees and water oaks took the edge off the heat, but still Aidan’s tunic was soaked through with sweat, for the air was heavy and damp in the creek bottom.
Insects were the one thing Aidan had failed to consider when he quit the road and took to the deer paths. In the swampy bottoms, the bugs multiplied like a plague of Pharaoh. Aidan trudged along in a humming cloud of mosquitoes, slapping, swatting, and waving his arms to fend off their attacks. The gray sweat bees, though much less numerous than the mosquitoes, tormented him. Their big sting was out of proportion to their tiny size.
But no sound in the forest was more immediately terrifying than the whining buzz of the yellow flies. They came in hard and fast, flying an erratic spiral that made them impossible to swat. They were so fierce and persistent that they didn’t even need bare skin to sting. They thought nothing of landing on Aidan’s thick hair and boring straight through to his scalp. A couple even pierced through Aidan’s tunic, raising angry red welts on his shoulder. These were the sort of bugs that one seldom met on the big road. They were known only to the adventurous soul who left the well-worn path to explore the swamps and river bottoms.
But Aidan’s shortcut also revealed to him many wondrous things that he could have never seen on the road. Every bend in the creek brought some new delight: a pair of otters cavorting in the water, a parade of wild hogs snortling and rattling through the saw palms, a regiment of turtles lined up side by side along a fallen log. The woods were dense and tangled, but Aidan was in little danger of losing his way. He had only to keep near the creek and continue upstream, and he would eventually reach the lime sink at the head of the creek.
After two hours’ hike upstream, however, things got more complicated. The creek spilled into a broad swamp. Only now did it occur to Aidan why there was no road through this part of the country. The sandy track that he had been following deposited him on a smelly mud flat, and he sank to his ankles in hot mud. He strained to free his feet, and the muck made a loud sucking sound, then a pop as each foot came loose. Watching his footprints slowly fill with oily, putridwater, Aidan mulled over his dilemma. He no longer had the convenient option of trekking up the creek bank, for there was no more creek bank, only a sunken morass of deep, sticky mud punctuated by a maze of
Just below the village of Hustingreen, Aidan rested on the white bank of Bayberry Creek where it flowed into the Tam. Leaning against the swelling buttress of a black gum tree, he remembered something Father had shown him once on the Western Road. Just east of the BonifayPlain was a little pond—a limestone sinkhole, actually— about thirty strides off the road. According to Father, that pond formed the headwaters of Bayberry Creek, which followed a southeasterly path to the very spot where Aidan now stood.
Aidan faced the northwest, sighting upstream along the Bayberry. If he could follow the creek to its source, he would come out on the Western Road, only a league or two from his destination. It wouldn’t be easy going, for there was no road that way, but surely the shortcut would save him at least four or five leagues. And besides, in the shady creek bottom he could avoid the direct sun of the open road.
He decided to try it. He left the River Road and made for the tanglewood. The bottomland forest quickly enveloped Aidan in its twisting branches and trailing vines. The trails he followed were not made by people, but by deer and bear and wild boar. In places there weren’t even animal trails, and Aidan had to make his own.
The sun filtering through the dense treetops cast a greenish light on Aidan’s surroundings. The shade of the big gum trees and water oaks took the edge off the heat, but still Aidan’s tunic was soaked through with sweat, for the air was heavy and damp in the creek bottom.
Insects were the one thing Aidan had failed to consider when he quit the road and took to the deer paths. In the swampy bottoms, the bugs multiplied like a plague of Pharaoh. Aidan trudged along in a humming cloud of mosquitoes, slapping, swatting, and waving his arms to fend off their attacks. The gray sweat bees, though much less numerous than the mosquitoes, tormented him. Their big sting was out of proportion to their tiny size.
But no sound in the forest was more immediately terrifying than the whining buzz of the yellow flies. They came in hard and fast, flying an erratic spiral that made them impossible to swat. They were so fierce and persistent that they didn’t even need bare skin to sting. They thought nothing of landing on Aidan’s thick hair and boring straight through to his scalp. A couple even pierced through Aidan’s tunic, raising angry red welts on his shoulder. These were the sort of bugs that one seldom met on the big road. They were known only to the adventurous soul who left the well-worn path to explore the swamps and river bottoms.
But Aidan’s shortcut also revealed to him many wondrous things that he could have never seen on the road. Every bend in the creek brought some new delight: a pair of otters cavorting in the water, a parade of wild hogs snortling and rattling through the saw palms, a regiment of turtles lined up side by side along a fallen log. The woods were dense and tangled, but Aidan was in little danger of losing his way. He had only to keep near the creek and continue upstream, and he would eventually reach the lime sink at the head of the creek.
After two hours’ hike upstream, however, things got more complicated. The creek spilled into a broad swamp. Only now did it occur to Aidan why there was no road through this part of the country. The sandy track that he had been following deposited him on a smelly mud flat, and he sank to his ankles in hot mud. He strained to free his feet, and the muck made a loud sucking sound, then a pop as each foot came loose. Watching his footprints slowly fill with oily, putridwater, Aidan mulled over his dilemma. He no longer had the convenient option of trekking up the creek bank, for there was no more creek bank, only a sunken morass of deep, sticky mud punctuated by a maze of
Similar Books
