by S D Smith
“Good morning, friends,” Emma said cheerfully. “I hope you slept well. You have certainly slept long enough.”
“I feel rested, thank you,” Heather said. “And thank you so much for taking such great care of us.”
“I’m delighted to serve,” Emma said, reaching an arm around Heather. “And how’s the Fractured Footfellow?” she said, smiling at Picket.
Picket did not smile, but he replied with reserved politeness, “I’m feeling well. Thank you, Emma.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Heather and crossing to where he sat. “May I take a look at it?”
“Of course,” he said.
She undid the wrap and examined the injured foot, then redid the bandage as Picket winced here and there, always trying to pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it clearly did.
“Dr. Zeiger will be in later to see you, Picket,” she said. “He’s a bit strange in the way he talks—he’s from far away from here, farther still than you two and your funny way of speaking. But he’ll take good care of you.”
“Thank you,” Picket said. He was still sullen, Heather noticed, but some of his anger appeared to have subsided. He seemed not so much resentful and angry as regretful and weary. She worried for a moment that he would never be anything but the sullen, dour rabbit she saw before her. Where was the carefree brother she had always known? Gone, along with all their past life, she supposed.
“I have something else for you,” Emma said, disappearing out of the room for a moment. She returned with a pair of ornately carved crutches. Heather was amazed at how beautiful they were. They featured intricate carvings of interlacing patterns, a clever design of whittled wonders marking them from top to bottom. “Now you’ll be able to get around on your own, without two girls lugging you about.” Emma smiled at him, and, to Heather’s surprise, he smiled back.
“Thanks, Emma,” Picket said, and he looked truly grateful. Maybe there is hope for the old Picket, Heather thought. Until he sees Smalls again.
“Okay, friends,” Emma said. “Would you like me to bring you some food, or can you hobble down to the Savory Den?”
Picket started to speak, but Heather beat him to it. “We’ll come down.” She did not want to stay cooped up and didn’t think it would do for Picket to have that option. More than his foot needed healing.
“As you like,” Emma said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to fetch you starving pilgrims. There are clean clothes in the drawers—including clean drawers,” she said with a mischievous wink. She made to leave.
“Emma,” Heather said, “may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“These paintings,” she said, indicating the wall, “who did them?”
“Oh, so many,” Emma said, her eyebrows knitting in thought. “I’m not sure of all their names. They’d know every one of them up in the galleries and at Lighthall.”
“Lighthall?” Heather asked.
“A place set aside for this sort of thing. The best of them, I think,” Emma explained. “Though it’s shut up at the moment for repairs.”
Heather looked them all over. “There are a thousand untold tales in these places.”
“I suppose so,” Emma said. “Are you a tale spinner?”
“No,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. Emma eyed her doubtfully.
“Heather has great stories,” Picket said, examining his crutches. “She’s told them to me since I was a baby. She’s told them to our baby brother as well. You should hear her story about why the leaves change color in autumn. She’s an amazing storyteller, but she doesn’t like being put on the spot. It’s the one way it’s actually possible to shut her up.”
“We’ll see about that,” Emma said slyly. “I’ll have you,” she pointed at Picket, “walking, and you,” she eyed Heather, “telling tales, in no time.” Emma crossed her arms. “You poor, weary, pathetic, sad, happy, strange, and wonderful travelers shall be my project.”
“Grand,” Picket said with a sigh.
Heather laughed, a little nervously, then turned again to the paintings. “What about this one?” she said, pointing to the large painting in the center of the wall at the foot of her bed. Heather was sure it featured her family home in the east. “Do you know anything about this one, like what place it’s showing?”
Emma crossed to look with Heather as Picket tried out his crutches. “I’m sorry, Heather; I don’t have any idea,” she said. “I mean, I know it’s from the Great Wood before the fall of King Jupiter, and before the afterterrors. But I haven’t been in here much, and I wasn’t the best for listening to the lessons on art. I know some of the major ones.” She sounded embarrassed by her limited knowledge. “I’ve been working so hard to become a doctor, you see.”
“And you’ll make a great one, I’m sure,” Picket said, successfully crossing the room with the crutches after a few stumbling efforts.
“Of course you will,” Heather agreed.
They looked at the painting together. “Does it mean something to you?” Emma asked.
“I think it’s a picture of our old home,” Heather said quietly.
“Away in the northwest?”
“No, in the east. In the Great Wood, I suppose. Where our parents lived and where I lived, when I was a baby.”
Picket shuffled over to join them. He stared at the painting, longing written on his face.
“It’s lovely,” Emma said.
“Yes,” Heather agreed. “Mother had a painting of her own that showed this glen. At least I think it’s the same one. It hung over our fireplace at Nick Hollow. One day I found her crying, looking at it. She told me then, if we ever couldn’t find her, to look there.” She pointed at the tree home depicted in the lower corner of the large painting.
Emma nodded.
Picket noticed the initials at the bottom. “Who is F. S.?”
“That I can tell you,” Emma said. “I’m not such an ignoramus that I don’t know the leading artists of the Great Wood’s golden age. That’ll be Finbar Smalls, the Mage of Meadows. The painters here all adore him.”
Heather and Picket exchanged a brief questioning glance. “Is Finbar Smalls here?” Heather asked.
“No,” Emma said, regretfully. “He was killed in the afterterrors of the fall of King Jupiter, along with so many others.” She swallowed. “Including all my own family.”
“I’m so sorry, dear friend,” Heather said, squeezing Emma again. “Do you ever go back to the Great Wood? It looks so lovely.”
“The Great Wood is a ruin now,” Emma said hoarsely. “It’s charred and decaying, in both its appearance and its soul. I think people love Finbar Smalls because he reminds them of what it was.”
“Finbar Smalls?” Picket asked into the silence. “Is the whole world orphaned?”
Chapter Nineteen
Light from Above
At breakfast in the Savory Den, Heather and Picket ate sliced peaches in maple syrup, with sweet bread for dipping. Gort found excuses to be near them as they ate, checking on this and that, fussing over some detail of the breakfast. When the young rabbits sighed with delight over this, the beginning of another wonderful meal, he beamed and turned away quickly to hide his face. He waddled away soon after.
Heather was amazed at the care they gave to every detail of the meal, from the food itself to how it was presented. It was almost too lovely to eat. Almost. She dug in with relish and left her plate, and a few more besides, spotless. Picket, sour as he was, seemed to sweeten with every sugary bite. He ate four platefuls and looked likely to never stop, until Emma spoke up as he rose from his seat to get still more.
“Seeing the doctor over your foot is enough,” she warned. “If you carry on you’ll have to see him for a burst belly, too.”
Sheepishly, Picket settled back into his seat.
/> “Anyway,” Emma went on, “I want to take you newcomers on a little tour. There’s so much I want to show you.”
“But, I can’t,” Picket said, pointing to his foot.
“A bit of movement won’t hurt you,” Emma said. “As long as you stay off it. Don’t put any weight on it,” she commanded in mock seriousness. “Future doctor’s orders,” she added with a wink at Heather.
“Yes, Pick,” Heather said, putting her arm around her younger brother. “We’ve got to get you back on your feet.”
“Plenty of rest,” Emma said.
“And lots of food,” Heather added.
“And lots of laughs,” Emma said.
“Yes,” Heather said, “lots and lots and lots of laughter, while resting … with food.”
“You’ll recover that much quicker when they’re all combined,” Emma said.
“Recover for what?” Picket said, almost to himself.
* * *
He looked over at the corner where the black rabbit had sat the night before. He wasn’t there now. There were a few rabbits nearby, whispering and glancing up at them. They looked upset, almost offended even, by the newcomers’ presence. Or maybe Picket was just seeing things. Maybe it was the girls’ laughter.
“‘Recover for what?’ For life, Picket,” Emma said. “There are lots of trades here for an eager young rabbit.”
“Emma’s said she’ll get me started with the healers,” Heather said. “She thinks I might even be a doctor someday myself.”
“And maybe the storyguild as well,” Emma said.
“Are there actually storytellers here?” Heather asked.
“Sure there are.”
* * *
Heather faltered. Fear rose up inside her. She felt both delight and terror at the thought of sharing her stories with such people. “That’s their job?” Heather asked. “Storytelling?”
“Of course!” Emma said. “Now, they do other work like everyone else: gardening, cleaning, teaching—whatever’s needed. But all the crafts are honored here. We’re heralds of the Mended Wood.”
“You keep saying that. People keep saying it. What does that mean?” Heather asked. “Heralds of the Mended Wood?”
“Let me show you what it means,” Emma said, smiling and dragging Heather to her feet. “C’mon, Shuffler,” she said, urging Picket to follow.
Heather waited for Picket to get his crutches in place, and the three crossed to the little door in the back of the Savory Den. They walked past Gort, who waddled around, fussing over the early lunch preparations. “Too much salt!” he cried after dipping his finger in a simmering pot and tasting it. “It’s the Savory Den, not the Salty Saltstation of Salty—er, uh … Salt … er, uh—Saltland! I’ve warned you of the dangers of over-salination, Welton. Oh, how I’ve warned you.”
“Sorry, Master Gort,” Welton screeched, ducking to escape a ladle Gort had whipped at his head.
“What do I always tell you? ‘Not enough salt is an in-salt,’ and ‘Too much salt is an as-salt!’”
“Yes, Master Gort,” the entire kitchen said together, some hiding giggles behind carefully raised bowls and towels.
Heather tried not to laugh herself but was unsuccessful. She turned to Picket as they walked. “What job would you like to train for?”
“Soldiering,” he said quickly.
“You’ll want one of the citadels for that,” Emma said. “There’s only the Forest Guard here, and they are the elite of the elite. Everyone starts soldiering in the citadels, and, whether you’d like to or not, almost every healthy buck serves for a time. But I’ll have a word with Lord Rake and see if he can speed it up, if you’d like. It’s a noble career.”
Picket nodded.
Heather didn’t like Picket’s answer. She wanted him out of danger, happy, and his old self again. But it appeared that the events of the past few days had hardened his resolve. “Why do you want to be a soldier, Pick?”
Picket didn’t answer, so Emma broke the silence. “I know you are waiting under the law of initiates, but I will tell you that I believe there will be a great need for soldiers very soon.”
“What do you mean?” Heather asked. Picket’s eager expression troubled her. “Will this place be attacked?”
“It may be, Heather. I hear that the wolf patrols get closer every day. I’m sorry, dear. The world is not very safe.”
“And yet we wait to be told everything important,” Picket said.
“That’s the reason you must wait,” Emma said. “But I am sorry for it. Please, don’t get too upset. I want to show you more of our community.”
They came to a wall, and Emma tapped four times soft and quick, then twice hard. After a moment, the wall gave way, revealing a passage and a wary guard. Heather must have been too tired to notice this code the night before. Passing through the door, they did not, as Heather expected, turn to the right. That way, she had learned, led down the long hall, which then turned again into the corridor of rooms where they had stayed last night. They turned left, which led them through a series of clean-cut stone hallways, ending in a steep grey-green stairway.
Heather was unsure how this place worked—how it was laid out. It made her uncomfortable, not knowing which way led out. She felt confused. It appeared to be a series of caves, something like what Picket described Seven Mounds as, but it was different too. There was so much light here. It was so lively and clean.
“Emma,” she asked, “where exactly are we? Is it like a cavern inn, with a restaurant and rooms?”
“It is that. But that is really only a sort of secret entrance to all of Cloud Mountain,” she said, motioning above them.
“Cloud Mountain?” Picket asked.
“Yes. This mountain is always covered in a heavy mist—at least there is almost always a great belt of cloud near the top. You came into the Savory Den, which is a restaurant, meant to appear ordinary. There’s been a salt lick there for centuries, they say, so it makes sense. But it also serves as a cover for what happens beyond and up the mountain. That’s the real life of this place. If enemies come, it’s our hope—admittedly a faint one—that they’ll just see the restaurant and won’t realize there are more of us hidden away up here.”
“The exiles from the Great Wood?” Picket asked.
“Yes. Many of us ended up here.”
“Clever,” Heather said.
“It is,” Emma agreed. “We have only the Forest Guard for protection. There are ever so many orphans here. Like me.”
“And us,” Heather said, patting her arm.
“Anyway,” Emma went on, “above the cloud belt there’s plenty of sunlight, and though mountainside gardening is hard, especially with all this rock, we’ve found a way to survive.”
“They couldn’t have made this place after the exile,” Heather said, running her hand along the smooth-cut walls of stone.
“No. They just restored it a bit,” Emma said. “It was here all along.”
“Like Seven Mounds,” Picket said.
“There’s a place kind of like this back in Nick Hollow,” Heather explained. “No one knows where it came from, but it’s massive and full of carved-stone rooms.”
“It’s a great mystery here as well,” Emma said. “Rumor has it that two of the hidden citadels are like this, though I’m told the one nearest here, Halfwind Citadel, is just an old-fashioned warren.”
“How far is it?” Picket asked.
“Most of a day’s journey,” Emma said. “But you don’t need to worry about that yet, Shuffler. You need to worry about this.” She pointed up the seemingly endless stairs, which led up and up a dark stairway to end in a curious light glowing around the topmost stairs. It was so bright at the top, it looked like the sun itself might be sitting on the top step.
Chapter Twenty
Mysteries o
n the Mend
Heather was intrigued. How could it be so bright?
She glanced at Picket, who squinted at the shimmering light up what seemed like an endless number of stairs. He looked at his crutches, then doubtfully at Emma. Emma didn’t know about Picket’s intense fear of heights, and Heather wasn’t about to reveal anything that would embarrass him further.
“It’s worth it, Picket,” Emma said, smiling. “There’s a rail. Let me have the crutches, and just lean on the rail and hop up each step. There’s only a hundred or so.” She snatched the crutches and, grabbing Heather’s hand, pulled her into the stairwell.
Heather rushed up with Emma, while Picket made slow progress behind them. She glanced back to be sure he was okay, and he nodded for her to go on. She did.
About halfway up, she noticed there were large chains crisscrossed along the ceiling of the stairway. These all appeared to be tied together and ended near the top. She couldn’t see what they were for. The bright light above was so alluring, she was too distracted to ask.
As she reached the final few steps, she noticed that the light was more than just bright; it was many-colored. She saw blues and greens, oranges and reds, splashed along the top of the stairway like illuminated paint.
When she crested the stairs, she gasped.
Before her ran a short walkway of beautifully laid brick, almost as if the stairway continued, now level. This walkway split a sprawling garden bursting with bright flowers and small trees. But it was, Heather saw to her astonishment, indoors. Above them, as she and Emma walked slowly along the path, was a clean, clear glass ceiling, something she would have thought impossible. Sunlight descended in waves, covering the little garden walk with a faintly hazy glow.
Ahead, she saw the source of the colors. It was an octagonal room, wood-framed, with large glazed glass panels of every color. Above a dark brown door, a banner was mounted. It was a white field with two diamonds, side by side. The left one was red, the right, green. This was the same symbol she had seen on Lord Rake’s tunic. It must be his own coat of arms.