The Green Ember (The Green Ember Series Book 1)

by S D Smith

  “What a fright you’ve had,” she said, unable to keep from making the pleasant chattering nonsense sounds she used to comfort Baby Jacks.

  Heather received a blanket gratefully, felt it wrap around her, and sat down at the table along with Picket. Father hugged them each and then hurried across to the stove and built a hasty fire. He returned and took up Baby Jacks, who stopped crying when Father rocked him. Father grabbed the poker, still rocking Jacks, and poked at the fire. Heather watched him toss another log in, and it sputtered

  to life.

  “You’re soaked!” Mother said to Father, “And you’re getting little Jacket wet now too.”

  “We’re all in this together,” he said, shaking his head so that water sprayed at her. She laughed, grabbed the kettle, and set it to boil above the fire.

  “Now, both of you come sit by the fire, and I’ll bring you some dry clothes,” Mother said. Heather smiled. She was already feeling easier, safe within the walls of their elm-hollow home. She and Picket crossed the floor, dodging Father, who was trying to retrieve his glasses from Baby Jacks without breaking them or hurting him.

  “All right, Jacket, son, please … not my spectacles,” he said as Jacks cackled mischievously.

  “Spectacles,” Picket said, laughing and taking Jacks into his arms. “Why do you call them ‘spectacles’?”

  “That’s how most of them talk in the east, where your fancy father is from,” Mother called. “They sound awfully sophisticated and clever out that way. Not like us perfectly ordinary people raised in Nick Hollow.”

  Picket laughed and tickled Jacks. Mother often teased Father gently about his prim way of speaking. Picket sat on the hearth, Jacks in his lap, his back to the growing blaze. Heather poked at the fire, and it brightened. Picket smiled, and Jacks scrunched his shoulders in delight at the wave of heat.

  Heather watched her brothers happily. “Why won’t Jacks sit with me like that?”

  “We have a brotherly bond,” Picket said, “based on mutual promises of protection. I will always be there for Jacks, and he will always be there for me. Right, Jacks?” Jacks smiled up at Picket. He was never more relaxed than when Picket held him.

  Heather frowned. “Where was Jacks today when that burning limb was falling on you and you were out cold?” she teased. She had meant it to be funny, but Picket looked down, then into the fire.

  “I’m sorry, Picket,” she said. “I was teasing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I can’t believe I fainted,” Picket said, shaking his head.

  “Never worry, my lad,” Father said. “It’s a weakness of our kind. Rabbits often faint before we even can think about it. And then we take a long time to recover. It’s just a weakness.”

  “I don’t want to be weak,” Picket whispered. He looked into his baby brother’s eyes. “I’ll never let you down, Jacks. I’ll be strong for you.”

  Heather frowned. It was sweet, yes, but when Picket talked like that, something twisted in her stomach.

  Soon the kettle was boiling, they were in fresh, dry clothes, and they all sat around the fire, at ease as the storm raged outside. Mother poured tea while Father tried to fix his glasses.

  Mother brought them each a raisin cake, and Father, setting down his glasses in surrender, began to fill his pipe. Heather loved the smell of Father’s pipe. When he blew smoke rings, she had always thought of it as magic.

  “Mother can fix your glasses, or, your spectacular spectacles,” Heather said primly. “Why don’t you tell us a story?”

  “Yeah,” Picket said, perking up. “‘Goofhack the Blabber and the Tattler’s Dungeon’? Jacks and I vote for Goofhack.”

  Heather frowned at him and Father noticed.

  “Perhaps something a little more grown-up for my adventurous children,” Father said, cocking an eyebrow at Heather. She smiled, then panicked.

  Did he want her to tell a story? Oh, no. She wasn’t ready. She needed time. She could never tell one like Father told them.

  “Heather?” Father asked. “Would you like to tell us a little tale?”

  She looked down, blushed, coughed, and stammered. “Well, I don’t know.” She did know. Not now. Not yet. “Maybe next time?”

  Father looked at her with a hint of disappointment and seemed about to say something; then he just looked into the fire. After a while, he spoke.

  “Heather, I think you are very brave. What you did today, out there in the storm, took courage. All of life is a battle against fear. We fight it on one front, and it sneaks around to our flank.” He paused, looked kindly at her.

  “Yes, Father. I understand.”

  “I regret many things I’ve done,” he said, “but most of all I regret those moments when I said to Fear, ‘You are my master.’” He suddenly looked terribly sad.

  “What is it, Father?” Picket asked as Mother tenderly took Jacks from him.

  “It’s only that, when you’re older, you hand out wisdom to your children like you know everything, but it is sometimes hard to follow your own advice.”

  “I don’t think you’re afraid of anything,” Picket said. “You wouldn’t ever faint.”

  “Well,” Father said, looking down, “I’m sorry to say that’s not true. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, son.”

  Mother’s soothing noises could be heard from across the room where she quieted Baby Jacks for bed.

  “What about that story, Father?” Heather said. “A story about bravery?”

  “A story to make us brave,” Father said, nodding and laying down his damaged glasses. He rubbed his eyes, cast a glance at Mother, then stared into the fire.

  Heather and Picket exchanged quick glances. This felt different than their father’s usual fireside tales.

  “How about if I tell you a true story?” Father said, still staring into the fire as if searching for the thread of the tale inside the bobbing, jagged edges of the flames.

  Mother came to stand beside Father, Baby Jacks asleep in her arms. Father looked up at her, and a knowing look passed between them. Heather had seen this many times, how they spoke without words. Father’s eyes asked a question. Mother nodded, smiling sadly. She sat down in the rocking chair and hummed the beginning of a sad melody. Well, Heather thought, the melody was something more than sad, but not less than sad. She tried to find a word for it, but Father was talking again.

  “All right, my dears,” Father said. “I will tell you of ‘The Rise and Fall of King Jupiter the Great.’”

  Chapter Three

  King Jupiter

  The weariness vanished from Father as he closed his eyes, focusing on the tale. He smiled as if the memory of the story was sweet. There was a long, silent pause. Just when Heather and Picket began to wonder if he would ever speak again, he started.

  “Long ago in The Great Wood there lived a rabbit king named Walter. You have heard many tales of Whitson Mariner and the First Trekkers. I have told you of the escape from Golden Coast, the calamitous sea passage, the discovery of Natalia, and the battle of Ayman Lake. You know of King Whitson, of brave Seddle, of loyal Captain Blackstar and the others of our first heroes. Over a hundred years separated King Walter from his famous ancestor Whitson Mariner, and a thousand tales lay between them. Many kings were born, lived, and died in Natalia. Some of them were good and some bad. King Walter was so well-loved that his small number of subjects called him the good king, or King Good. This name came to distinguish him from his father, a cruel lord who served himself all his days. King Good had not only goodness but also ambition. He tirelessly built back all that his father had lost, and more besides. He called his small kingdom the Thirty Warrens, though, in truth, there were only twelve when he came to the throne. But he aspired to build and create, to secure good for all those who would follow. Jupiter, his third son and heir, took all his father’s vision into his heart.
He was like his father, only—to King Good’s delight—far more jolly and wise. Jupiter Goodson ascended to the throne when his aged father was killed by raiding hawks.

  “By the time King Jupiter had been on the throne for five years, the Thirty Warrens—as the kingdom was still called—included nearly a hundred warrens and spanned almost the entirety of the Great Wood. He was a great lord, humble and happy. He sought justice and went to war to get it. He was magnificient in battle; the world had never before seen such a noble king—and never has since.” Heather noticed Mother looking sadly at Father, a tear streaking down her cheek.

  Father went on. “He had a powerful army and great captains to lead it. One captain was Perkin One-Eye, perhaps King Jupiter’s greatest friend and most valiant warrior. There was also Stam the Stout, Pickwand, Fesslehorn, and Harlen Seer, the Wizened Warrior. Nine great wars were fought over twenty years. They are all worthy of great tales. Of course King Jupiter was there in every battle, leading from the front, with a fierceness rarely ever known in

  rabbits.

  “In the Red Valley War, King Jupiter came to the aid of a small collection of warrens under siege. They were threatened by a pack of wolves led by their wicked king, a ruthless wolf named Garlacks. King Jupiter swept the wolves from the Red Valley. He fought Garlacks himself, ending him in a spectacular battle as the red sun set. Oh, they sang songs of his victory for years! He was a wonder.”

  Father paused to collect himself again. Heather and Picket waited, wise and silent, eager for more. Heather wondered why such a happy story could make Father so sad, but she didn’t ask. Then she remembered that Father had called this tale “The Rise and Fall of King Jupiter the Great.”

  Father went on. “He became known as the greatest fighting king of the age. It was his glory for a while but eventually began to trouble him. The laughter in him quieted, and he became graver. He believed he had always tried to achieve peace and was sad that he so often had to find it at the end of his sword.

  “So King Jupiter the Great, Lord of the Thirty Warrens, bent all his energies to diplomacy, to avoiding any wars that could be prevented. Thanks to his many victories and his great army, he was successful. He forged historically unthinkable alliances with squirrels, the smaller birds, and most of the smaller animals of the forest. He became Sovereign of the Great Wood. He worked for peace in the forest, using his allied forces to rid the land of the most troublesome elements, including the fairly small number of birds of prey. All the awful raptors were banished back to their haunts in the High Bleaks, for the forest was vigilantly protected by the vaunted army of Jupiter Goodson.”

  In the firelight, Heather watched Mother cross the room and lay Jacks in his crib. She stayed there for a while, watching him sleep, as Father went on.

  “All the energy he had earlier given to war he put into gaining peace—and keeping it. As his army had great captains, so too he had a Council of Seven Ambassadors.” Here Father stopped again, walking to stand in front of the fire, as if a sudden chill had found him.

  His back to the children, he went on. “These councilors served as his own voice in the far regions of the forest and beyond. One rabbit he called to be their chief: Garten Longtreader. He lived up to the great name of Longtreader, making countless journeys into the deeps of the forest on missions to make alliances for the king. It was he who was credited for much of the expansion of the rule of Jupiter Goodson. It was said that King Jupiter held the world together, but Longtreader was his thread. The king was happy and just,” Father said, his voice cracking, “ruling with wisdom and building the idyllic kingdom his father had dreamed of.

  “When the Great Alliance was forged and the wars seemed a glorious memory, King Jupiter finally rested from his adventuring and married. His family grew and grew, and he was truly happy.” Father stopped again, closed his eyes, and rubbed his chin. Mother slowly crossed the room again, her head bowed.

  “The king was asked during this time by a faithful subject, ‘What, Lord Jupiter, is the greatest joy in the peace you have won?’ He did not answer suddenly; that was not his way. He was a philosopher king, so he thought on it. Finally, after several moments in silence, he answered with a wide smile, ‘That I am my father’s true son.’” Father bent then, sobbing quietly, and Mother came to his side. She put her arms around him, eventually kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear. He nodded and laid his hand on her shoulder gently. “You are always right, my dear,” he said. “I couldn’t keep it from them any longer. Who knows what may …” His voice trailed off.

  Mother nodded. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry for my tears, children. They are not all sad, but some are. It’s a story that …” he began, but he could not finish.

  “It’s lovely, Father,” Heather said into the quiet, her voice soft.

  Father whispered thanks to her, then stood. “He was magnificent, children! I wish you could have seen him standing at the head of his forces in gleaming golden armor. Like the dawn, children! All who knew him loved him without reserve,” Father said, but he stopped, struggling to go on. Mother hung her head, and Father managed to say, “Well, I should say that almost everyone loved him loyally.”

  “Father will tell you more another time,” Mother said, taking his arm. “For now, it’s time for sleep. It’s a happy thought that there could be such a king, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Mother,” Heather said, her mind overflowing with questions and answers, gleaming armor and flashing swords. “It’s too good to not be true.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Heather and Picket lay quietly in their beds upstairs. Their father had whispered his blessings on them, and Heather could hear his footfalls as he descended the winding stairs.

  Heather stared out the small window beyond Picket’s bed at the bright white moon. The storm was over and it was almost chilly. From below she heard Mother humming the song she’d begun to sing earlier. Then she and Father were singing softly, sadly, together. But it wasn’t all sad. She couldn’t make out the words, though she strained to hear them. But she understood something of what it meant.

  It was sad, yes. But there was a note of hopeful longing woven into the aching heartbreak of the tune. She closed her eyes on tears.

  Chapter Four

  The Lady

  Heather woke early, though she had not slept well. All night she dreamed of King Jupiter, tall and strong with golden armor gleaming in the sun. She had woken often, only to sleep again and continue the dream. Now she got out of bed and crept past Picket, who was still asleep, and made her way down the winding stairs.

  Father had hollowed out the elm years ago and made this beautiful stairway. She loved the smooth feel of the railing and the beauty of the pale grain of the carved elm. Breakfast smells found her as she descended, making her smile even as she yawned.

  She heard shifting chairs and low conversation and paused a moment to listen. She heard an unfamiliar voice, female and ancient-sounding, say in a hoarse whisper, “They are on the move now; it is certain. I risked much coming here, I know. I think he may decide this place is safe.”

  Heather waited a moment; then she heard her father speak. “He may well. He’s one of few who know we’re here. Are you sure you weren’t followed?” Father sounded worried, which worried Heather.

  “I usually am. He knows Morbin is seeking the Green Ember,” she said. “Morbin has set his wolves on the hunt.”

  Heather went on, rounding the last of the spiral steps to find her parents at the table with the stranger, whose back was to Heather.

  “Good morning, Heather,” Mother said, changing her face from worried to welcoming in an instant. “Go back up and wake Picket, dear. Then come and eat something. We have a guest we’d like you to meet.”

  The unknown lady and Father were hunched over some papers, some of which looked like maps. The guest was short and appeared to be much
older than Mother. She wore the same sort of sweeping dresses Mother often favored—the kind almost no one in Nick Hollow wore. Hers was black, and she wore elegant long black gloves fringed with lace.

  She sat up straight. Her fur was grey, peppered with black. She turned her head slightly and raised it to peer, slit-eyed, at Heather. She nodded Heather’s way and then returned to her papers. She resumed her conversation with Father in hushed, insistent tones.

  Father winked at Heather and gave her an encouraging smile before returning to attend to the maps and the mysterious lady.

  Father’s worried. What does that mean? She returned the smile but did not mask her concern. She ran back up the stairs and crossed to Picket’s bed.

  “Wake up, Picket,” she whispered.

  He didn’t move.

  “Wake up, Picket!” she whispered louder.

  Nothing.

  This time she got right next to his right ear, which was sagging over the side of his bed.

  “Picket! Wake up!” she shouted.

  He spun out of his bed, knocking Heather back and rolling over on the floor twice before bouncing up.

  “I was already awake!” he said, staggering.

  “Right,” Heather said, laughing at him. “And I’m a woodpecker.”

  “You’re almost as irritating as one,” Picket said as he dug at his still sleepy eyes.

  “Let’s get downstairs,” she said. “There’s a lady down there who seems—I don’t know—kind of important. She’s talking to Mother and Father about something serious.”

  “I wonder what it is,” Picket said.

  “Let’s go and try to find out.”

  “They never tell us anything when stuff like this happens,” Picket said, stretching.

  Picket was right. This sort of thing happened every few months but lately more and more. A stranger had come last month. It had been happening a lot since little Jacks was born six months before.