Part 9 (1/2)
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-s.h.i.+ny'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-s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny plow.' And poof! There one is, just as s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny 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-s.h.i.+ny plow.”
Dobro looked solemnly at his hearers. ”And the moral of the story is: Don't go messin' up with cold-s.h.i.+ny 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 was.h.i.+ng 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.”