The Green Ember (The Green Ember Series Book 1)

by S D Smith

  “How soon can I be on the move?” Smalls asked.

  “Not less than three and one-half days and you‘ll be well enough to moving everything of your feets,” Dr. Zeiger said.

  “Good. Thanks, Doctor,” Smalls said, pushing himself up. Heather watched as Uncle Wilfred balanced Smalls, helped him rise, and offered his shoulder to aid him. She was struck by how much he cared for Smalls. Then Uncle Wilfred’s face turned dark, menacing.

  She looked to find what Uncle Wilfred had seen to cause him to turn so quickly from compassion to fury. It was Helmer, who had, in his brooding, sullen way, come near to see how Smalls was.

  “Get away,” Uncle Wilfred said coldly. Helmer, his eye twitching slightly, walked away.

  “No,” Smalls said. He looked after the black rabbit. Helmer stopped but didn’t turn around. A small divide opened between them, with a wall of rabbits on either side.

  Then Smalls, his fist over his heart, said to Helmer, “My place beside you, my blood for yours, till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.”

  No one moved. No one spoke. Heather watched as Helmer’s head dipped, his hand went to his face, and he walked off quickly, disappearing behind Heyward’s perfect shrubs.

  Uncle Wilfred’s face was contorted with emotions Heather could not read. He helped Smalls away and they disappeared inside the mysterious doorway, back inside the many levels of hewn stone corridors and a thousand mysteries. The stone corridors and strange doors held innumerable secrets, but not so many, Heather thought, as the people who walked inside them.

  She stared, not knowing what to think. Then she heard Emma. She was talking to Dr. Zeiger. “I will check on him; don’t worry, Doctor.”

  “Listen, Emmarabbit, can you cover my shifts next four, five days?” Dr. Zeiger was saying. “They wanting Doctor Zeiger mineself to coming to Blackstone Citadel. Some kind of flu going on, and though there’s probably nothing whatever-clever I can doing, they wants us doctor anyway, and the Lord of Rake wants mineself to going.”

  “Silly, isn’t it?” Emma said. “Do they want you to fall ill as well?”

  “Like I tells you always, mine Emmarabbit, we have job to heal body, we have job to heal mind. Job to heal mind often biggest job. Mind disordered much as body, or more.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Emma said, smiling.

  “And don’t not forget my other sayings,” Dr. Zeiger said.

  “Like ‘Put on your britches and then make your stitches’?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, yes,” he said, “you must remember to have your own self in order best as you can doctoring self before you can doing anything to help safe-make the other ones of the folk-rabbits if you are hoping to be helping happy-

  maker.”

  “I understand.”

  “But this is one I’m meant, ‘Don’t discarding the apple for the worm. Discarding the worm for the apple.’”

  “I think I understand. Oh, and Doctor Z,” she said, noticing Picket, “do you want to examine another foot?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Zeiger said in mock enthusiasm. “I waked up this morning from dreams about feets, sniffed big-time major breeze of life and hoped with all my hopes that this day might be filled with stinky feets to examine. It’s a dream coming truth.”

  Emma explained what had happened to Picket and her initial diagnosis of his foot. After a few minutes, Dr. Zeiger confirmed her diagnosis and, whispering so that Picket could not hear, said, “You’ll need all mine sayings on this one. He needs worm cut out in worst kind of ways. Mind is disordered more than foot, but I’m expect you know for this sure to know. Foot will healing soon. Mind and heart, take longer. I would prescribe much Maggie, and hold the Helmer.”

  Heather frowned. She understood the “hold the Helmer” part, sort of. But what did he mean by “much Maggie”?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Calling and Community

  Before she turned in for the night, Heather stood before the painting of what she was convinced was her old home in what had been the Great Wood. A heaviness fell on her. Images of Father, Mother, and Jacks filled her mind. She imagined them all together, living in the hollow in the painting. Looking at the painter’s initials, F. S.— Finbar Smalls—she thought of Smalls, then of Emma, of the whole upside-down world and its million broken hearts. She wasn’t sure exactly what they meant by the Mended Wood, but she began to long for it. She began to believe, somehow, that she always had been longing for it. She turned for her bed and saw that Picket’s eyes were already shut. She blew out the candles, rolled into her bed, and was asleep at once.

  * * *

  The next day after breakfast they ascended the stairway to light. Picket appeared quicker, better. At least, his foot seemed better. He was getting more agile with the crutches. As for his mood, he would say almost nothing. They were astonished as the morning light filled King Whitson’s Garden. They walked around, silently enjoying the sun-soaked air, alive with color, a beauty they seemed to inhabit. Picket finally sat beneath the statue of Captain Blackstar, silent and ponderous. Heather watched him for a little while, then walked back to enjoy the flowers and trees and soak in the glow of the broken light blanketing the garden.

  As for Heather, this interlude in light refreshed her heart the way the restful day and night had refreshed her body. Well, mostly restful. She thought back to the mad events of early yesterday and wondered if anything would ever feel normal again.

  They heard noise of work from inside the nearby octagonal building of wood and windows. Lighthall. She wondered what was in there.

  “Gort told me no one’s allowed in there yet,” Picket said, walking up and motioning to the building. “That access to Lighthall is forbidden.” He said it with a hint of accusation.

  “That’s true, Shuffler,” Emma said. “I don’t know about saying it’s ‘forbidden,’ like it’s the secret tomb of Lander’s Dragons. That’s a bit dramatic. But no one’s allowed in for now, except for the artisans.”

  “That’s what forbidden is,” Picket said, adopting Kyle’s smirk as he sat down on a bench.

  “You know you have a choice about how you see things, Picket,” Emma said, frowning at him.

  “What are they doing?” Heather asked.

  “What artisans do,” Emma said. “Making lovely things, I suppose.”

  “Why can’t you answer our questions, Emma?” Heather asked.

  “I want to, Heather. I really do,” she said. “But the law of initiates is very important for the security of this community and that of the citadels. There has to be a period of trial. If we blab everything to every new arrival, we are setting ourselves up for betrayal.”

  “So they think we’re traitors,” Picket said.

  Emma didn’t answer immediately. She looked down, her eyebrows scrunched. “I don’t think you’re traitors,” she said. “I call you my friends, and I trust you, even after such a short time. But this community has had to learn the hard way to be cautious with our trust. Perhaps that will be clearer soon.”

  Heather nodded, but Picket was still scowling. Heather squinted at Lighthall, trying to see the multicolored glass. There were breaks in the color where ordinary plain glass was featured. It looked like a long hallway leading farther in. She thought she saw a short white rabbit pass in front of a clear pane of glass. It makes sense, she thought. If it’s Smalls, perhaps he’s just following in his father’s footsteps. She wondered how Smalls had come to be adopted by her uncle and what exactly had happened in the Great Wood. She wanted all the answers but had gotten used to being in the dark. Somehow this garden put her at ease and helped her be patient for the unraveling of the story she was somehow a part of, even if only in a small way.

  They were silent for a little while, and Heather finally joined Picket on the bench.

  “I could stay in here forever,” Heather said, sighing lou
d and long.

  “But I’ve more to show you,” Emma said, reaching for Heather’s hand and pulling her up. “C’mon, Shuffler,” she said to Picket as she made her way down the brick walkway. They followed her. Picket slowed to gaze up at Captain Blackstar again before shuffling beneath the stone archway to the door.

  They passed through the guarded door and into the long torchlit corridor. After a little while, this opened into the large circular hallway with the three doors. Hallway Round was busy, but no one was staying there except for the guards. These guards were at their posts by the large barrel beneath the double-diamond banner, and a few others were milling around, going from one room to another. A few passing rabbits stared hard at them, shaking their heads. This unnerved Heather. Why would some be so unfriendly to them? Who were they to draw attention?

  She studied the barrel in the room’s center. The guards each looked away as she looked at them. They seemed uneasy.

  The door straight ahead was opened, and a bustling rabbit with stacked baskets of bread emerged. She looked a moment away from spilling them but somehow managed to keep them all steady. Behind her, the noise of the room she had just left spilled into the hallway. It sounded lively in there.

  “Does that lead outside?” Heather asked. “To more workers?”

  “No and yes,” Emma said. “Come and see.”

  The door guard bowed slightly to Emma and opened the door, and Emma went through. He eyed Heather and Picket warily. But they followed Emma in, a great wall of sound meeting them as they entered.

  It was a massive room, a deep cavern with high walls. The ceiling was a rough dome that appeared to go up forever. Heather and Picket gaped at the dizzying size of it. The hall seemed as wide as the field beside their home in Nick Hollow where they had spent endless hours playing Starseek. The walls were the same neatly carved rock they had grown used to at Cloud Mountain. They were lined with hundreds of torches. High above, huge windows let in wide shafts of light.

  Before them were hundreds of rabbits engaged in numerous crafts. Adding them to the fairly large numbers of rabbits they had seen outside yesterday, Heather realized there must be several hundreds living in and around Cloud Mountain.

  Row upon row of every kind of work imaginable was being practiced in this mountain hall. There was even a smithy in the distant corner, its pounding hammers and gasping bellows part of the chorus of noises that filled the air. The smithy was loud, but the noise mingled with the general din of the place, which was alive with conversation, instruction, and work. There were book-binders, wheelwrights, fullers, bakers, carters, and many more. There was a station where a fletcher was testing a new-made arrow on a long bow. An eager guard in green stood by, his fingers twitching with excitement. Picket’s eyes widened, and he hobbled in that direction, until Emma put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait. Not yet. I want to show you something else.” She had to lean toward Heather and Picket to be heard over the din. “We can come back and explore later.”

  Reluctantly, Picket turned to follow her. As he moved, still a little awkward on his crutches, his eyes took in the amazing things all around. Painters made portraits, a chandler and several apprentices tested new-made candles, a barber stitched a wound while a rabbit holding a swollen tooth waited nearby. And there was much more to see. The outside of the hall had hollows where a certain number of shops and workspaces were settled, while the large room teemed with booths and other temporary structures. Everywhere they looked, energetic work was underway.

  Emma led them down a wide lane of portable booths, to an open area where a group of rabbits had gathered. Lord Rake, in his finest white, stood by, smiling. The gathered rabbits were looking at the two who stood near him. One was a middle-age rabbit, about Uncle Wilfred’s age, a lady with kind eyes, glasses, and a bright apron. She had flowers wreathed around her high, handsome ears. The other was nearer to Picket’s and Heather’s ages, young and happy. They stood face to face, the young rabbit with what must be her parents right behind her, smiling and a little teary-eyed.

  “What is this?” Heather asked.

  “It’s a calling ceremony,” Emma said. “You see, we—” but she was cut off by Lord Rake loudly clearing his throat for silence. Noise continued in the hall at large, but the area of silence grew to include the booths and shops nearest the gathered crowd.

  “My friends,” Lord Rake said, “welcome to the calling ceremony of Gloria Folds. Please, attend to Mrs. Clove Halmond,” he said indicating the older rabbit. The gathered rabbits cheered, and when the cheer faded, it spread the silence further throughout the hall.

  “Pacer, please give the horn.” Pacer, Lord Rake’s cold lieutenant, walked over and handed the older rabbit a horn. She drew it to her lips and blew an earsplitting call. This caused the entire hall to stop work. Though many could not see, the hall was laid out such that most could hear. Then Mrs. Halmond spoke.

  “Hear me, friends. I am delighted to present my apprentice, Miss Gloria Folds.” More cheers. Gloria was beaming. “I have come to love this young lady and am delighted to welcome her into my work. She has shown great promise in the gardens, one of the brightest students I’ve had since I became garden mistress of our community.” Gloria bowed, and Mrs. Halmond returned the bow, smiling wide.

  “We are honored,” Gloria’s father said, “that you have a place for her. You are a credit to our community and a true herald.”

  “We are so proud of you, Gloria,” her mother said to her, though loud enough for all to hear. “We couldn’t be prouder. You have worked hard, been filled with kindness, and we’re glad to see you go to a work you love—a work that serves so many.” Gloria and her parents embraced.

  “This is the important part,” Emma whispered to Heather, and many others were whispering and smiling at each other.

  They turned again so that Garden Mistress Halmond was facing Gloria. They were both smiling, but Mrs. Halmond’s face grew suddenly more composed, serious. There was a sudden silence in the hall. Mrs. Halmond took a step forward and placed her right fist over her heart.

  “I accept you,” she said clearly, with solemn joy.

  “I am accepted,” Gloria said, attempting to mime Mrs. Halmond’s tone.

  “I bind you, with all honor, to release you better still.”

  “I am bound,” Gloria said, “by honor and fealty, to serve you.”

  They bowed to each other, and Lord Rake began the applause that soon enough sounded like a thunderstorm in the hall. Gloria and Mrs. Halmond embraced, and there were cheers and well-wishes called as they left the hall, heading for the gardens on the village green.

  Emma smiled at Heather.

  “You’re so happy,” Heather said. “Everyone’s so happy.”

  “It reminds each of us of our own calling ceremony,” Emma said. “It reminds us that we belong.”

  They followed Emma toward the door. On their way, they passed a potter’s station, where an old fat-faced rabbit was teaching three young rabbits the craft. The apprentices all appeared to be about Picket’s age.

  “Hello, Miss Emma,” the potter said, setting his wheel spinning with his foot pedal and grabbing a glob of clay.

  “Hello, Master Eefaw,” Emma replied.

  “New friends?”

  “Yessir,” she said, putting her arm around Heather. “This is Heather. That’s Picket.”

  “Hello, this Heather and that Picket,” he said, adding water to his wheel. “I’m Eefaw Potter. Quite a ceremony, yes?” They nodded. “Have you come to see the options for yourself?” He swept his hand dramatically over the room, slopping some clay onto his irritated students. He didn’t notice.

  “I suppose so,” Heather said, trying not to laugh.

  “I’m just showing them around, for now,” Emma said. “They just got here.”

  “Well, be easy, friends,” Eefaw said. “It�
��s not that big of a deal. When you do choose and are chosen, it’ll only be a career for life.”

  Heather and Picket looked at each other.

  “I’m only kidding,” Eefaw said, closing his eyes and wheezing. He waved his hand at them dismissively, which sent a glop of goopy clay sailing over their heads. “You have lots of time, and nothing is final. Still,” he said, looking up and putting his hand to his chin thoughtfully, caking his short beard in clay, “most people stick with what they choose first. So, it’s very important to choose your work wisely. That is, if they can take you on.” He resumed his molding of the clay, which spun up and down his fingers on the wet turning wheel.

  “Did you choose pottery from the start, Master Eefaw?” Emma asked as the clay took shape beneath his steady hands.

  “Well, no,” he said, again putting his hand to his chin and lifting his eyes to the heights, while his fresh clay began to spin out of control. “Come to think of it, I believe it was my fourth choice. My dad didn’t live to pass on his own work.” His foot kept pumping and the wheel kept spinning. The wet, malformed clay slid to the edge of the wheel, threatening to fly off in a thousand directions, soaking them all in the muddy substance. His students were alarmed but looked unsure of whether they should try to intervene. One very clean, very white rabbit with a bright pink bow edged close to the wheel, but just as the clay seemed certain to be flung away, Eefaw swept his arm out and said, “But I like it quite a lot,” slinging clay all over the white rabbit while almost effortlessly snagging the clay from the wheel’s edge. He whistled as he resumed working the clay, bearing his thumbs down in the middle, almost magically reforming the adventurous clay into a beautiful bowl. His exasperated students shook their heads and scowled. Noticing them for the first time in a while, Master Eefaw scolded them. “What have I told you loafers about staying clean?”

  “I think Heather might be well-suited for the tale-spinners,” Emma said, nudging her friend.