The Green Ember (The Green Ember Series Book 1)

by S D Smith

  Heather felt panic rise, and she looked away. Why am I so afraid of what I love to do?

  “She is a good storyteller,” Picket said, frowning at her.

  “Telling stories to littles is not the same as a calling,” Heather said, blushing.

  “I can think of few higher callings,” Master Eefaw said, raising his eyebrows at Heather and motioning over to the storyguild.

  Heather stared at the place, a large hollow where a tall rabbit appeared to be reading from a paper as students sat listening. She longed to go in and listen, but she was afraid. And she was embarrassed to be afraid. “We haven’t decided what to pursue,” she said.

  “You have time,” he said, smiling, his beard caked in clay. His students stood behind him, cross-armed and furious.

  “Nice to meet you,” Heather said as Emma shooed them away.

  “One more thing!” Master Eefaw shouted to them as they drew open the door to leave. “This is a place where people make and are made. You are what you do. Choose wisely, young Picket. Choose wisely, brave Heather. Understand?”

  “Yessir,” Heather said, nodding.

  “The community needs you!” he shouted, throwing his arms out to indicate the entire vast hall of busy people at work. Wet clay flew everywhere.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Shame

  The three friends came through the door into the round hallway, barely containing their laughter. Once out of the massive hall, and out of danger of being hit with muddy clay, the laughter burst out of them like a long-awaited sneeze.

  Picket, hobbling through the door, tripped and slid across the room, coming to a halt beside the large wooden barrel in the center of the room. When he looked up, he saw the tip of a spear.

  “Back up!” a fierce rabbit in guards’ green said, no hint of humor in his expression. Picket’s face, which had only a second before been full of joy, now turned sour.

  “All right, all right!” he said, hobbling to his feet with Heather and Emma’s help. “You don’t have to be so harsh.”

  “Yes, I do,” the guard said. “There are traitors among us.”

  “Come away, Picket,” Heather said. Then she turned on the guard. “I’ve never seen such rudeness!” she said.

  “It’s his job,” Emma said quietly, with an apologetic look back at the guard.

  “It’s his job to be rude?” Picket asked as they moved back into the long hallway. The wounded, angry look that had slowly begun to evaporate in the laughter of a few moments before was returning.

  “It’s his job,” Emma said kindly, “to protect us all.”

  “Well, somehow I think there are bigger threats to Cloud Mountain than a stumbling cripple,” Picket whispered harshly. They paused inside the long corridor.

  “The barrel,” Emma said, whispering. “It’s blastpowder.”

  “Blastpowder?” Heather asked.

  “Yes,” Emma explained. “It’s there for our defense. The guards may set fire to the blastpowder if the mountain is under siege. It would blow up the hallways and the stairway, blocking the way to the village and the great hall. It’s really volatile. They think it could possibly explode if the barrel is knocked over. That’s why there are three guards around it day and night. Plus, some people don’t trust outsiders. Especially …”

  “Especially what?” Heather said.

  “Well, some people here don’t like your uncle very much, and so they don’t trust you. But that guard was just doing his job.”

  Heather shook her head. She was sorry about the blastpowder, but she didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t love Uncle Wilfred. She realized for the first time that it might be costing Emma something, perhaps a lot, to be such a good friend to them.

  “Thank you,” she said to Emma, smiling gratefully and taking Emma’s hands. “Picket,” she said, turning to him, “we should really apologize to the guard. He was only doing his job.”

  “No,” was all Picket would say as he hobbled down the hallway toward King Whitson’s Garden.

  “Picket!” Emma called after him. “You don’t know the way.”

  “I know the way, Emma. I’m not completely helpless.”

  “I know that, Picket,” Emma said. “Anyway, there’s something I want to show you.”

  “Forget it,” he said bitterly.

  “Don’t go,” Heather said. But he went on, saying no more. He grunted and grumbled as he he disappeared into the long hallway that led back to King’s Garden.

  After he was gone, Heather shook her head.

  “He’ll be all right, dear Heather,” Emma said, putting her arm around her friend.

  “I hope so,” Heather said, swallowing a sob. “It’s like I’ve lost him too. I’ve lost all my family.”

  “Well, sister,” Emma said, taking Heather’s face gently in her hands, “you’ve got me now. And Picket’ll come ’round. Trust me. This place has a way of undoing the worst sort of enchantments. Believe me, I should know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when I came here I was very little, but at some point I grew frustrated with my … well, my situation.”

  “About your parents?” Heather asked.

  “Yes. That exactly,” Emma said, her eyes moving to the third door in the round room. “But I had some help.”

  “Lord Rake?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Emma said. “He was what I was mainly angry about. I got it into my head that my parents had wanted to keep me but that he had somehow stolen me, instead of rescuing me. I wondered if they were good rabbits who wished for something else for me.”

  “They weren’t good?” Heather asked.

  “I suppose so, but I don’t know,” Emma said. “But that’s not the point. I had no reason to doubt Lord Rake, and he was a good guardian to me. He had saved my life; this much I knew. Even if I knew—and still know—little else. Secrets stay hidden here for a long time.”

  “What changed your mind?” Heather asked.

  Emma looked back at the third door. “Maggie O’Sage.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Follow me,” Emma said, dragging Heather back into Hallway Round and toward the unguarded third door. She put her finger to her lips, and Heather was silent. Emma opened the door, and Heather followed her in.

  * * *

  Picket was getting good at fuming. As he clopped on his crutches down the long hallway toward King’s Garden, he let all the feelings of resentment, anger, and bitterness wash over him like a waterfall of self-pity. It was actually quite pleasant, in an ugly way. He was sick and tired of people treating him like a useless, pathetic, bawling infant. Of course, when he thought about babies, he remembered Jacks. The sudden surge of sadness only joined the chorus of miseries all singing the song of how badly he had it and how unfair everything was. First, the humiliating failures at Nick Hollow, where he gave away their position to the wolves, causing them to be chased and nearly killed over and over. Then, the unbearable aloofness of Smalls, who deigned to order him around and had the gall to actually pick him up and rescue him at Decker’s Landing, when he could have easily done it himself.

  For the moment, Picket fought away the voice of conscience giving a different version of events in his mind, and he stubbornly focused on how unjust it had all been. Images of Smalls talking down to him, giving him orders, and rescuing Heather were all ingredients in a steaming, frothing kettle of fury that was ready to boil over.

  He came to the doorway leading back to the sunlit King’s Garden, teeth gritted. He knocked loudly, but there was no answer. He knocked again. Still nothing. So he tried the door himself, but it would not open. He was furious. He just wanted to get to his room and lie down on his bed and try to forget everything.

  “Open this door!” he shouted. There was no reply.

  Finally he raised on
e of his carefully fashioned crutches and smashed it against the wooden door. The door held firm, but the crutch shattered, showering the torchlit hallway with splintered shards.

  The door opened then, and, in no time at all, Picket was taken to the ground and a sword was at his throat. Behind him, a spear was leveled at his head. Squinting up, he saw that the spear belonged to the guard who had threatened him beside the blastpowder barrel. The guard must have heard the noise and rushed down the corridor. Now Picket’s anger turned to deeper embarrassment. How could things get any worse?

  He looked through the doorway and saw Smalls looking in at him. “What have you done this time, lad?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Third Door

  Picket hobbled down the tall stone stairway from King Whitson’s Garden in a furious silence. He was very low.

  “I’m sorry, Picket,” Smalls said, following behind him. They were headed back toward Picket and Heather’s room. Both of them were on crutches, though Smalls had two and Picket now had only one. “I forgot how much it irritates you for me to call you ‘lad.’ I’ll try to remember next time. In my defense, it’s what I call many of my younger friends.”

  Picket said nothing, just hung his head and labored down the endless steps in the stone stairway. Above them the chains hung, apparently useless. Like me.

  Smalls had helped Picket get out of the trouble he’d made for himself when he lost his temper, shattering one of his crutches on the door. Though one of the guards was resistant to Smalls, when Lord Rake came and Smalls spoke to him, they were allowed to go without any more questions.

  Picket was deeply embarrassed. They passed by a pair of hunched whisperers who gave them cold looks. This happened often, and Picket didn’t know why. Maybe they knew all about his failures. Maybe they were ashamed to be in his presence. Right now, he didn’t care.

  Smalls shook his head sadly. “Those guards back there at the door,” he explained gently, “they’re trained to protect the community. They have rules here that might seem a little strange.” Picket made no answer, so Smalls went on. “You have to remember that most of the people here escaped the afterterrors that followed the fall of the king. They are on edge, so when someone tries to break a door down, they have to act.”

  “But, I wasn’t trying to …” Picket began, but he fell silent again with an exasperated sigh.

  “Just hang in there, la—um, pal,” Smalls said, correcting himself. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Too bad,” Picket muttered.

  They reached the bottom of the stairway. Picket resumed his use of the single crutch, lunging forward as fast as he could, though he was out of breath. He was exhausted, embarrassed, in pain, and eager to be rid of Smalls.

  They continued down the corridor and hung a left. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, they arrived in front of Picket and Heather’s room.

  “This it?” Smalls asked.

  Picket nodded.

  “Is Heather around?”

  Picket shook his head no, then opened the door and went inside.

  Just before he closed the door, Smalls stuck his foot in and stopped it. “Ouch!” he cried, realizing he’d stuck an injured foot in. “Dumb instincts,” he said, rubbing his foot. Picket said nothing, but he winced when he saw Smalls’ foot get jammed.

  “Listen, Picket,” Smalls said. “I’m going to say this to you, because you hate me anyway and so it doesn’t matter if you get even more angry at me.” Picket tried to shut the door again, but Smalls wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he shuffled into the room and stood in front of the paintings at the foot of the bed. “Listen, lad. And you are acting like a very little lad. You’re not the only one bad things have happened to. You’re not the only one who’s lost someone they love.”

  Picket, who tried to harden his heart against Smalls, looked past him to the paintings on the wall. His eyes found the meadow painting of what they believed was their old home in the Great Wood. He saw the artist’s signature at the bottom, “F. S.” Finbar Smalls. A celebrated artist who was now lost. Picket lowered his eyes, and tears started to form.

  Smalls went on. “You have got to pull yourself together and stop moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. I know, Picket. I know what you’re going through. I know it so well.” He turned his back on Picket and faced the wall of paintings. Seeing the large painting of the meadow in the Great Wood, Smalls reached out and touched it gently. Picket thought he heard a sniff.

  After a few moments, Smalls lowered his hand, lowered his head. With his back still to Picket, he said softly, “We can’t always save them. And we just have to do our part.” Without looking at Picket, he quickly crossed the room and left, closing the door behind him.

  Picket sat in the silent room, looking at the meadow painting and feeling like the lowest creature in the world.

  * * *

  Heather was amazed at what was behind the third door. Each door in Hallway Round had been a surprise. The first led to the garden and fields, the village green, and more. The second led to the massive stone hall where so many worked. And this third door, after a steep stone stairway leading down seven flights, revealed a long mossy porch, overlooking what must be the whole world. At least Heather believed the lookout would reveal miles and miles if it weren’t for the mist. In the garden and village green above, the mist was thin and wispy. Here it hung heavy and thick, like a slowly shifting wall only a few yards from the porch. It was the thick belt of cloud she had seen from the boat near Decker’s Landing. Dense, impenetrable fog. If the fog wall were gone, this would, she imagined, be a breathtaking view.

  Unlike behind the other two doors, where hundreds worked and played, this ledge of stone, moss, and mist was occupied by only three rabbits. Two were painting on the near side of the porch, closer to the door. On the far side, up a small flight of steps, a single rabbit—an older lady—sat working vigorously at her sewing.

  At first Heather thought it might be Lady Glen, but a closer look showed many differences. Where Lady Glen was firm and intimidating, this lady appeared softer, almost worn out. She was more like a mysterious cottage than a regal tower. From time to time she looked up longingly at the mist; then, when her attention was required, she attended to her sewing. She never stopped. Her hands seemed to be part of the needle, the thread. She worked as if by magic. Heather had been sewing for a few years, and her mother had always sewed. But neither could sew half as fast as this lady. There were baskets on both sides of her chair, full of clothing.

  Emma motioned for Heather to follow her, and they walked toward the lady. As they passed the artists’ stations, Heather saw that each painted a stunning vista, an incredible distant view of a wide green woodland, with rivers and waterfalls, fields and flowers. A magical sight.

  Heather was astonished. She saw how they peered into the fog, squinting, then placed paint on canvas, bringing the work to life. She shook her head as they walked past, and Emma nodded, smiling.

  They walked slowly up to the lady, who smiled at them in turn. Emma curtsied, and Heather did the same.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Emma said.

  “Hello, Emma,” the lady said kindly. “Please. Won’t you have a seat and tell me who your friend is?”

  The two girls bowed and sat down. “Ma’am,” Emma began, “may I introduce Heather O’Nick? Heather, this is Maggie O’Sage, the wisest lady in the world.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” Heather said.

  “And I, you, my dear,” Maggie said. “And Emma, as I’ve told you and your esteemed guardian before, you may dispense with the absurd ‘O’Sage’ business. They believe they honor me by making me out to be so wise. You may call me Maggie, or Mrs. Weaver.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Weaver,” Heather said.

  “So, you are from Nick Hollow?” Mrs. Weaver said. “I have been there a few ti
mes, before the last war. It was quite lovely then.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Heather said. “It was.”

  “So, you are new to this community, along with your bitter little brother,” Mrs. Weaver said. “And Emma has brought you to me so that I might give you the high-minded purpose of this place and these people. Am I correct?”

  Emma smiled, and both girls nodded.

  “Well, I suppose someone has to explain things around here, and the poets and tale-spinners are, of course, never called upon. Only this mad old lady who sews all day and stares off into mist. Surely she’s the best for the job.” She laughed, and the girls, seeing she was amused, smiled.

  “I’m pretty sure I would rather hear it from you, ma’am,” Heather said.

  “So you shall,” Mrs. Weaver said. “What do you know so far?”

  “If I may, ma’am,” Emma said. “Heather knows very little. She’s only had a little bit of a story about King Jupiter, and she knows nothing of the fall. Only, she knows there’s been a fall, and that the Great Wood is ruled by wicked masters. She hasn’t had her initiation yet and is bound by the law of initiates. She doesn’t know about—well, about very much.”

  “It’s an awful tale, Heather,” Mrs. Weaver said sadly, her eyes going once again to the wall of mist. “If this mist were gone, you’d need fewer words. For beyond it lies the saddest sight in all of Natalia. Sometimes, very rarely, the mist will clear—for only a moment—and you can see the horrible ruins of the Great Wood. But we can talk more of the fall another time. You must already understand those things pretty well, and more can be added. But what of the Mended Wood, yes?”

  “Yes,” Heather said, her words rushing out. “I don’t understand it all. People work and play, keeping hedges straight and rooms clean. They make soup so good you could scream, and people paint scenes that aren’t there!” she finished, pointing to the two painters at work on the other side of the porch.

  “I understand, dear,” Mrs. Weaver said, patting her arm.