The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(51)

‘Oh, come on,’ said Joe. ‘My Tiffany would have dealt with them in a brace of shakes.’

But the beer was still sour . . .

While over in Lancre, high up in the forests of the Ramtop mountains, Martin Snack and Frank Sawyer were anxious. They had trudged for days from the last town, Hot Dang, to get this far and had left the main cart track hours before. Their empty stomachs and the late afternoon shadows were hurrying them up but it was hard going along the faint tracks on the steep hillside. If they didn’t find the logging camp soon, this was likely to be their second night without shelter. They had heard wolves howling in the distance the night before. And now, as the temperature dropped, it began to snow.

‘I reckon as we are lost, Frank,’ said Martin anxiously.

But Frank was listening carefully, and now he heard a roaring sound in the distance. ‘This way,’ he said confidently.

And indeed, within no more than another five minutes they were close enough to hear the sound of people talking, and soon after, the aroma of something cooking, which seemed a good sign. Then, in a break between trees, they could see the camp. There were a number of large hairy men moving about, while others sat on tree stumps and one was stirring something bubbling over on an almost red-hot portable stove.

As the boys emerged from the trees, the men looked up. One or two laid a hand on their large and serviceable axes which were never far from their sides, and then relaxed when they saw how young the boys were. An elderly lumberjack in a big checked jacket with a fur-lined hood – the kind of man that you wouldn’t talk to unless you heard him talk first – walked over to meet them.

‘What are you lads doing here? What do you want?’ He eyed them up – Frank, small and wiry but strong-looking, and Martin, more muscular but shuffling his feet awkwardly behind his friend, as is often the way of a lad with muscles but not much else who might feel uncomfortable when asked something more demanding than his name.

Frank said, ‘We need a job, sir. I’m Frank, and this is Martin, and we want to work on the flumes.’

The old boy gave them an assessing look, then held out an enormous calloused hand. ‘My name’s Slack – Mr Slack to you two. So, the flumes, is it? What do you know about flume-herding then?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Frank, ‘but my grandfather was on the flumes and he said it was a good life.’ He paused. ‘We hear there’s good money to be had,’ he added optimistically.

The problem for lumberjacks working this high up in the mountains was the distance from the remote camps to the main cart track. It was just not practical to have the huge, heavy logs dragged out of the forest by horse, and the solution was to send the logs down the mountain on a fast-running flume of water to the depot on the downs below. From there the logs could be transported to the towns and cities by mule cart.

It was a wonderful idea, and once the first flume got going, the idea spread. The men who became flume-herders lived in little sheds perched precariously on ledges dangerously close to turning points in the flumes, and they needed strength to be able to deal with blockages as several tons of wood came hurtling down the surging water towards them. There was no shortage of young men who would head to the mountains, determined to ride the flumes, if only to say they had done it! Some, of course, never got the chance to say anything to anyone ever again after an early mistake on the logs, but every camp had an Igor, so some parts of them might very well get a second chance. And occasionally you might meet a really old flume-herder who had been doing it for a long time, and might indeed be sporting a young man’s arms on his wiry old body.

‘The flumes don’t like babies,’ Mr Slack said. ‘It’s a man’s job and no mistake. I see you’ve got muscles, both of you, but I don’t care about that. There are lots of boys like you with muscles. What we need is boys with muscles in their heads. You never know what the flumes will do to you on a renegade turn.’ He frowned at them. ‘Do you know young Jack Abbott? Young lumberjack who lives down the mountain with his good mother and young sister? Near as anything chopped his own foot off just a week or so ago. Only just getting better, and that thanks to some lass with a squint who the witches sent on up to help. Think on that, lads, if you think you can take risks up here. Flume-herding is a lot more dangerous than lumberjacking.’

The boys looked downcast.

‘And it’s magic wood, some of this up here,’ Slack continued. ‘For the wizards. That’s why they need us, lads – can’t take it on trains, even once it’s down in the depot. You all right with that? Magic can do funny stuff to some of the men up here.’ He pointed at the snowy trees surrounding them and said, ‘These aren’t your ordinary pines, these are Predictive Pines. They know the future. Although dang me if I know why or how. What good is knowing the future for a pine tree? It can predict when it is going to be cut down – but you still do cut them down. Not like it can get away now, ha! But if you touch one, and it likes you, you’ll see what is about to happen. So, lads, you still interested?’

Martin wasn’t the kind to talk too much, but he said very simply, ‘I just need the money, boss. And the grub, of course.’

‘Oh, it’s good money. And you can buy all sorts and get it sent up here,’ said Mr Slack. He dug into a pocket of his checked jacket and pulled out a well-thumbed book. ‘Biggerwoods catalogue. We all swear by it. You can get anything you want.’