Freeglader: Third Book of Rook

by Paul Stewart

  The whole place was a hive of activity. At ground level, and up on raised platforms around the walls, research was already in progress, with bent-backed academics poring over treatises and scrolls and labouring over work of their own. In the central areas, the activity was more frenetic, with innumerable librarians scaling the tree-pillars, winching themselves along the branches in their hanging-baskets and loading up the clusters of leather tubes where the individual barkscrolls were stored.

  Taking his cue from the signposts dotted about at the junctions, Rook hurried to the far side of the library where, in the Deepwoods' section, he found a tree-pillar with a plaque marked SocialBehaviour. He started climbing, taking the rungs two at a time, right up to where the first fork occurred. Already, he was high above the library floor. He forced himself not to look down.

  Historical/Legendary were the words on each of the forks. He took the former. Past and Present were the next choices. He dithered for a moment, before taking Present. Then Societal and Individual. Then Nocturnal and Diurnal … And so it went on, defining and redefining the treatise in his hand increasingly specifically. When the forking branches became too thin and weak to support his weight, he climbed into one of the hanging-baskets and, grabbing a rope, winched himself across.

  He was now high in the upper rafters of the huge domed roof and could feel a gentle, modulated breeze on his face. All around him, the barkscrolls in their holders rustled like leaves in a forest. Finally, he arrived at the woodgrape-like bunch of leather tubes.

  Most were still empty, though a couple had already been stuffed full with scrolls. Just to make certain he had found the right place, Rook pulled one out and inspected it. ‘Practices and Customs in Deepwood Village Life,’ he read. The subject matter was almost identical.

  He had done it!

  Pushing his own scroll into the adjacent tube, he began the long descent to the ground. To his surprise, he had found the whole process exhilarating, and when he reached the floor, his heart was racing.

  ‘My word, lad, that was quick,’ said Fenbrus Lodd as he arrived back. ‘I can see you're going to make a first-rate scroll-seeker!’

  Rook smiled. ‘I suppose so,’ he said quietly. ‘Until I can fly again.’

  ‘Yes, well, go and find Garulus Lexis,’ Fenbrus went on. ‘He'll assign you a sleeping-cabin in the upper gantries. They've just been completed. Quite spectacular views and you'll be able to watch your knight friends on sky patrol.’ He paused and gazed over Rook's shoulder. ‘Are those banderbears with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook, looking across at his three shaggy friends standing waiting for him, their ears fluttering as they listened to what was being said. ‘They've been with me ever since I became a librarian knight…’

  ‘That's as may be,’ said Fenbrus sternly. ‘But bander-bears are creatures of the forest. They certainly don't belong in a library. Surely you can see that?’

  Rook noticed the banderbears' eyes light up. Wumeru stepped towards them, her great clawed arm raised. ‘Wulla-weera. Wuh,’ she yodelled. We hear the Deepwoods calling us, yet for you we would stay, friend.

  Rook trembled. ‘You brought me here,’ he said to Wumeru. ‘I am indebted to you – to all of you. You've done so much for me. Now it is plain that I must do something for you … Let you leave … Oh, Wumeru!’ he cried, and fell into the great creature's warm, mossy embrace.

  ‘Loomah-weera, wuh,’ the banderbear replied, scratching his back gently with her claws. ‘Wurramoolah-wuh.’ Farewell, my friend. The moon will shine on our friendship for ever.

  ‘Wuh. Uralowa, wuh-wuh!’ the others chorused. You shall sleep in the nest of our hearts, he who took the poison-stick. Farewell!

  Tears in his eyes, Rook watched as the three great shambling banderbears left the library behind them. Weeg, with the great scar across his shoulder; Wuralo, with her curious facial markings, whom he had once rescued from the Foundry Glades, and Wumeru – dear Wumeru; the banderbear he had first befriended all that time ago in the Deepwoods. How he loved all of them. Now they were going. Rook swallowed away the painful lump in his throat and waved.

  ‘Farewell,’ he called. ‘Farewell!’

  ‘I think it's time I was heading off as well,’ came a voice from his left. ‘Back to New Undertown.’

  Rook spun round to see Felix lurking in the shadows behind the great ironwood doors. Fenbrus had his back to them and was surrounded by a fresh crowd of happy Undertowners.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ Rook hissed.

  ‘Didn't want my father to see me,’ said Felix. ‘He keeps trying to rope me into working in this boring old library of his. Says I need to settle down. Me! Settle down!’ He laughed and edged towards the door. ‘Say hello to the old barkworm from me, and tell him that his ever-loving son is busy with his ghosts and sky pirate friends in New Undertown.’

  ‘But Felix!’ protested Rook. ‘Do you have to leave right now?’

  ‘Sorry, Rook.’ Felix shrugged his shoulders and grinned. ‘Said I'd meet Deadbolt at the Bloodoak. Must dash! Have fun up there in the rafters!’ he laughed, and with that he was gone.

  Rook turned and wandered back into the library, all of a sudden feeling very alone. His banderbear friends had left, returning to a life in the Deepwoods. Now Felix, too, had gone – back to the bustle of New Undertown. And here he was, Rook Barkwater, on his own.

  He looked up. The reading gantries were crowded with librarians; the rafters above, full of baskets swinging backwards and forwards. And as he looked, Rook knew in his heart of hearts that this wasn't the life for him, and never could be. No, he needed to get out there, into the clear, sunlit air of the Free Glades.

  Mind made up, he turned and strode through the library doorway. Pausing in front of the lufwood scaffolding outside, Rook peered up and squinted. And sure enough, high above his head was the familiar short, stocky figure of Oakley Gruffbark, the master carver who had taught him everything he knew about carving a skycraft.

  Crouched down on a narrow platform laid out across the scaffolding, a chisel and mallet in his hands, the old woodtroll was busy carving a massive likeness of Fenbrus Lodd from a single block of wood. Although only half complete, the head – with its corkscrew hair, thick beard and intense stare – was already unmistakable.

  Pausing just for a moment to catch his breath, Rook began scaling the scaffolding that criss-crossed its way up the front of the building. Compared with the roof-beams and swinging baskets, climbing the lufwood scaffolding was easy.

  As he emerged on the platform beside Oakley, the woodtroll turned. His bright orange hair, twisted into the traditional tufts Rook remembered so well, was flecked with grey and white now. Otherwise, he looked no different. Neither, it seemed, did Rook, for Oakley recognized him at once.

  ‘Rook Barkwater of the Stormhornet!’ he cried. ‘I never forget an apprentice, or their skycraft. Well, I declare! And how is life treating you, lad?’

  ‘All right,’ said Rook, ‘although I'm afraid I lost the Stormhornet on patrol over old Undertown.’

  The woodtroll tutted sympathetically. ‘I'm sorry to hear that. It's a terrible loss,’ he said softly. ‘Like losing a part of your self.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook, tears welling up in his eyes at the memory.

  Oakley laid his tools down, turned his back on Fenbrus Lodd's half-finished beard and clamped his large, leathery hands around Rook's shoulders.

  ‘Now, tell me truthfully,’ he said, looking deep into Rook's eyes. ‘A loss like that takes time to get over. Do you think you're ready to start carving a new skycraft?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rook. ‘I've made up my mind. I want to return to the skies as soon as possible.’

  Oakley nodded. ‘Well, Rook, you know what you have to do. There are no short cuts. You must go to the timber yards and select for yourself a large piece of sumpwood. Choose carefully and think long and hard before you first put your chisel to the wood, because that's the thing with carving – it can't
be rushed. It has to…’

  ‘Come from the heart,’ Rook finished for him.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Oakley. ‘You know the score, Rook Barkwater.’ He gestured back at the carving of Fenbrus. ‘With a bit of luck I should be finished with the High Librarian here in the next week or so. I'll come and look in on you then, and see how you're doing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rook. ‘I'll start straight away!’

  Two weeks later, Rook's carving was not going well. Although he had selected the best, finest-grained piece of sumpwood he could find in the woodtroll timber yards, he could still not decide what to carve. Each time he put his chisel to the wood and raised the mallet, his mind was filled with images of the stormhornet. And yet try as he might, he couldn't see the curves and arches of a stormhornet – or any other creature – in this piece of sumpwood. And if he couldn't carve the prow, then he couldn't make a skycraft. And if he couldn't make his own personal skycraft, then he couldn't fly. And if he couldn't fly, then he couldn't rejoin the librarian knights. He was stuck staring at this lump of wood – and there was no sign of Oakley Gruffbark.

  Finally, Rook left the workshop in the timber yards and returned to the library to look for him. He found the old woodtroll still hard at work on his carving, high above the ironwood doors of the new Great Library. Not only was the High Librarian's beard finely chiselled and minutely rendered, but now the head and shoulders had outstretched arms and lovingly carved fingers.

  ‘Can't help it, lad,’ said Oakley, catching the disappointment in Rook's eyes when he told him he was too busy to help him. ‘The wood is our master. It tells us what lies within. And this here wood demanded arms held out in greeting.’ He stroking the carving gently. ‘And two solid legs as well before I'm finished.’

  Rook sighed. He knew that in the meantime, he had no choice. He reported back to the High Librarian, who was most understanding.

  ‘The main thing is to keep busy,’ Fenbrus said, patting him on the back. ‘You're a fine scroll-seeker, Rook – just made for the roof timbers!’

  So Rook had returned to cataloguing and fetching barkscrolls high up in the new library, frustrated and longing more than ever to take to the sky outside.

  It was late one cool, sunny evening when, following yet another long day's filing, Rook was walking down the wooden jetty at Lake Landing. Halfway along, he paused, crossed to the side and leaned over the balustrade, looking at the rippled water below him.

  It wasn't that he was unhappy at the library. He enjoyed working with the scrolls, reading for long hours on the platforms and mastering the baskets until he could reach even the farthest corners of the high dome. It was just that he missed sky-flight so much. Each evening, as the librarian knights returned from patrol, he'd see them from his sleeping-cabin – Varis and the Professors of Light and Darkness at the heads of their squadrons. And he'd feel his heart breaking as they swooped down through the air. He longed to join them – but the carving simply wouldn't come.

  ‘Hey, Rook!’ called a voice from up ahead, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Is that you?’

  Rook looked over to see the familiar, stout figure of his old friend Stob Lummus silhouetted against the sinking sun. He acknowledged him with a wave, but stayed where he was. It was Stob who came to him, stopping beside him and looking out across the water.

  ‘Haven't seen you for a while, Rook,’ he said at length. ‘Keeping you pretty busy at the new Great Library, I hear. Nearly all the barkscrolls have been handed back. A wonderful achievement, I must say! You must be very proud.’

  Rook nodded. ‘I am, Stob. But what I really want is to fly again.’

  Stob chuckled. ‘Do you remember my first attempt at flight?’ he said. ‘Ended up steering the old Hammelhorn straight into an ironwood pine. Just over there, if I remember correctly. I was never really cut out for sky-flight.’ He paused. ‘I enjoy what I do now…’

  ‘You're Parsimmon's assistant, aren't you?’ said Rook. ‘Keeping all those young apprentice knights in order, I hope.’

  Stob laughed again. ‘Doing my best, Rook,’ he replied.

  There was another long pause. Rook liked Stob, but he was tired and fed up and didn't feel much like talking.

  ‘Talking of apprentice knights, looks like our old classmate, Xanth, is getting his come-uppance,’ said Stob finally. ‘I never trusted him. Something deceitful in his eyes…’

  Rook shrugged. ‘I feel sorry for him. All the librarians tell such terrible stories about him, but I only remember him as an apprentice here at Lake Landing…’

  ‘It'll all be sorted out at the Reckoning,’ said Stob. ‘The Free Glades will be better off without his sort.’

  They stared out across the lake in silence.

  ‘I was really sorry to hear about Magda,’ said Stob, breaking into the stillness again. ‘Now she was a true friend. I'll miss her.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Rook glumly. ‘Looks like it's just you and me now, Stob – and neither of us flying. Fine librarian knights we turned out to be!’

  The sun dropped down beneath the horizon, and the pink and orange light spread out across the surface of the lake like shimmering oil. The wind dropped. The water fell still. Out of the silence, Rook heard a low humming sound, and turned to see the red and black striped body of a stormhornet flying low over the lake.

  ‘A stormhornet!’ said Stob, breaking the silence. ‘Wasn't that.?’

  ‘Yes, thanks for reminding me,’ said Rook. He turned to his erstwhile friend, seeing him properly for the first time. He had grown paunchy, and deep lines were etched into his face down the sides of his mouth. Yet he looked happy for all that – a contented schoolmaster. ‘Oh, Stob,’ he groaned. ‘How I envy you!’

  ‘You envy me?’ said Stob, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook. ‘You're obviously happy teaching here at Lake Landing – whereas I …’ He paused.

  ‘You want to fly again,’ said Stob. ‘Yes, I know, you told me. So what's stopping you?’

  Rook brought his fist down on the balustrade in frustration. ‘Everything, Stob! Everything! I can't carve another skycraft, it just won't come. And Oakley Gruffbark can't help me. And Fenbrus Lodd – he wants me to stay at the library. I'm stuck there from dawn till dusk…’

  Just then, echoing across the water, came the insistent sound of trumpeting tilder horns, followed by the clatter and clomp of heavy footfalls. Rook looked up. There, bathed in lantern light and golden twilight glow, he saw a great troop of prowlgrins galloping along the edge of the lake. Surcoats flapped and pennants fluttered and the polished armour of the riders glinted brightly.

  ‘Earth and Sky,’ Rook breathed. ‘Who are they?’

  Stob looked at him surprised. ‘You really don't get out much, do you?’ he said. ‘They're the Freeglade Lancers, of course. That's the dusk patrol. Make a pretty fine spectacle in this light, don't you think?’

  ‘The Freeglade Lancers,’ Rook repeated, awestruck. ‘Heroes of the Battle of Lufwood Mount…’

  Stob looked at his friend. ‘Rook, are you feeling all right?’ he asked, concern plain on his plump features.

  ‘They're magnificent!’ said Rook. ‘Magnificent!’

  • CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

  CHINQUIX

  Late the following morning, Rook set off. He had swapped his librarian robes for the green leather flight-suit of a librarian knight, a kit-bag strapped to his shoulders and his sword at his side. All round him, as the sun rose higher in the sky, it was business as usual on the banks of the Great Lake. Cloddertrogs and mobgnomes, flat-heads and slaughterers; they were all hard at work, endeavouring to put the finishing touches to the magnificent new library before the current spell of good weather broke.

  Rook, however, was leaving it all behind. He'd spoken to Felix the night before, and Fenbrus Lodd earlier that morning. Felix had been his usual self, full of enthusiasm and encouragement.

  ‘Freeglade Lancers, eh, Rook?’ he'd laughed. ‘Not bad for a bunch of tree ho
ppers, and they did get us out of a tight spot at Lufwood Mount. Good luck to you!’ He'd raised his tankard to the rest of the regulars in the New Bloodoak. ‘To Rook's new career!’

  Fenbrus Lodd's response, of course, had been quite different. The High Librarian had tried to persuade him to stay – though there was nothing he could say to change Rook's mind. There was a jaunty spring now in the young librarian knight's step, a joyful whistled tune on his lips and, as he strode off along the lakeside, his spirits soared.

  He passed the lines of woodtrolls on hammelhorn carts, still arriving from the east with their cargoes of felled trees, and departing the same way with rubble and rocks and off-cuts of timber. Gradually, the sounds of hammering and drilling, carving and sawing, the shouts and the cries, all faded away. Water splashed softly against the muddy banks where reed-ducks and rockswans nested, and sleek young fromp-pups playfully scampered and tumbled.

  Reaching a narrow track, Rook left the water's edge and headed up through windgorse and woodfurze towards the Ironwood Glade. Far ahead, he could see its dark, imposing trees swaying gently in the breeze and heard the distant sound of their needle-like leaves hissing like running water.

  Soon after, the undulating land went down into a deep dip and, with the thorny shrubs rising up all round him, the glade disappeared from view, the hissing stopped and another sound filled the air – the sound of happily singing voices. Rook continued and, as he rounded a corner in the twisting track, he saw a large band of gyle goblins before him, heavy pails of pink honey swinging from their clenched fists, coming from the opposite direction.

  ‘Morning, Freeglader,’ the gyle goblins greeted him warmly as they drew nearer.

  ‘Good morning, Freegladers,’ said Rook, returning their greeting with a smile.

  The gyle goblins clustered round him and a couple of them politely offered him some of their raw honey to drink.