Chapter 3 - section 1

I wasn’t sure where I had managed to pass myself to, but I knew it wasn’t the Mistlands. Not yet. My father’s lessons echoed through my memory as I struggled to continue on. The Mistlands are named for exactly what the moniker would suggest: their mists. Fey are surprisingly uninventive when it comes to names. Finding a proper boundary to lead through the mist is difficult. It usually takes many, many boundaries and numerous worlds before a proper crossing can be found. And every single crossing drained you. That’s why only the powerful could manage to make it from the Mistlands to the Other Realm.

The world my mother hailed from was known as the Other Realm. As I said, fey really aren’t creative when it comes to names. Centuries past, the worlds were closer and fighting between them was frequent. The Other Realm was named because it wouldn’t bow to the rule of the fey as other worlds had. In fact, humans fought back to such a degree that the fey grew concerned that humans might succeed not only in fending off the beings of the Mistlands, but that they might even succeed in crossing over and taking over the homeland. Apparently, it was of such concern that all the rulers of all the parts of the Mistlands came to a unanimous agreement (an event previously unknown and thereafter as well) and all of them gave a part of their power to pull the word back away from the Other Realm. From that point on, the two places have remained separated by worlds and worlds.

I slowed but didn’t halt; only now daring to glance over my shoulder. The hot breath from my lungs hit the frigid air to form wisps of fog as I panted for breath. Crossing takes a lot out of you. The sky was the cold grey of November or perhaps February. My footsteps crunched in the frost-speckled grey-brown dead grass and I permitted myself a glance down. If Blondie came from the Mistlands and figured out which border I used for crossing, he could follow me here and this ground was leaving tracks far too easily for my taste. Opposite the stream that now trickled beside me, there were thick woods, far denser than the scraggly line behind me. It seemed a likely prospect for doubling back and hiding my tracks. I headed closer to the stream, looking for a place where the water was shallow enough and the rocks close enough to cross.

I needed to sit. I needed to eat! I had to regain strength before I sought another crossing point, but I couldn’t trust that Blondie hadn’t seen me glimmer. And if he had, he knew which boundary I had used and could show up here, in this world. I couldn’t take that risk. I had to find someplace safe. I splashed through the frigid water as little as possible, wishing that I had put on waterproof shoes, but these cheap sneakers were far more disposable.

As I suspected, the rich loamy soil under the trees was covered with dead leaves. Partial footprints might remain, but even to someone experienced I’d be much harder to track there. I jogged along, trying to determine if I had come to this world before. Periodically, I’d glance over my shoulder, checking for signs of Blondie.

Outside of my panting and the shushing of my feet against the leaves, the woods were still. Completely still. Straining for the sound of wildlife or a bird or anything, I nearly tripped over a large seed pod. Only a quick shuffle and grunt permitted my avoidance of the hazard and I glanced over it quickly. It looked like nothing more than a smooth and hairless coconut. Resuming my somewhat leisurely pace, I glanced up towards the trees. Sure enough, most of the giants around me bore similar bald coconuts, although their foliage reminded me more of gigantic elm leaves.

My stomach growled insistently and it was with great longing that I remembered my waffle; the blueberry goodness I had abandoned to the ants. I wondered if the coconut seeds would be any good to eat. Our systems were far better equipped than humans to handle poisoning other than iron whether inadvertent or intentional. “The evolution of centuries of treachery and in-fighting,” Dad was fond of calling it. Still, I wasn’t about to risk the attempt even with the post-glimmering hunger on me. Even if it wouldn’t kill me, I could be rendered severely uncomfortable or even incapacitated which was something I really didn’t need right now.

I had learned in the past that it’s far better to track down some locals, hope that they’re humanoid and try to obtain some of their grub. More often than not it would be edible, even if not palatable. Even if not, the risk of throwing up over their comestibles was better than taking shots in the dark and debilitating myself for potentially long periods of time.

Just then, somewhere off to my left and over the crest of one of the tree covered rises, I heard noise. A chorus of jingling and creaking that sounded like civilization to my hopeful ears. Well, civilization of some sort, I reminded myself as a loud gravelly honk rose over the other sounds. I scrambled up the hill, dislodging large chunks of loam and leaf in my wake, hungry for the sight of whatever people this world offered. And just plain hungry besides.

I wasn’t disappointed. Trundling along a tree-cleared stretch was a low and wide wagon upon which a few humanoids and several netted oddities sat. Harnessed to the wagon and pulling it were a team of what looked uncommonly like very large, very green llamas. Their ridiculous necks undulating as they strained against the weight of their burden, the beasts trotted along, towing the creaking wooden structure under the guidance of a squat-looking humanoid.

Hoping against hope that they might understand me or at least not immediately attack me, I careened wildly down the hill towards them. The way to the road was steep and it was either careen or roll. I figured the former was the more dignified of the two. As I ran, I called out several linguistic attempts, “Wait! Stop! Arrȇte! Halt!” The wagon slowed, but the only immediate response I received was an indignant honk from one of the llama-esque beings.

The boundary connection sometimes places you in a location where the language is similar or even the same. Unfortunately, at other times, it doesn’t at all. It’s hard to predict what form the connection will take, whether it may be social, geographical, or completely and utterly random. Much like the Other Realm, the Mistlands have regional variety in languages; many mirroring the world that had once been so close. If you have been to a location and you use the proper boundary, you can cross to the same place again and again with sufficient power. My usual path took me quite comfortably through known worlds, most inhabited, with friends along the way. But beggars can’t be choosers and if Blondie was any indication, it might be a good idea to avoid my usual route.

I kept my hands raised and digits spread to demonstrate my lack of a weapon as the wagon pulled to a stop. I halted, too, not wanting to come closer until invited. I really didn’t want them to mistake me for a thief or brigand of some sort. The road that they were on could act as a boundary if things got nasty, although a second crossing so fast would probably do me in for the day unless I gained sustenance first.

The driver hopped down from his perch and I realized he was only about four feet tall, but broad and sturdy. His bone structure appeared much heavier than a human’s. His lower mandible jutted outwards with an elongated jaw, probably built that way to support the tusks that extended from either side of his mouth. In his meaty hands, the driver gripped what looked like a spear gun. He grunted something guttural that I didn’t understand at all and I looked towards the others in the wagon. All of them were of similar facial composition although I noticed that one of them had etchings in his tusks.

As soothingly as I could, I explained in the manner of American tourists around the world: slowly and loudly stating what I wanted in English accompanied with wild hand gestures to try to promote some understanding. “I am looking…” I cupped a hand over my eyes and the piggy driver grunted. Since he made no move to shoot me, I continued on. “For a way to go…” I pointed down the cleared path in the direction the wagon was facing. All the porcine heads turned to follow my gesture. “and find some food. Food? Mmmm.” I mimicked eating motions, mouth to hand and then added the satisfying noise and rubbed my belly.

Finished, I scanned their faces for any sign of comprehension, or at least nonviolence. One, I think she was a woman, for she was smaller and her triangular ears were pierced and bore what looked like dangling dried flowers, nodded and exclaimed, “Tak!”

Uncertain, I repeated, “Tak?” My pronunciation must have needed much work, because the three in the wagon suddenly burst into snorting, grunting giggles.

“Tak,” growled the driver, all levity halting a foot short of his brusque and dangerous demeanor. He added something that I couldn’t understand, but he pointed towards the wagon and the piggy-people inside shuffled around to make room. The one with the dangling flowers stretched out a hand as I approached to help me up and I was curious to note that they only had three fingers, but each bore an extra joint as compared to our own. I took the helping hand and scrambled my way up onto the wagon.