by S D Smith
Picket looked down and muttered something indistinct.
Heather ached, but she wasn’t sure what she could do for Picket. He was having a hard time, she knew. But they had bigger things to worry about.
“Okay,” Uncle Wilfred said, “he’s tracking them now.”
Heather looked up to where Smalls was peeking out from behind the oak. His scarf flapped behind him, and his sword dangled at his side. Smalls’ hand, when it wasn’t busy in some other way, went instinctively to the hilt of that sword. Smalls signaled “seven” with his hands, then gave a thumbs-up. The number of enemies was confirmed. He pointed at Heather, Picket, and Uncle Wilfred, then to a rock formation a hundred yards inland to their right. It stood on the edge of the forest, as well-concealed a place as any. Uncle Wilfred extended his own thumb in a signal back to Smalls. Smalls nodded and resumed his watch.
“The rocky ground, over there at the forest edge,” Uncle Wilfred said. Heather and Picket both nodded. “We’re going to run for it. Soon. It’s our best bet to get past these wolves.”
“So we’re running from them; is that it?” Picket said, shaking his head.
“Of course we are,” Uncle Wilfred said, his frown returning.
Heather looked back at Smalls. He extended a flat hand, which she took as a signal to wait. Then came one finger lifted and waved up and down, almost bouncing.
“Be ready,” Uncle Wilfred said. “We have to run full-out, do you understand? We cannot be seen. You have to run hard and focus on the woods. Run for the woods! We go when Smalls points to us.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Smalls pointed urgently at them.
They ran.
* * *
Picket saw that Heather led them in the sprint. She would make it safely if any of them did. Behind her was Uncle Wilfred, who was slowed by looking back at Smalls, to make sure he was on his way. Picket came last. He also kept checking back to see where Smalls was and looking beyond to where the enemy wolves were. He wanted to prove he wasn’t afraid, that Smalls wasn’t the only one with courage.
After a few seconds of watching, Smalls left his tree knoll and pounded the ground toward the cover of the thick trees. Picket was amazed at how fast Smalls was. His scarf blew behind him as he raced towards them with incredible speed.
He may even be faster than Heather. Add that to the list of his irritating perfections.
Picket stole one more glance at the wolves on the ridge. He saw the silhouette of a wolf half-turn toward them. Heart racing, Picket turned his head quickly toward the forest edge and tried to increase his speed.
It didn’t work. He tripped awkwardly on a jutting rock. He somersaulted, out of control, and fell heavily in a long slide.
He was in the open.
His foot throbbed, and he barely stifled a cry of pain. He shook his head to clear it and saw Uncle Wilfred ahead in the forest, holding Heather back. He lay there, exposed to the view of the wolves. Anger rose in him once more, resentment at this whole horrible situation and how useless he felt. The wolves would have him, and probably Heather and the rest as well. It would all be his fault.
Then he felt a blow. Strong arms grabbed him roughly; he was being lifted and carried. He saw white fur and a blur of black cloth waving.
Smalls was carrying him to safety.
Chapter Fifteen
Picket’s Check
Picket knew he had a chance right now to get past his resentment of Smalls. He had done it before, inside Seven Mounds, when he had managed to forget his resentment during the crisis of their escape. Danger still hovered around them; enemies were everywhere. Why not just apologize to Smalls, to everyone, and move on?
But he couldn’t do it. It would feel too much like surrendering ground he felt entitled to. To give it up would cost him too much.
They were running again. Well, most of them were. Picket was limping through the forest. His foot screamed for attention. He had jammed it on the rock, but he rejected any help offered. Smalls had saved him from being spotted by the wolves. At least, they hoped so. Once Smalls set him down, Picket wasn’t about to let the white rabbit carry him even one step farther.
“We have to hurry,” Uncle Wilfred called back. “If they saw us, then we have almost no time.” He squinted at Picket and looked down at his foot. “We’re not safe yet.”
They made their way carefully but quickly deeper and deeper into the forest. Picket had no idea where they were and even less idea where they were going. The only place he had heard mentioned on the boat trip downriver was Decker’s Landing. Of course, that place was turning to ash and cinders right now. He knew of nothing within miles, and almost nothing he knew of in the world was as it had been. Nowhere felt safe.
The branches flicked him as the others moved ahead. He hobbled on, hoping they were close to escaping. But escaping to where?
Uncle Wilfred darted past trees and through unfamiliar paths. They moved quickly back and forth, on the trail for a time, then off again. The forest grew denser, and tree limbs bent low and heavy all around and over, hovering like a worried mother. Picket felt smothered. Nick Hollow was so open and full of sunlight. At least it had been. Now the memory of the place was as grey as the sky had been yesterday, when the world he knew had disappeared in flames. He could still smell smoke in the air. For all he knew every home in the world was burning.
They ran on. Picket’s foot throbbed. He tried to hop on one foot for several steps, then risk one excruciating step on his bad foot, but it was becoming impossible. He lagged behind. He thought he might have to shout out, to scream that he couldn’t go on, but he limped on, biting his hand to keep from crying out. What frustrated him most was that this darting between path and brush was something he was usually good at. He could have rivaled the agility Smalls was showing, maybe even outmatched him, if he knew the way and hadn’t been injured. Instead he hobbled along, bringing up the rear. Heather kept dropping back to make it seem like he wasn’t going much slower than she was, but he knew she was just trying to make him feel better. He managed to be angry at her for this, though he knew it was unfair.
They cut through a clearing, then shot down a steep slope, thickly wooded once more. Picket was getting dizzy with the pain and confused about where they were. His foot ached so badly that he almost fell, catching himself on a tree. He restarted quickly, though Heather had seen.
“I have to stop,” she called out ahead.
Smalls, who was directly in front of Heather and behind Uncle Wilfred, spun and ran to her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I just need a moment to rest.”
Smalls looked at her with a question in his expression. He didn’t buy it, Picket knew. She cast a quick glance back at Picket. Smalls nodded. Picket was thankful for the rest, but he hated being the one who needed it.
“I could use a rest too,” Smalls said, sinking to the ground, puffing loudly.
Picket turned his back to them and sank onto the turf. He grabbed a thick stick and squeezed it to distract his mind from the pain.
“What’s up?” he heard Uncle Wilfred say. Picket’s head was down. “Why’re we stopping?” Then there was a silence. Picket was aware that these two—the new best of friends, Heather and Smalls—were subtly pointing at him.
“Well, I needed a puff as well,” Uncle Wilfred said, walking back to Picket.
Picket quickly wiped his eyes and looked up as Uncle Wilfred came to sit in front of him. The pain was agonizing.
“Let me have a look at that foot,” Uncle Wilfred said.
“It’s nothing,” Picket began. But, not waiting for permission, Uncle Wilfred knelt in front of him, taking hold of his foot firmly.
“Ouch!” Picket cried, snapping the stick he was holding.
“Yes, son. It’s clearly nothing,” Uncle Wilfred said, frowning. He lowered his voice so
the others couldn’t hear. “You’re stubborn, Picket. And you’re acting like a fool.”
Picket’s head dropped and tears slid from his eyes. It was true; he knew it.
“I know you’re hurt and life is not a meadow picnic right now, but there’s the kind of foolish that’s forgivable and the kind that gets good rabbits killed.”
Picket looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Well, young sir. If you’d done as I said, your foot would be fine. But you’re too preoccupied with fuming at Smalls to pay attention and follow orders. And you’re so maddeningly proud now that you can’t even admit your foot’s hurt.”
“I can handle the pain,” Picket said.
“No, you can’t,” Uncle Wilfred said, feeling the foot again. “Your foot is fractured. I can feel it. So your arrogant insistence that you can run means you’re making it worse with every step. With every step, you make the time it’ll take to heal that much longer, putting everyone, including your sister Heather, in terrible danger.”
Picket looked away, not bothering to wipe away the tears that slid down his face.
“Now, son,” Uncle Wilfred said, taking Picket’s face in his hands. “I’m for you. I’m on your side, and I love you. But there’s something you need to know. As much as I love your parents, Baby Jacks, and you and Heather, I have to protect Smalls. And right now, you’re making it very hard for me to do that.”
“I’m sorry,” Picket said. “Just leave me here and go on with Smalls. But please, take Heather with you.”
“Don’t be a fool, son,” Uncle Wilfred said. “I’ll carry you on my back. We don’t have much farther to go.”
Picket bowed his head again and his jaw tightened. Will I be humiliated at every turn?
“Be careful of resentment and pride, Picket,” Uncle Wilfred said. “They’ve been the undoing of many a great rabbit.”
“I can’t seem to stop,” Picket whispered, looking away.
“Your father only began to tell you of King Jupiter, I know, but do you know your Whitson Mariner?” Uncle Wilfred asked.
“Yes,” Picket said. “We’ve had those stories from the crib.”
“Do you remember about the first boat, about the resentment Whitson felt when Rangel’s crowd laughed at him?”
Picket was silent for a while. Finally, he managed to say, in a hoarse whisper, “But I’m not like Whitson Mariner. I’m like Rangel.”
Uncle Wilfred looked into Picket’s eyes. “Do the stories say if Rangel eventually joined the trekkers in the boat and made the crossing with Whitson?”
They didn’t, Picket knew. But his throat felt tight, and he could only shake his head.
“Interesting,” Uncle Wilfred said, getting to his feet. “Then we don’t know how his story turned out either.”
Chapter Sixteen
Strangers in the Mist
Picket rode on Uncle Wilfred’s back, silently sulking all the way. He felt like a small child, like Baby Jacks. A burden. His foot hurt, but Uncle Wilfred had wrapped it tightly, and that was some help.
Heather and Smalls followed behind them. Whenever Uncle Wilfred turned in the path, Picket caught glimpses of Heather. Sometimes she was looking up at him with worry; other times she and Smalls were talking. Smalls had his sword drawn some of the time, eyeing the woods carefully. Picket couldn’t really explain, even to himself, why he resented Smalls. Part of him was ashamed of the way he was acting, but he just couldn’t stop. It felt so very right to be angry, and there was Smalls, just asking for it.
They went on and on, tired, hungry, and sore. The trees hung heavy and low. They were climbing, Picket realized, slowly and steadily upward. The air was moist, and the moss around the tree bottoms grew thick. A mist rose and hung all about the trees like a garish white cloak. They took many hidden paths through concealed hedges and up haunted hollows. Picket closed his eyes.
He must have dozed off. When he awoke, they were ascending a steep rocky hillside in the heavy mist.
They slowed. Uncle Wilfred nodded to Smalls, and Smalls unrolled a cloak from his pack and draped himself in it. Uncle Wilfred, after lowering Picket, did likewise.
“There it is,” Uncle Wilfred said, stopping on a small stretch of stony flat ground partway up the mountain. “The Savory Den.”
Picket saw a thick mist settling around a cave mouth overhung by gnarled ancient trees. A small stream ran beside the wide cave mouth, and water trickled over the cave entrance, splashing onto the stone below, before sliding down into the stream.
“Can we drink?” Heather asked, pointing to the stream.
“Let’s make sure it’s secure,” Smalls said, passing in front of Wilfred and drawing his sword once more. He pulled a hood up and over his head, folding his ears beneath it. He was hard to recognize, but by now Picket could have spotted those deft movements from across a ridge. Picket watched him closely. Smalls moved like a soldier who had done this a thousand times. He seemed to be aware of everything. His arms were strong, Picket knew, but he gripped his sword loosely, almost casually. He seemed almost at ease but on the verge of springing into action. It was mesmerizing to Picket, who had dreamed a thousand times of being just this way. Then he saw Heather watching Smalls with admiration, and the all-too-familiar resentment, like a stomachache, gurgled up inside him again.
Uncle Wilfred looked at Picket. “Please don’t move,” he said. “Just wait here a moment.” Uncle Wilfred drew his own sword and passed beyond Heather to just behind Smalls. They crept silently, looking everywhere. Picket didn’t understand this, as there was nowhere to hide, either behind or in front of them.
“Stand fast!” they heard a voice cry out. In the heavy mist, Picket couldn’t see where it came from or who said it. “Take another step, and it’ll be a bellyful of arrows for you.”
“I’m so hungry,” Smalls said calmly, “I’d eat about anything now.”
“Make a sudden move, little one,” the voice called out again, “and you’ll have your wish.”
“Have anything savory or dennish?” Uncle Wilfred said.
The wind picked up, blowing a swath of mist away like a drawn curtain. There, beyond the cave, a tall brown rabbit stood on a rock. He had a bow, though it wasn’t nocked with an arrow. Several rabbits stood behind him, arranged in staggered rows on each side, like a V.
“Is that Wilfred?” the stranger asked, an edge to his words.
“It is,” Uncle Wilfred said, squinting up. “Is that Pacer?”
“The same,” the stranger said, bowing. He straightened and descended, his eyes on Uncle Wilfred, with an occasional uneasy glance at Smalls.
Pacer was a long, lean rabbit, with weary eyes and a voice that was quiet but hard and cautious.
“It’s been a long time,” Pacer said, crossing to Uncle Wilfred. Smalls drew even with Uncle Wilfred, his hand playing at his sword-hilt. They stood apart, Uncle Wilfred and Pacer, and Picket thought this was a very cold reunion. Pacer’s small gang of rabbits, all dressed in green and all with arrows ready on their bowstrings, stood behind him.
“We’ve come far, and we’re very hungry,” Uncle Wilfred said. “We need to get inside.”
“No one enters unless Lord Rake gives the word,” Pacer said, nodding to a rabbit just behind him. The rabbit moved quickly into the cave.
“How long has that been the law?” Smalls asked. Picket noticed some irritation in Smalls’ tone. He enjoyed it.
“Since our most recent betrayals,” Pacer said. “It’s hard to trust anyone, regardless of their family connections.”
They looked on in silence. Picket was confused, but part of him reveled in the quiet anger simmering in Smalls. But Smalls stood still, looking cautiously around.
“It is an evil age when old friends aren’t welcomed quickly,” Uncle Wilfred said. “But I understand your caution.”
They
heard footsteps, and Picket felt a surge of panic. This is not how I imagined this happening. Out of the cave came a tall rabbit with grey and white fur. He was older than Uncle Wilfred, well-dressed, and wore a gold chain around his neck with a bright pendant. His cape was grey and his bearing elegant. He wore a long sword with an elaborate silver hilt. His white tunic bore a simple crest, two diamonds side by side, touching, the left one red and the right green. He walked quickly to Wilfred, glancing at Smalls. Wilfred stepped forward, and Picket caught his breath.
The two rabbits embraced, wordlessly, and Picket thought he saw the beginnings of tears in the lordly rabbit’s eyes. He breathed again.
“I am so glad to see you,” the new rabbit said to Uncle Wilfred as Pacer bowed and stepped back. “You are very welcome, friends.”
“Thank you, lord,” Uncle Wilfred said. “Lord Rake, may I introduce my niece and nephew, Heather and Picket?”
“I am delighted to meet you both,” Lord Rake said. “All that I have is at your disposal. I see you are injured, Picket. Pacer, please send someone for Emma. And Gort as well, while he’s at it.” Pacer nodded, and another of his lieutenants disappeared inside the cave. As Pacer turned, Picket noticed that the twin-diamond crest, here set on a white field, was stitched on the shoulder of all the rabbits they were meeting.
“And this,” Uncle Wilfred said, “is my son, Smalls.”
“Smalls,” he said, nodding. “It’s my pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m sorry to cut short the introductions, Lord Rake, but is Tommy Decker here?” Uncle Wilfred asked. “The landing is destroyed, and there are wolves down there.”
Lord Rake looked down, his smile vanished. “Decker’s gone. He sent a message to us, but he didn’t make it. The wolves—” he started, but he didn’t finish.
Heather gasped and Picket winced. Uncle Wilfred’s face fell. Smalls crossed to him and put a hand on his shoulder.