The Key of Ban by James Harshfield
Pacer waited in the brush until his companions disappeared into the forest. He cut a branch from a nearby tree to wipe away footprints. He walked toward the trog camp dragging the branch and his companion’s clothing. He hoped the clothing would provide enough scent to lead the trog trackers on an enjoyable game of hide and seek. Most of the trogs in the camp slept while several guards casually visited. Pacer quietly slipped around the camp on an animal trail. He continued to drag the branch and clothes behind him. He followed the animal path for a half hour before returning to the road. He hid the branch, picked up the clothing and started jogging down the road. In the distance he heard the sound of angry voices echoing in the valley behind him. Yes, the chase had begun. He continued jogging for several hours. He knew the trogs would be forced to pursue him at a run.
He finally stopped to catch his breath. As the sounds of the night entertained his senses, he developed a plan. With the clothing dragging behind him, he walked down a brushy trail. When he reached a small creek, he jumped across, walked 10 strides and stopped. He then picked up the clothing and walked backward in his own footprints to the small stream. Stepping only on rocks, he carefully walked down the creek. Pacer did not want his footprints or muddy water to show where he had stepped. He followed the creek until it entered the river.
Daylight was growing in the eastern sky when he reached the river. Distant voices alerted him to a large number of trogs running down the road. He knew he had to find shelter or face certain capture. Without hesitating he waded into the icy water of the river. The rushing water battered his legs, making it difficult for him to keep his footing. With steady steps he finally set foot on the opposite shore.
His attention was drawn to a tall evergreen tree with heavy branches hanging on the ground. He crawled under the lower limbs. The ground under the tree was covered with deep mounds of pine needles. No one could see his campsite from any direction. After changing his wet clothes and eating a cold meal he quickly fell asleep.
During the day he awoke to the shouts in the surrounding area. He could hear many loud voices talking on both sides of the river. He assumed the trogs were searching the area for him. Towards evening Pacer was jarred awake by several loud voices. He saw two trogs standing next to the tree where he was hiding. They searched the surrounding area for any sign of his presence. For some reason the small beast kept looking at the tree. A violent argument erupted when the large trog pointed down the river. The small trog was not interested in the dictates of his companion. The smaller trog stared at the base of the tree with riveted eyes. His attention was drawn to it like a magnet. The creature sensed something was not right. The small trog stepped toward the tree with the intention of looking inside the branches. In a state of rage, the large trog pulled his sword from its scabbard. Without hesitation it decapitated the other trog with a quick stroke. The trog laughed with robust satisfaction as he watched the body disappear in a cloud of smoke. With grim determination etched on its face, the large trog disappeared down the river.
Pacer watched this scene with relief. He said to himself, “That was too close for comfort.”
A meal of hard bread satisfied his need for food. He was now ready to complete his escape. He prayed his little diversion had pulled the search away from his companions. Pacer welcomed darkness as a friend into which he could hide from his pursuers. He crossed the river, found the road and started jogging. He needed to escape the canyon as quickly as possible. The longer he remained in the valley, the lower were his chances of survival. The road was the quickest way to the end of the valley. Sooner or later he would be required to fight in order to escape. Danger was just a part of the game, a game in which life was the reward. As he jogged along, he noticed many large streams flowing into the main river causing it to become wider and deeper.
He did not encounter any trogs for several hours. When he did, their torches gave him ample warning. He hid in the underbrush until they passed him. The game of cat and mouse went on for most of the night. He hoped it was not much farther to the end of the valley.
Pacer had mixed feelings when the light of the moon yielded to the sun’s greater power. Daylight increased the risk of being seen but improved his ability to use the surroundings to his advantage. At a high point on the road he saw the end of the valley spread into the vast grass lands of the Great Plains. This moment of celebration was short lived. As a seasoned warrior, his instincts knew he was not yet safe. He sensed that pursuit was fast approaching from two directions.
As he rounded a turn in the road, he was greeted by a band of four trogs. With an easy motion Pacer pulled his sword. His major advantage was to attack first. While the trogs reacted in their usual slow methodical manner, Pacer killed the first two opponents. This aggressive strategy caused the remaining trogs to back away in surprise and hesitation, giving Pacer the opportunity to continue his attack. In his eagerness to end the battle he committed a cardinal sin of swordsmanship. He overstepped his ability to defend himself. He was too close to the trogs to effectively wield his sword. This mistake was almost fatal.
The trog on his left thrust his sword in an awkward forward motion. The feeble attempt struck Pacer’s arm a glancing blow. Pacer dropped to his left knee, swinging his right leg in a roundhouse swing. The kick hit the trog at knee level. The trog fell onto his back. This allowed Pacer to regain his footing and defend himself against the other trog. With an upward swing of his sword he blocked a solid downward blow. Using the tip of his sword, he pushed the trog’s sword to the side, leaving the center of the trog’s body wide open. Pacer only had to flick his sword in a graceful forward motion to strike a fatal blow. Before the remaining trog could regain its footing, Pacer’s sword ended its career as an evil warrior.
Pacer only stopped long enough to wrap the wound on his arm. He advanced down the road at a steady jog. The canyon road was an ongoing series of sharp turns.
When Pacer rounded a corner in the road, he was confronted by his greatest fear. A band of trogs had placed a barricade on a narrow section of the road. He grinned, thinking, “I am now officially in trouble.” Without counting, he estimated there to be about 30 trogs. At the sight of Pacer, the beasts gave a loud shout that echoed in the canyon. It was hopeless for him to continue down the road. He could not possibly fight such a large army. He turned and sprinted back up the road, with his eyes searching for a way to escape.
Pacer came to an abrupt stop when an equally large group of enemies appeared on the road ahead of him. He was now blocked from escaping on the road. The ground next to the road was bordered on one side by a sheer cliff and the other by the river. The only route open to him was the water.
Pacer hastily looked over the bank to find a suitable place to jump. Then with a short run, he leaped off the road into the river. He landed in a deep pool of water. The shock of the cold water caused him to gasp for breath. Recovering, he swam toward the opposite side of the river, allowing the current to carry him downstream. Using strong strokes he reached the opposite bank.
The frustrated trogs stood hopelessly on the road above the river. At this moment Pacer felt jubilant as he remembered ancient stories about trogs fearing water. Many slow witted archers ran to the river bank. A cloud of poorly aimed arrows filled the air. As Pacer climbed onto the opposite bank he felt a sharp pain bite into his leg. A loud cheer went up from the trogs when they saw the arrow strike. After crawling into the brush, he gritted his teeth as he pulled out the arrow. He was not badly hurt, but was cold and wet. Pacer had to find a place to build a fire to warm his body and dry his wet clothes. Before continuing down the river, he put a temporary wrap around his leg to stop the bleeding and ate a handful of trail food. He prayed the trogs would not gather enough courage to cross the river.
He moved rapidly in order to maintain his body heat. After an hour of searching, he found the ideal resting place. The hollow remains of an old trapper’s cabin was lodged against a stone cliff. The fireplace was still usable and the roof provided partial co
ver.
He was fortunate to find the cabin because the throb in his leg was intensifying. Dizziness caused him to stagger while entering the old building. After an inspection of the cabin, he stumbled outside to gather wood. Several agonizing trips provided ample wood for many hours of fire. He decided to start a fire and risk the chance of revealing his location.
As the warmth from the fire oozed into his body, the pain in his leg grew more intense. He was afraid the arrow had been poisoned. The wound was turning an angry red and draining a dark green ooze. He cleaned and applied a healing ointment to the wound. Suffering biting pain, he removed his clothes and hung them on a rope he had stretched near the fire. Wrapped in his sleeping blanket, he struggled to stay awake until his clothes were dry. After several hours, the blazing fire had transformed his clothes from soggy and wet into warm and dry. After putting on the warm cloths he drifted into a restless sleep. His mind rolled with violent dreams about war, anger and death.
He awoke in the night with a high temperature. The fever felt like a fire was consuming him from inside out. The pain in his leg was so severe he could only move with excruciating pain. After placing more wood onto the fire, Pacer crawled back to his bedroll before losing consciousness. He remembered nothing until the sound of voices and laughter entered his mind. The confusion of his dreams began to fade into conscious awareness of his surroundings. The light of a new day welcomed him as he opened his eyes. The heat of a newly laid fire greeted him with the cheerfulness of the special traveler’s-companion. The bandage on his leg had been changed with the care of a healer. He looked around but did not find anybody in the room. Who started the fire and changed his bandage?
~ ~
Healing and Beyond
He finally stopped to catch his breath. As the sounds of the night entertained his senses, he developed a plan. With the clothing dragging behind him, he walked down a brushy trail. When he reached a small creek, he jumped across, walked 10 strides and stopped. He then picked up the clothing and walked backward in his own footprints to the small stream. Stepping only on rocks, he carefully walked down the creek. Pacer did not want his footprints or muddy water to show where he had stepped. He followed the creek until it entered the river.
Daylight was growing in the eastern sky when he reached the river. Distant voices alerted him to a large number of trogs running down the road. He knew he had to find shelter or face certain capture. Without hesitating he waded into the icy water of the river. The rushing water battered his legs, making it difficult for him to keep his footing. With steady steps he finally set foot on the opposite shore.
His attention was drawn to a tall evergreen tree with heavy branches hanging on the ground. He crawled under the lower limbs. The ground under the tree was covered with deep mounds of pine needles. No one could see his campsite from any direction. After changing his wet clothes and eating a cold meal he quickly fell asleep.
During the day he awoke to the shouts in the surrounding area. He could hear many loud voices talking on both sides of the river. He assumed the trogs were searching the area for him. Towards evening Pacer was jarred awake by several loud voices. He saw two trogs standing next to the tree where he was hiding. They searched the surrounding area for any sign of his presence. For some reason the small beast kept looking at the tree. A violent argument erupted when the large trog pointed down the river. The small trog was not interested in the dictates of his companion. The smaller trog stared at the base of the tree with riveted eyes. His attention was drawn to it like a magnet. The creature sensed something was not right. The small trog stepped toward the tree with the intention of looking inside the branches. In a state of rage, the large trog pulled his sword from its scabbard. Without hesitation it decapitated the other trog with a quick stroke. The trog laughed with robust satisfaction as he watched the body disappear in a cloud of smoke. With grim determination etched on its face, the large trog disappeared down the river.
Pacer watched this scene with relief. He said to himself, “That was too close for comfort.”
A meal of hard bread satisfied his need for food. He was now ready to complete his escape. He prayed his little diversion had pulled the search away from his companions. Pacer welcomed darkness as a friend into which he could hide from his pursuers. He crossed the river, found the road and started jogging. He needed to escape the canyon as quickly as possible. The longer he remained in the valley, the lower were his chances of survival. The road was the quickest way to the end of the valley. Sooner or later he would be required to fight in order to escape. Danger was just a part of the game, a game in which life was the reward. As he jogged along, he noticed many large streams flowing into the main river causing it to become wider and deeper.
He did not encounter any trogs for several hours. When he did, their torches gave him ample warning. He hid in the underbrush until they passed him. The game of cat and mouse went on for most of the night. He hoped it was not much farther to the end of the valley.
Pacer had mixed feelings when the light of the moon yielded to the sun’s greater power. Daylight increased the risk of being seen but improved his ability to use the surroundings to his advantage. At a high point on the road he saw the end of the valley spread into the vast grass lands of the Great Plains. This moment of celebration was short lived. As a seasoned warrior, his instincts knew he was not yet safe. He sensed that pursuit was fast approaching from two directions.
As he rounded a turn in the road, he was greeted by a band of four trogs. With an easy motion Pacer pulled his sword. His major advantage was to attack first. While the trogs reacted in their usual slow methodical manner, Pacer killed the first two opponents. This aggressive strategy caused the remaining trogs to back away in surprise and hesitation, giving Pacer the opportunity to continue his attack. In his eagerness to end the battle he committed a cardinal sin of swordsmanship. He overstepped his ability to defend himself. He was too close to the trogs to effectively wield his sword. This mistake was almost fatal.
The trog on his left thrust his sword in an awkward forward motion. The feeble attempt struck Pacer’s arm a glancing blow. Pacer dropped to his left knee, swinging his right leg in a roundhouse swing. The kick hit the trog at knee level. The trog fell onto his back. This allowed Pacer to regain his footing and defend himself against the other trog. With an upward swing of his sword he blocked a solid downward blow. Using the tip of his sword, he pushed the trog’s sword to the side, leaving the center of the trog’s body wide open. Pacer only had to flick his sword in a graceful forward motion to strike a fatal blow. Before the remaining trog could regain its footing, Pacer’s sword ended its career as an evil warrior.
Pacer only stopped long enough to wrap the wound on his arm. He advanced down the road at a steady jog. The canyon road was an ongoing series of sharp turns.
When Pacer rounded a corner in the road, he was confronted by his greatest fear. A band of trogs had placed a barricade on a narrow section of the road. He grinned, thinking, “I am now officially in trouble.” Without counting, he estimated there to be about 30 trogs. At the sight of Pacer, the beasts gave a loud shout that echoed in the canyon. It was hopeless for him to continue down the road. He could not possibly fight such a large army. He turned and sprinted back up the road, with his eyes searching for a way to escape.
Pacer came to an abrupt stop when an equally large group of enemies appeared on the road ahead of him. He was now blocked from escaping on the road. The ground next to the road was bordered on one side by a sheer cliff and the other by the river. The only route open to him was the water.
Pacer hastily looked over the bank to find a suitable place to jump. Then with a short run, he leaped off the road into the river. He landed in a deep pool of water. The shock of the cold water caused him to gasp for breath. Recovering, he swam toward the opposite side of the river, allowing the current to carry him downstream. Using strong strokes he reached the opposite bank.
The frustrated trogs stood hopelessly on the road above the river. At this moment Pacer felt jubilant as he remembered ancient stories about trogs fearing water. Many slow witted archers ran to the river bank. A cloud of poorly aimed arrows filled the air. As Pacer climbed onto the opposite bank he felt a sharp pain bite into his leg. A loud cheer went up from the trogs when they saw the arrow strike. After crawling into the brush, he gritted his teeth as he pulled out the arrow. He was not badly hurt, but was cold and wet. Pacer had to find a place to build a fire to warm his body and dry his wet clothes. Before continuing down the river, he put a temporary wrap around his leg to stop the bleeding and ate a handful of trail food. He prayed the trogs would not gather enough courage to cross the river.
He moved rapidly in order to maintain his body heat. After an hour of searching, he found the ideal resting place. The hollow remains of an old trapper’s cabin was lodged against a stone cliff. The fireplace was still usable and the roof provided partial co
He was fortunate to find the cabin because the throb in his leg was intensifying. Dizziness caused him to stagger while entering the old building. After an inspection of the cabin, he stumbled outside to gather wood. Several agonizing trips provided ample wood for many hours of fire. He decided to start a fire and risk the chance of revealing his location.
As the warmth from the fire oozed into his body, the pain in his leg grew more intense. He was afraid the arrow had been poisoned. The wound was turning an angry red and draining a dark green ooze. He cleaned and applied a healing ointment to the wound. Suffering biting pain, he removed his clothes and hung them on a rope he had stretched near the fire. Wrapped in his sleeping blanket, he struggled to stay awake until his clothes were dry. After several hours, the blazing fire had transformed his clothes from soggy and wet into warm and dry. After putting on the warm cloths he drifted into a restless sleep. His mind rolled with violent dreams about war, anger and death.
He awoke in the night with a high temperature. The fever felt like a fire was consuming him from inside out. The pain in his leg was so severe he could only move with excruciating pain. After placing more wood onto the fire, Pacer crawled back to his bedroll before losing consciousness. He remembered nothing until the sound of voices and laughter entered his mind. The confusion of his dreams began to fade into conscious awareness of his surroundings. The light of a new day welcomed him as he opened his eyes. The heat of a newly laid fire greeted him with the cheerfulness of the special traveler’s-companion. The bandage on his leg had been changed with the care of a healer. He looked around but did not find anybody in the room. Who started the fire and changed his bandage?
~ ~
Healing and Beyond