They took to the bogs,

Now your horses and hogs

Got to make it on their own.

Oh, Veezo, you is ruint,

Underneath the ground.

Your cold-shiny's rusted,

Your cabins is busted.

They'll never more be found.

"It's all right there in the feechie lore," Dobro explained. "All about Veezo and his magical cold-shiny plow." He wiped away a tear of self-pity. "In the old times, way before civilizers come to Corenwald, feechiefolks was farmers and villagers, just like you. And the biggest feechie farmer of them all was a feller named Veezo. And weren't he a greedisome rascal! He farmed more land than any other man on the island, but his feelings was hurt because it weren't enough for him.

"He was settin' in his yard one evening with his lips pooched out when poof! A yard fairy turnt up."

"A what?" Big Haze asked.

"A yard fairy-you know, the kind of fairy lives in folkses' yards. And the yard fairy says 'Veezo, how come your lips is pooched out?'

"Veezo says, 'My feelin's is hurt because I ain't got enough land to plow. I plow all the land a man and a mule can plow, but it ain't enough.'

"The fairy says, 'I see. If you already plowing all the ground a man and a mule can plow, what you need is a magical cold-shiny plow.' And poof! There one is, just as shiny and pretty a thing as Veezo ever seen. His eyes gets real big, account of he's so greedisome.

"Then the fairy says, 'Just don't plow too long a furrow.'

"Veezo's so wondrous he almost don't hear the fairy's warnin', but finally he pulls his eyes off'n that cold-shiny plow long enough to ask, 'How long is too long a furrow?' But the fairy's gone.

"Next day, Veezo commences to plowin', and he plows the prettiest ankle-deep furrow long enough to grow corn for the whole neighborhood. He figures that must be long enough a furrow, and he ought to turn around, but then he figures he might want a punkin patch too. So he given his mule a swat, and on they go another piece. Veezo don't even notice now that his magical cold-shiny plow's cuttin' a furrow knee-deep and two foot wide.

"He's about to turn his mule around, but then he figures some watermelons might be just the thing. So he gives his mule another swat, and on they go another piece. He don't notice that his magical cold-shiny plow is diggin' a furrow shoulder high and ten foot across.

"Veezo was just about to turn that mule around when he got a hankerin' for onions and decided he'd plow up a onion patch. He give his mule a swat and on they go. He didn't know he was plowin' right through his own yard because his furrow was deeper than his head and fifty foot wide! He just kept on plowin', happy as a jaybird, and his cabin dropped into the furrow, then his barns dropped in the furrow, and finally the clay just tumbled in on top of Veezo and buried him and his magical cold-shiny plow too.

"And that's why feechies is swamp folks, forest folks. Veezo's neighbors seen what come of farmin', and they takened to the woods where they could get their nourishment without cuttin' furrows with no cold-shiny plow."

Dobro looked solemnly at his hearers. "And the moral of the story is: Don't go messin' up with cold-shiny plows."

"I thought the moral was don't go messin' up with yard fairies," Percy chimed in.

But Dobro paid him no mind.

"Hey, Dobro," Percy teased, "you don't suppose that's Veezo's cabin and magical plow we found, do you?"

Dobro looked thoughtfully into the hole the miners had dug. "I reckon that's as good a explanation as anything you civilizers has come up with."

Chapter Fourteen.

New Recruits Hiding out was dull work. Perhaps that was why the men at Sinking Canyons took such an interest in Jasper's archaeological dig. It gave them something to do, something to talk about, a mystery to figure out. They held lengthy debates over whether it made more sense to dig shallow over a broad area, or more deeply in a tighter, focused area. Many of the men kept their own catalogs of the objects found at the diggings, separate from the official record kept by Jasper, who hoped to donate his work to the university in Tambluff as soon as the Errolsons returned to Corenwalder society.

Not that there were many findings to record. They found more timbers and some floorboards they believed came from a separate building. They also found a bra.s.s pot and a rusted pair of iron tongs wedged between a couple of timbers. But for the most part, it appeared the smaller items that had been in those buildings at one time-tools, cooking utensils, clothing, furniture, all those everyday objects that told the story of a people's way of life-had disappeared, probably washed away through the years. Only the big timbers and the iron plow had the heft to stand their ground and be buried in the sand, then be uncovered again so many years later.

It was the plow that had everyone flummoxed. Maybe, just maybe, a man would have reason to build a house here in the Clay Wastes. Maybe he was a hermit. But not even a hermit would try to farm this land, not when he could go anyplace else on the island and make a better crop with a lot less effort.

Some of the miners had floated a theory that the Eechihoolee River once flowed through the canyons and had changed course. A river at flood stage could carry timbers a good long way. After all, that was how the timber rafters got their logs from the forests to the seaports. That still didn't explain how the iron plow blade got there. And besides, the Eechihoolee wasn't all that close. If it had changed course in the last hundred years since Corenwald had been settled, surely somebody would have known something about it.

Work in the diggings was going a little more slowly than Jasper had hoped. Much of the miners' time was occupied with digging a new washing pool where the old one had been ruined, and when they finished with that, Errol had put them on a new tunneling project on the other side of the canyon.

Errol and Aidan were at the new hideout when Clifford, the on-duty sentry, ran up with news of approaching men.

"How many?" Errol asked.

"Eighty, maybe ninety," Clifford answered.

A look of concern crossed Errol's face. "Armed?" he asked.

"You might say that," Clifford answered. "Some have rusty old swords; some have clubs or staves."

"Horseback or on foot?"

"On the march. I guess you'd call it marching," Clifford answered. "Oh, I almost forgot. They're wearing some kind of uniform. Green tunics and black hats with egret feathers."

"Oh no," Aidan groaned. "Aidanites! They've found me!" Percy doubled over in a fit of laughter.

"Come, men," Errol urged. "Away from the tunnels. No sense letting our guests see where our hideout is."

The Aidanites were already in sight. They were tromping up either side of the braided stream-a good policy if they were trying to keep their boots dry, but a terrible policy if they needed to keep their location and movements secret. They left thousands of boot-prints that wouldn't wash away until the next good creek rising.

Aidan intercepted the men near the new washing pool, his comrades behind him. Just as he feared, they were Hustingreen Militia, led by Milum, the red-bearded Aidanite they met outside of Hustingreen. Milum stood at attention and popped his right hand over his heart in salute. The rest of the Aidanites saluted, too, though not very crisply. Milum dropped to one knee in front of Aidan. "Your Majesty, the Hustingreen Militia, reporting for training camp and at your service."

"Training camp?" Aidan barked. "This isn't a training camp. It's a hideout." He looked over his green-clad followers. "Though it's obviously not a very good hideout!" He waved the backs of his hands at them, the way he might shoo a dog. "Get on," he shouted. "Go home!" He stomped a foot, but the Aidanites just stared vacantly at him.

"But what about the other militias?" Milum asked. "We're supposed to help get everything ready for them."

Aidan felt his stomach tighten. He struggled to speak calmly. "What other militias?"

Milum chuckled at first, a.s.suming that Aidan must be pulling his leg. Of course the Wilderking knew which militias. How could he not know? Soon he realized, however, his king in exile really didn't know the plan. "Why, all the militias," Milum said. "The Bluemoss Boys, the Middenmarsh Militia, the Eechihoolee Regulars, the Berrien Militia, the Mountain Screamers. And all the others. The rest of the Hustingreen force is only a couple of days behind us."

Aidan felt light-headed. "You can't ..." he began. "We can't ... You've got to go home." He looked to his father for help.

Errol pulled him aside. "Here's the thing, Aidan," he whispered. "These boys can cause us a lot more trouble back home than they can cause us here. At least here we can keep an eye on them. Let's hear more from this Milum before we send them away."

Aidan turned back toward the Hustingreen Militia. "Men," he intoned, "welcome to Sinking Canyons. You may fall out, pending further orders." He turned to Milum. "Captain, a word with you, please."

Milum joined Aidan and Errol in the shade of an overhanging cliff. The three men squatted and sat on their heels, as Corenwalder men often did when speaking of serious matters.

"Who told you there was an Aidanite training camp in Sinking Canyons?" Aidan asked.

"Lynwood, Your Majesty. Who else?"

"First," said Aidan, "you've got to stop calling me 'Your Majesty.' I'm not king. I'm not even king in exile. I'm Aidan Errolson. You clear on that?"

"Yes, Your Maj- Yes, Aidan."

"Good. Now, who's this Lynwood?"

The look on Milum's face was one of pure astonishment. "Lynwood Wertenson."

"I should have guessed," Errol mumbled. "That upstart merchant has never been a friend to Darrow."

"He's the chair of the Committee," Milum added by way of clarification, but that clarified nothing for Aidan.

"What committee?" Aidan asked.

"The Secret Committee for the Ascendancy of the Wilderking," said Milum. "They're the governing body for all the local Aidanite auxiliaries and militias."

"This Lynwood," Aidan asked, "he's sending all the Aidanite militias to Sinking Canyons?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many militiamen is that?"

"Three thousand, maybe four."

"And how does this committee know I'm in Sinking Canyons?"

Milum smiled. "Aidan, everybody in Corenwald knows you're in Sinking Canyons. Everybody in Corenwald knows you come out of the Feechiefen in the company of a feechie. Every villager in Corenwald knows the Wilderking Chant by heart and can explain what every line of it has to do with Aidan Errolson." He smiled. "Don't you see, Aidan? Corenwald is waiting for you to claim the throne. King Darrow has lost his grip on the kingdom. Discipline has broken down in the army. Corenwald needs you, Aidan. No disrespect, but it looks like you and maybe King Darrow are the only people in Corenwald who don't realize it."

Aidan could feel the blood rising to his face. He thought he saw the vein appear on his father's forehead as well. Did anyone's oath of loyalty to King Darrow count for anything? "That's enough treasonous talk for now," Aidan said sharply.

"No disrespect, sir," said Milum, realizing that the interview was over.

A long silence prevailed between father and son after Milum left. "He's right about King Darrow's army," Errol said at last. "You've heard it a hundred times from Ottis, Wimbric, Hamp, and all the soldiers who have been living with us in Sinking Canyons. They say what Milum said. Discipline has broken down completely."

Errol broke off and stared across the canyon at the militiamen who wandered around, not sure what to do next. "You can be sure the Pyrthens know how the army has frittered away resources and morale carrying out King Darrow's worst impulses. The Pyrthens' spies are everywhere. The amazing thing is they haven't invaded already." He pointed at the militiamen. "Three thousand men. Maybe four thousand. They want to be an army. We could train them into an army."

Aidan looked at his father with horror. Was he speaking treason too?

"Aidan, don't you understand? When the Pyrthens come again-and they will-those three thousand men may be the only army Corenwald has left. We couldn't defeat the Pyrthens in a pitched battle. But we could make them sorry they came. Hit-and-run attacks. Rearward attacks on their supply train, horse rustling..."

"Feechie warfare," Aidan said, beginning to catch his father's vision.

"That's right," said Errol, with growing excitement. "I'm an old warhorse, and this wouldn't normally be my style, but you make do with what you have. The Last Campers are the best archers I've ever seen. They can teach those villagers to shoot. Our twelve army scouts will make a good beginning to a reconnaissance force. And the miners can show the militiamen how to dig shelters for themselves in the canyon walls."

Errol put his hands on Aidan's shoulders and looked intently into his eyes. "Bayard the Truthspeaker isn't here, so I'll tell you this myself: Live the life that unfolds before you. A small army is coming to Sinking Canyons. They want to follow you. That's what is unfolding before you today. You didn't ask for it. You didn't seek it. You didn't want it. But here it is. These men mean to follow you. They need to follow you. Will you lead them?"

"I'm not their king," Aidan said.

The vein on Errol's forehead appeared again. "Stop making excuses, Aidan!" The vehemence of his father's response surprised Aidan. "I never said you were anybody's king," Errol continued. "I asked if you would lead these men. You're not a boy anymore. You're a man. Don't make any more excuses. Just tell me whether or not you will lead these men."

In that moment of challenge, in that moment of seeming conflict, Aidan felt the blessing of his father pa.s.s to him. "Yes, Father," he said, "I will lead them."

Errol nodded, pleased with his son's answer. "Good," he said. "And just because you're leading, that doesn't mean you can't follow too. Lord willing, you'll lead these men to follow King Darrow."