The Way of the Wilderking Read Free Page A

they know is Pantherbane.”
    â€œOh, and about what them wee-feechies done to you, Percy—about them feeding you to that alligator.” Tombro was trying to keep a grave and apologetic face, but something twinkled in his eye. Was it pride in the wee-feechies’ spirit and creativity? “They ought notta done that.” The wee-feechies had sneaked Percy out of his cage while the grown-ups were embroiled in a heated argument over what they should do to him. “But you know how younguns is,” Tombro concluded. It wasn’t the most satisfying apology Percy had ever received.
    â€œSay, Tombro,” Aunt Seku called. “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”
    â€œI didn’t pole half a day just for jabbering and sorrifyin’,” said one of the Coonhouse feechies. “You want to confabulate about this here civilizer trouble, that’s fine with me. But looks to me like you owe me some entertainment first.”
    A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled feechies. Orlo Polejumble called out, “Tombro, I want to see can’t Wimbo Barkflinger whup your daddy’s beavers at long last.”
    Percy was confused, being unfamiliar with feechie ways. Wasn’t this an emergency swamp council? What did entertainment have to do with anything? But Aidan just groaned. A timber-cutting contest would mean at least an hour’s delay, and they didn’t have an hour to spare.
    â€œThe civilizers are coming!” Aidan shouted, trying to make himself heard. “We don’t have time—”
    But his voice was drowned out by a rising chant: “Timberbout! Timberbout! Timberbout!”
    The crowd pushed Wimbo Barkflinger and Bardo Timberbeaver, Tombro’s father, toward the stump in the middle of the clearing. Wimbo looked uncertain about going up against Bardo’s beavers, but Bardo rubbed his hands in evident glee. Wimbo was the greatest of the Feechiefen axmen. No man alive could outchop him with a stone ax. But nobody, not even Wimbo, had ever beaten Bardo’s team of trained beavers in a timberbout. The Timberbeaver clan derived its name from these very creatures, so great was the clan’s pride in them.
    Wimbo raised his palms in front of his face, the backs of his hands facing outward. It was the gesture by which a feechie accepts a public challenge. The crowd grew silent.
    â€œBardo, I’ll chop against your beavers,” he said, “on one condition.” The beaver trainer inclined his head toward the timber cutter and smiled, inviting him to name his condition.
    â€œLet me pick out the trees,” Wimbo said.
    Bardo shrugged. “I don’t see what difference that makes, long as the trees is the same kind and about the same size.” That was a given anyway, according to the rules of a timberbout. “And as long as you don’t pick out pine trees. You know my beavers can’t abide pitch and turpentine. It ain’t natural.”
    Wimbo agreed and butted heads with the old feechie to seal the deal.
    â€œWell then,” said Bardo, “I better go fetch my beavers.” The crowd cheered in raucous anticipation of the timberbout, and the feechies all fell in behind Bardo as he stomped down the trail toward the landing.
    Near the water’s edge, Bardo found the cypress paddle he used to call his beavers. He slapped it flat on the surface of the water, in imitation of a beaver’s tail slapping. Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap! Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap! It wasn’t long before three deep-brown knobs appeared on the black water’s surface, approaching fast and trailing broadening Vs in their wake.
    â€œHyah, Sawtooth!” Bardo called. “Hyah, Crackjaw! Hyah, Chip!”
    The three massive, glistening, dripping beavers emerged from the swamp and waddled briskly to Bardo, then sat on their haunches in affectionate greeting to the old feechie who had raised them from kits and