As he headed off the road to circle around the flooding, he tried to remember the times he and his sister had picked blueberries in the Hollow. “Somewhere there’s a turn,” he thought, squinting his eyes against the blinding rain. “Where is that old path—there’s a place where you slip down a slope and you’re at Overmutt Bridge. It seems to me there was a big cracked boulder that marked the way.” Emil looked here and there as he struggled along, hoping at each step he’d find the landmark showing where to return to the main road. Slogging on through the fierce storm, the miserable young Wood Cow wandered along, hoping to see something familiar.
Blundering in the driving rain, however, Emil passed by the anticipated landmark and wandered further and further into unfamiliar territory. Soon he was seriously lost. As the afternoon dragged on with no change in his situation, he decided to seek help. The Hedgelands air always carried a mountain chill and the rain felt like an icy bath. Soaked to the bone, the young Wood Cow clenched his jaws against the growing urge to tremble with cold.
He was angry with himself: “Crutt! How stupid I have been. Running here and there like a leaf blown by the wind! Bah—well, I’m completely lost, that much is clear. My first task is to find out where I am. After that, it will be a long backtrack to get on course again. Surely there must be somewhere to ask directions!” he thought.
With renewed resolve, the beleaguered young beast slogged forward with a sense of increasing urgency. He could no longer afford to wander aimlessly through unknown country, hoping to find his way. With night soon to fall, shelter was essential. He no longer hoped to make it home before dark. The dream of a dinner of pike and biscuits was now a distant, forgotten hope. With dismal prospects before him, it would be extremely dangerous to stay outdoors much longer.
Holding his pack over his head to shield his face from the driving rain, Emil marched on for perhaps an hour. Then, above the endlessly drumming rain, something new caught his attention. First, there was a sound of lively music, mingled with loud laughter and cursing, and then a building gradually emerged from the rain.
His wandering had at last cut across a main road. A wide path opened just a bit ahead of him. Although the pathway was soundly made with stone, as Emil approached it he had to cross a sea of mud. Hurrying toward the first sign of shelter he had seen, he flailed and floundered through knee-deep muck. Stumbling along, the laughter he heard coming from the building annoyed him. “Yar! You’d think they’d take pity on such a miserable beast as myself—laughin’ and carryin’ on in the dry and warm. Ah well, they don’t know a raving mud-beast is heading for their door!”
Pulling himself onto the solid stone pathway, Emil ran quickly to the door of what was plainly a roadside inn: The Three Jolly Climbers.
Reaching the door of the inn, Emil halted. Over the door was painted:
On the Way to Maev Astuté
a Last Good Meal, Good Beasts, and Tea,
With Kind Merriment by Horse Doobutt.
“Warn me mother!” Emil thought. “I’ve blundered onto the Climber’s Way.” No Wood Cow ever ventured near the Climber’s Way. Everyone knew that. The Climber’s Way was the road leading to the place where the ascent to Maev Astuté began. Most Hedgies completed the climb to Maev Astuté as an act of honor and duty to their homeland. But not the Wood Cows. They found everything about Maev Astuté disgusting and had long ago refused the climb on principle. No Wood Cow would choose to walk the Climber’s Way.
Nevertheless, here he was stumbling along half-drowned, ready to take any possible refuge. Streaming with muddy water and trembling with cold, Emil opened the door and went inside. The stormy night seemed to push him through the door with a particularly fierce gust of wind and rain.
Once inside, he became instantly alert. He didn’t like what he saw. The entrance door opened into a large public room filled with beasts of every description. Although cheery candles burned here and there on wall sconces, and a warm fire blazed in the hearth, there was a distinct coolness in the air. The remains of a large meal rested on platters piled high on a counter. Around the room beasts lounged back in chairs—they had been talking, playing cards, and generally enjoying themselves. That is, until Emil entered the room. In an instant the jovial talk stopped, all eyes now fixed on him. Conversation froze in mid-sentence, there was absolute silence, no beast even twitched.
The stares trained in his direction were not inviting. Three or four Digger Hogs sat drinking Mud Slops and peeling boiled turtle eggs—tossing the shells on the floor as they ate. They were tattooed, filthy, steel-skinned beasts, with rippling muscles and angry eyes; wearing the iron and canvas overalls of the digging trade. One of the Digger Hogs half-rose from his chair; a clear warning to Emil to come no closer. Emil stopped. Even a strongly built Wood Cow—who was afraid of nothing—would not fight just to be fighting.