by S D Smith
“Why?” Heather asked. “I want to know why.”
“And I will tell you,” Mrs. Weaver said, looking kindly into Heather’s eyes. “Since the awful day King Jupiter fell and the Great Wood was lost to tyranny, our world has been wounded to its heart. No greater peril has existed for us since Whitson Mariner’s trekkers first came to this place. There are secret citadels, though only a few, which have kept alive a hope of invading and retaking the Great Wood. I wish them well, and part of my sewing and mending goes to support them. But there’s another kind of mending that must be done. This place is full of farmers, artists, carpenters, midwives, cooks, poets, healers, singers, smiths, weavers—workers of all kinds. We’re all doing our part.”
“But what good will all that do?” Heather asked. “Shouldn’t everyone fight for the Great Wood—for King Jupiter’s cause?”
“Sure we should,” Mrs. Weaver said. “In a sense. Some must bear arms and that is their calling. But this,” she motioned back to the mountain behind her, “this is a place dedicated to the reasons why some must fight. Here we anticipate the Mended Wood, the Great Wood healed. Those painters are seeing what is not yet but we hope will be. They are really seeing, but it’s a different kind of sight. They anticipate the Mended Wood. So do all in this community, in our various ways.
“We sing about it. We paint it. We make crutches and soups and have gardens and weddings and babies. This is a place out of time. A window into the past and the future world. We are heralds, you see, my dear, saying what will surely come. And we prepare with all our might, to be ready when once again we are free.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bound
They stayed with Maggie Weaver until lunch, then went down to the Savory Den. It was packed today, but even so, Heather was certain everyone didn’t eat down there. There wasn’t nearly enough room. After a short, frustrated search for Picket, they gave up and decided to go ahead and eat.
“So,” Emma said, “what’d you think of her?”
“She was amazing,” Heather said. “One of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. I didn’t want to leave.”
“I knew you wanted to stay on,” Emma said, “but that’s just it. Everyone wants to. So there’s a kind of unwritten rule that she politely doesn’t let anyone stay for too long. An hour, maybe half that again. So many people want her advice that she tries not to let anyone take all her time.”
“So, when she said, ‘Oh, my children, could you take this basket to Master Shelling?’ that was our cue to go?”
“Exactly,” Emma said, smiling. “She’s subtle, but effective. Time with her is like gold around here.”
“And her sewing is unreal!” Heather said. “It’s like she’s always doing two jobs.”
“Lord Rake says she’s the wisest person he knows. And I think he’s known everyone ever. He goes to her for advice every week, at least. She takes no apprentices, eats little, and gets more sewing done than the next best three. She’s a wonder.”
“Now I understand what Dr. Zeiger said to you. ‘A lot of Maggie; hold the Helmer.’”
“Yes,” Emma said, frowning. “Helmer is a plague, and Mrs. Weaver is a cure. It was my number one plan for getting Picket well again. His foot will heal, and pretty fast, I think. It’s the other stuff I’m worried about. I’m so frustrated he wouldn’t come.”
“I’m sorry, Emma. Thanks for caring about us. I feel like it’s costing you,” Heather said, glancing around and seeing, once again, scowls and frowns.
“Maybe we should look for him again after lunch,” Emma said, brushing off her concern.
“I agree. I don’t like him being alone,” Heather said. “I’m getting the feeling that we’re not exactly welcome in this place.”
* * *
Picket wasn’t alone. He had eaten lunch early and made his way back up the steps, through King Whitson’s Garden, into Hallway Round, past the blastpowder barrel and its wary guards, and into the sunlit air of the village green. His foot felt better, but he knew it was still a little ways from being healed.
For the first time in days, he knew precisely what he wanted to do. There was one thing and one thing only he was interested in. He wanted to fight anyone who had anything to do with what happened to his family.
“Good morning, Picket,” Heyward said as Picket passed the stone tables that lay alongside the endless neat rows of hedges. “You seem to be moving better today than yesterday.”
“Thanks,” Picket said, not stopping. He didn’t want to get sidetracked by any crazy talk about how straight these hedgerows were. He had a crazy thing to do himself.
“You are without your female companions today?” Heyward said, matching Picket’s stride, walking along beside him.
Picket sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I am free of my jailers at the moment.” Then he added, “Or I was,” under his breath.
“That reminds me of my hedges,” Heyward said. Picket had a feeling that everything reminded him of his hedges. “Sometimes I feel like I am imprisoned by the hedges.” He tucked his enormous shears beneath his left arm, and with his right hand he stroked his chin. “Other times, I feel I am the jailer. I keep them in line. I restrict their movements. It’s really some deep, deep—”
Heyward became suddenly speechless when he recognized where his little walk with Picket was taking him. Right to the large maple and right in front of Helmer the Black, who was lying in the shade.
Picket looked over at Heyward, whose wide, suspicious eyes said everything his mouth didn’t.
“I’m sure you have some clipping to do, Heyward,” Picket said. “I won’t tie you up.”
Heyward nodded and was about to speak when they heard a gravelly voice mumble, “I think we should tie him up. Just for fun.”
“I’ll see you later,” Heyward said, and he turned and walked quickly away.
Picket stood beneath the mostly barren boughs of the massive maple, staring at the reclining rabbit. Picket saw that there were still a few tied-off traps in the trees above. More insane games of life or death. He noticed too the black shield with its awful emblem, the red diamond symbol that so nearly matched the one worn by Redeye Garlackson, who had tried to kill him and his sister and had done who-knew-what to the rest of his family. He noticed too the impressive sword, also black, with a solitary emerald inset on the hilt.
Now that he was closer, he saw that there were flecks of grey in Helmer’s fur. Picket had thought him younger. But now that he could really see him well, with sunlight streaming in, he looked haggard, unwell. Helmer didn’t move or speak. He lay on his back, fiddling with a short knife.
“I’d like you to train me,” Picket said. “I need to learn how to fight.”
“That’s the guards’ business,” Helmer said dismissively. He tossed the knife into the air, letting it spin and spin until it came down again, and he caught it by its handle. “Go cry to Lord Rake.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, I don’t care,” Helmer said. “He’s in charge of all military personnel on this mountain, and I wouldn’t train a ladybug without his permission. And I never talk to anyone, let alone train them. And I’m struggling to see the difference between you and a ladybug.”
“So you would do it if he approved?” Picket asked. “I thought you hated Lord Rake.”
“No,” Helmer said flatly. “I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t help me get revenge on those who ruined my family?” Picket said in a growl, his temper rising.
Helmer threw and caught the blade several times, as if he had no interest in the young rabbit. Finally, he said, “That’s right. I wouldn’t. As much as I’m moved by your need for revenge—and that is definitely my main interest in life—I’m sorry, little one; I can’t be bothered with you.”
Picket seethed. All the hurts and helplessness, all the blundering
and misery in his heart rose like a slow-building storm. “Listen to me,” he said. His voice was a surprise, even to himself. Somehow he kept it even but packed it with all the menace he could muster. “I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m tired of being the helpless crybaby who needs his diaper changed. I want to do something about what’s been done to me and mine. And the way I see it, being the best soldier in this army is my only way of ever doing something about that. The way I see it, you’re the rabbit to train me. If you won’t, I’ll never leave you in peace.”
“Oh, you’ll leave me, lad,” Helmer said. “The second I want you out of my sight.”
“I think you’re underestimating me.”
“I have no estimation of you at all, child.” Helmer yawned. “You’re nothing.”
Picket felt these words like blows, but he held his ground. He was silent for a while. Then he said, “What happened to you?”
“None of your concern,” Helmer said.
“I guess you don’t mind that your name’s a disgrace?” Picket said.
“Same as yours,” Helmer said.
Picket didn’t exactly understand what he meant. Did Helmer know of all the blunders and mistakes he’d made in the last few days? “You disgust—” Picket began, but Helmer cut him off.
“Enough,” he said. “Now, I know you’re pathetic, lad. So I let you dish out your rotten fruit here a little. But I’m full of it now. Get out of here.”
“But—” Picket began again.
“Not one. More. Word,” Helmer said, and there was silence for a moment.
Then Picket erupted. “You coward!”
Helmer half-rose and his arm shot out. The knife moved quickly. Picket thought for a moment that Helmer had thrown it at him, but it sailed over his head, slicing through a taut rope, and sunk in the tree. A massive wooden bird, released by the snapped cord, bore down on Picket.
Picket acted before he could decide anything. He lunged, but he had forgotten about his bad foot. He buckled, unable to escape. At the last moment, a strong kick from Helmer sent the swooping menace past him. Helmer sliced the cord with another knife, and the wooden bird fell to earth. Picket clutched at his foot, pain racing up his leg. He would have escaped, had his foot held up. Of course that only reminded him of how he’d hurt his foot to begin with. It was always something. Another layer of bitter resentment lay over him like a cloak.
Picket’s fury outstripped his pain. When Helmer passed him, walking leisurely back beneath the tree, he lunged for the black rabbit, this time launching from his good foot. But Helmer was too quick. Picket was knocked back to the ground, groaning from new pains.
By the time Picket recovered enough to try to slink off, he looked up to see his sister, along with Emma and Lord Rake, walking quickly his way. Heather looked worried and angry.
“Perfect,” Picket said. “Pile it on.” His shame and embarrassment knew no end.
“What is happening here?” Lord Rake asked as he reached the perimeter of the maple. Helmer was lying down again. Picket was struggling to his feet. There was a gash in the earth where the wooden bird had skidded to a halt. “Helmer? What have you done now?”
Helmer didn’t respond. Lord Rake advanced on him. But Picket spoke up. “He was showing me a few things.”
“Picket?” Heather said, eyebrows arching and mouth tight.
“Yes,” Picket said. “He was kind enough to show me some maneuvers. I want to be in the guard, so he was helping me.”
Lord Rake’s frown said he didn’t believe this for a second. Emma was trying to get Picket to let her examine his foot. “You’ll need to rest it, Picket,” she said, shaking her head.
“What really—?” Heather began, but Picket looked at her, his face pleading for her to be quiet and let him escape with a shred of dignity. “Well, let’s go,” she said.
While they made to leave, Lord Rake peered down at Helmer. Picket thought another confrontation was imminent. He tried to block it out, leaning on Heather as they walked slowly away. His embarrassment and resentment tumbled around inside him, but it was no longer a seething anger. He felt bent up, broken, and worthless. Tears came hot and heavy, sliding down his face as he fought to keep from sobbing. He had never felt so low in all his life.
Then, out of the awkward silence he heard a gravelly voice call out.
“I accept you.”
“What?” Emma, Heather, and Lord Rake all said together. Picket turned and saw that Helmer stood just behind an astonished Lord Rake. Helmer’s fist was over his heart.
He said it again. “I accept you.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Lord Rake began, but Picket’s raised voice silenced him for a moment.
“I am accepted,” Picket said, tears standing in his eyes. He had stopped crying. His fist was over his heart.
“I bind you, with all honor, to release you better after,” Helmer said.
“I am bound,” Picket said, pausing to recall the words he had marked at the calling ceremony of Gloria Folds. “By honor and fealty, to serve you.”
They bowed to each other. Helmer walked away, back to the partial shade of his maple tree. Picket, leaning on Heather, turned and walked the other way. Heather was too astonished to speak, and it was Emma’s turn to brood.
“Tomorrow morning, ladybug,” Helmer shouted back to him.
Picket grinned.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Questionable Past
Lord Rake caught up with Picket and Heather in front of the statues of Whitson and Blackstar. Emma stood by impatiently as her guardian explained things, her arms crossed and her foot tapping. Lord Rake had spoken to Helmer and had reluctantly agreed to permit the arrangement, albeit on a trial basis.
“Here is how this will happen,” Lord Rake said, a touch of anger in his voice. “Every morning, you will report to Maggie O’Sage. Then you work with Helmer during the day. Then, every evening, you’re to sit with Maggie again. After that, you’ll have an initiate’s lesson in Lighthall,” he said, pointing to the eight-sided room, which just now was erupting in colored blasts of light, “with your sister. These are the terms of your apprenticeship.”
“I agree,” Picket said quickly, almost as if to cut off any other terms. He made to walk away.
“Picket,” Lord Rake said, stopping him and looking into the young rabbit’s eyes. “I want you to be careful. Please? Will you do that?”
“As careful as a person training for war can be,” Picket said, bowing quickly.
Lord Rake would have to accept it. He seemed to, with a persistent look of concern. He nodded to Picket and then turned to leave them. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night, at Lighthall, after supper. If you’re still alive.” He disappeared down the brick path back toward the hallway.
Emma’s frown looked to be permanent, and, waving to Heather, she followed after her guardian. As Heather and Picket descended the long stairway, Picket moving a little gingerly on his bad foot, they could hear Emma’s raised voice trailing behind her. She was clearly furious. But what about Heather? She was silent.
* * *
Heather wasn’t sure how to feel. She was concerned about Picket. She wanted him to be well and to do good. She wanted what she believed her parents would want for him. She was still concerned about him, but her concern had simply shifted. She had been worried about him brooding and moping around, a sullen shadow of himself, doing nothing. Now, she worried about what he was doing, what he might become under the influence of the reckless rabbit with the mysterious past. But she was glad that he’d agreed to see Mrs. Maggie Weaver. So she was concerned, but with a ray of hope poking through the dark cloud of her fears.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast, Picket was full of nervous energy.
“I’m so glad you’re meeting her, Picket,” Heather said.
Picket murmured something and chomped his food. “I don’t want to be late,” he managed to say in between bites of honey-drenched bread.
“I think Mrs. Weaver will do wonders for you,” she said.
He frowned. It was probably a mistake to say that, she thought. Best to let it happen naturally. Hopefully there would be enough Maggie O’Sage to offset the damage Helmer might do.
“What should I call her, Maggie O’Sage or Mrs. Weaver? I’m confused,” Picket said. “What’s the story with names here, anyway?”
Heather looked around for Uncle Wilfred, Lord Rake, or anyone older and wiser than she. But no such luck. “I’m not sure, Picket. I think last names used to only be used by lords and ladies, like Rake. But these days, people use either their calling as a last name, like Eefaw Potter, or their home, like us with O’Nick. Of Nick Hollow.”
“I know that. But we never used that name before. And Father isn’t even from Nick Hollow, really,” Picket said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s just something they do more here. Go on now. Won’t you be late?”
He stuffed another large slice of bread in his pocket and quickly hobbled from the room. A small wave was all Heather got in farewell. She looked down at her plate. She was still working on her first plateful, while Picket had polished off three.
“Picket O’Bottomless-Pit,” she murmured to herself. She closed her eyes and thought of Picket, their parents, and little Jacks. She prayed they would all be safe and together again. Somehow.
Kyle appeared in the Savory Den. Noticing Heather, he waved. Then he and a small parcel of his gang came and sat all around her.
“Good morning, Kyle,” she said. “Good morning, bucks.”
“Good morning to you, Heather,” Kyle said, and his gang nodded to her, all grinning in a mischievous, slightly clueless way. “Have you heard the rumors?” Kyle asked.
“Nope,” Heather said, feigning disinterest. Inside, she was eager for answers, even from this apparently unreliable rabbit. “But I did hear some interesting things when I had breakfast with Jupiter’s heir after returning from an all-night tour through the marvels of the lost land of Terralain. A fascinating conversation. He had a few prophecies about young rabbits who lie.”