by S D Smith
“Well, I’ve already lodged a complaint with Lord Rake, and Lord Ramner knows,” Frye said, his face like a simmering kettle. “But Rake doesn’t believe the buck’s capable of treason. Imagine that, a Longtreader incapable of treason.”
A few people laughed, mostly the rabbits of Frye’s company. But the rest were quiet, looking back and forth between Picket Longtreader and Captain Frye.
“I would never do that!” Picket shouted. “I’d do anything for the cause. Any of us would.” Picket moved toward Frye, his jaw set, hand reaching for his sword. But several of Lord Victor’s soldiers held him back.
“You know what, bucky?” Frye said, smiling sickly and coming closer. “The last person who said that to me was named Garten Longtreader.” He let this hang in the air a moment, then pointed at Picket’s chest. “And he looked an awful lot like you.”
“An awful lot,” one of his fellows said. Then more said the same. Then still more kept repeating it.
“An awful lot.”
“An awful lot. Longtreaders: an awful lot.”
The saying went round and round the room, “The Longtreaders are an awful lot,” until finally Lord Victor shouted, “Silence!”
The room quieted. There were many different kinds of faces staring at Heather and Picket. Angry faces. Sad faces. Uncertain, tense, and wounded faces. Heather wanted to get out. She clenched Picket’s arm.
“Let’s go, Picket,” she said and they made for the door, along with Heyward. Emma came as well, seething with rage. Heather saw that Lord Victor was following, along with several of his soldiers.
Heather was furious. Before they reached the doorway, she turned, pointed at Captain Frye, and said, “You’re wrong, sir. You can’t refight Jupiter’s Crossing in a dining hall against children. I know you’re angry and hurt. We are too. We want this war to end just like you do. Our parents and baby brother are either dead or Morbin’s prisoners right now.”
Frye shook his head, let go a chuckling “Hurrumph.”
Someone said, “So they say,” and a few murmured similarly.
“Of course,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re the problem. If we were gone, everything would be fine.” She left.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rumors of Trial
Heather didn’t know where to go.
“Let’s find your uncle,” Emma said.
“She’s right,” Lord Victor said. “Your uncle’s a wise rabbit, valiant and patient. He’s endured this sort of thing for many years.”
This only made Heather feel worse. He’d been treated like this for years? What kind of life was that? A life lived in constant sacrifice for people who distrusted and despised you. What an awful lot. Thinking those words made her remember the room repeating “Longtreaders: an awful lot.” She was sick.
Emma came beside her, taking her hand and helping her to stay steady.
Picket, furious and fed up, turned to head back down the corridor to the Savory Den. Several of Lord Victor’s rabbits stood before him, gently restraining him.
“No, son,” Lord Victor said. “You’ll gain nothing by fighting a rabbit who was in wars before you were born.”
“I’d feel better,” Picket said.
“You’d feel dead.”
“I don’t care anymore,” Picket said. But he slowly relaxed, and the rabbit soldiers stepped back.
At a subtle signal from Lord Victor, his rabbits stayed between Picket and the path toward the Savory Den but withdrew and stood apart, talking together.
“Are you all right, Heather?” Lord Victor said.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I just want to go …” She wanted to say “home,” but she didn’t know where that was.
“I know, Heather dear,” Emma said. “Come to my room for a rest. Help me with her, Shuffler,” she said to Picket. Lord Victor nodded, seeing that Emma had employed Picket, distracting him from his revenge, and had everything under control.
“Please, Heyward,” Emma said. “Go and find Wilfred Longtreader and ask him to come to Lord Rake’s quarters.”
“My pleasure, Emma,” Heyward said, and with a sad glance at Heather, he ran off down the corridor.
“If you will excuse me,” Lord Victor said, his face weary and sad. “I know it feels like the end of everything here, but it’s not. Not quite yet.”
“Thank you, Lord Victor,” Emma said.
He nodded, placing his fist over his heart. “My place beside you, my blood for yours; till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.” He left, and his soldiers followed.
“Let’s go,” Emma said. They helped Heather along for a little while, and soon she was walking on her own.
“I think I’m fine now,” she said.
“I was like that for weeks when I came here, and my troubles were nothing like yours. You both are very brave,” Emma said.
“Emma, dear, your problems were like ours—are like ours,” Heather said. “You lost your parents to Morbin; you lost everything. We still have each other, and we have you.”
“Well, we’ve all got each other, it’s true,” Emma said. “And I’m sticking with you through whatever comes.”
“Till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world,” Picket said, almost as if to himself. His brows furrowed and his head sagged.
* * *
They were in Lord Rake’s quarters, which were less spacious and grand than they had expected. There were three rooms: Emma’s; a common room, where Lord Rake slept; and a large conference room, where, Emma explained, Lord Rake met with the council and others. Emma was fixing tea while Heather and Picket ate a modest breakfast of bread and cheese, since their breakfast had been cut short.
“It’s not Gort’s work, but it is, technically, food,” Emma said.
“It’s fine; thank you so much, Emma,” Heather said. “Where would we be without you?”
“I just have to run to Mrs. Blake’s for some honey. I don’t want Shuffler here to go without his much-needed sweet stuff,” Emma said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Picket said.
Emma left, and the two of them were alone. They could think of nothing to say to each other. Heather had always been the one to pick them up, to encourage when things were gloomy. But she didn’t have it in her, so she absently chewed her food, giving in, for the moment, to the slow, insistent despair.
After a few minutes, they heard quiet footsteps and, believing it was Emma, said nothing. But soon they could tell it wasn’t their friend. They heard loud male voices, and they were arguing. The thick stone between rooms muffled the sound some, but the Longtreaders could tell that Lord Rake was arguing with someone, a few someones, in his conference room.
“I won’t turn them over,” Lord Rake was saying. “Listen, we have bigger problems than a trial for Wilfred Longtreader right now, Ramner.”
Picket advanced and put a finger over his mouth, motioning for Heather to be silent. Heather frowned but didn’t know what else to do. So this is how Emma stays so informed, she thought.
“We do; I know, Rake,” Lord Ramner said. “But I can barely keep my own citadel together over this issue. Most of my captains want a trial. And other citadels are far worse. I mean, it was all I could do to convince Blackstone Citadel to come at all. They were convinced it was a trap. Ronan doesn’t even want to be in the same room with Wilfred, or any Longtreader. And now these other two are here. It’s just too much.”
“We have to unite,” Lord Rake said. “We can’t possibly leave valuable, valiant, entirely committed rabbits out. Or, worst of all, put them on trial.”
“But I’ve spoken to Wilfred. He’s agreed to a trial. He thinks it might help clear his name or get us all beyond this issue. So we can unite.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“I have no
great love for Wilfred.” This was another voice, raspy and even. Master Helmer, Picket knew at once. “But he’s no traitor. He’s a fool, to be sure, and an idealistic one at that. But I won’t stand by and let him, or my apprentice and his sister, be put in prison. That’ll happen when I’m no longer able to lift a sword.”
“It shouldn’t come to that,” Lord Ramner said.
“I hope not,” Lord Rake said.
“So you’re training the Longtreader lad, Captain Helmer?” Lord Ramner asked. “That’s wonderful. Really, just perfect,” he said, sounding as if he believed it was the farthest thing from perfect.
“It’s more complicated than that, Ramner,” Lord Rake said. “Far more complicated.”
“What do you mean?” Lord Ramner said, intrigued. “You don’t mean he’s—”
“I just mean there is no possibility that we will allow Wilfred Longtreader, or those he calls his kin, to be taken away and locked up. It is simply out of the question.”
Lord Ramner replied without anger. “If the citadels are agreed, it doesn’t matter what you and the council here decide. We have the power of force, you know. Your guards aren’t able to withstand us all.”
“I really do hope it never comes to that,” Lord Rake said. He sounded exhausted. “I can’t understand how we have managed to become so divided with such a clear common enemy.”
“King Jupiter wove a peace with the thread of Garten Longtreader,” Helmer said. “Now Longtreader’s work is unraveling that peace. And he is equally brilliant in this.”
“Garten,” Lord Rake said. “Not Wilfred. Garten Longtreader is at work undoing our peace—not our Wilfred.”
“Of course,” Helmer said.
“Well, I had to try to work out a deal,” Lord Ramner said, “but I can see it’s a nonstarter. I’m very sorry about all this.”
“Me too,” Lord Rake said.
“So, Captain Helmer,” Lord Ramner said, “how is the young Longtreader? I thought you gave up training bird bait years ago. Why him? Does he have all the warlike cunning of a diplomat?” He laughed.
Picket’s face darkened.
There was a longish pause, and Picket imagined Helmer’s face to be made up with scorn. Then he spoke. “The lad’s a natural thinking fighter. He can do fast, accurate calculations with ease. His mind is incredible, and applying his gifts to war has been a … well, a pleasure. He’s one of the best students I’ve ever had. But he’s got weaknesses. Plenty of them, actually. But three primary weaknesses.”
“And they are?” Lord Rake asked.
“He’s afraid of heights,” Helmer said, and Picket hung his head. “And he’s paralyzed by fear of any and all birds. It’s a crippling lack. But with time—time it appears I don’t have—I think we could address these weaknesses. He’s learning quickly. If he ever learns to master these, he could become a truly exceptional warrior.”
“What’s the third weakness, Captain Helmer?” Lord Ramner said.
“He believes we can win.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Voice in the Hall
An hour later, Picket and Heather were packed into the large hall along with most of the Cloud Mountain community and many more. Picket was quiet. Heather hadn’t been able to get much out of him since they left Lord Rake’s quarters. Uncle Wilfred had come to check on them and stayed on with them since.
There were four in their group. Smalls stood on one side, with Heather to his right. Uncle Wilfred stood on the other side, with Picket on his left. They were near the back. Behind them, as if separate from the Cloud Mountain community, stood most of the lords, captains, and soldiers who had come from the secret citadels. They looked angry, or most of them did. They appeared to resent this assembly and were making it clear by standing apart. There was a large gap between the last of the Cloud Mountain rabbits and the citadel warriors. Heather believed they wished to get this over with and get back to what they thought of as real work.
“Heather,” Smalls said, “I need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” Heather said. She had seen little of Smalls over the past week, but every time she had seen him he looked more tired, more discouraged. She was angry at herself for focusing so much on her own troubles that she had ignored his. “What can I do for you, friend?”
“We are friends,” he said. “And I need friends now, as you do. Our Wilfred is not popular around here, and that means neither are we. It’s unjust.”
“It’s awful.”
“Finding friends has been hard,” Smalls went on, carefully, she thought. “But I’ve been talking to Kyle lately.”
“Kyle?” Heather asked, surprised.
“Yes. And I see this surprises you. This is why I thought it was important to ask you. Are you and he friends?”
She thought for a moment, remembering how he stood up to Captain Frye and received a bloody lip for his trouble. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we are friends.”
“Do you trust him?” Smalls asked.
That was a harder question, but she wanted to believe that Kyle was trustworthy. She thought he was becoming trustworthy. What finally tipped the scales in Kyle’s favor was loyalty. So many were against them, out to do them harm. Kyle had demonstrated that he was a loyal friend.
“Yes,” she said. “I do trust him.”
Smalls face tightened, then relaxed. He nodded. “Thank you, Heather. Many hard choices lie on that.”
This made Heather suddenly fearful, and she felt a need to qualify her approval of Kyle with a warning, but Lord Rake was coming to the stage. A hush fell over the assembly. She looked behind, and her eyes locked with Captain Frye. He smiled a grim, contemptuous smile. She noticed that many others were watching them as well. They were easy pickings if the lords wanted to take them prisoner.
Smalls seemed aware of this. He subtly eyed all possible exits.
“My friends!” Lord Rake said, his voice booming in the massive hall. “Fellow heralds of the Mended Wood, we gather today in a moment of crisis. Not our first, and not our last. We meet today to conspire against gloom. To say that what we see is not all that can and will be seen!”
People began to stir. Heather felt her pulse rising. Uncle Wilfred smiled.
Lord Rake continued, his voice strong. “We are not what we appear to be, not what we will be, not where we will be. We are heralds of the Mended Wood. We see and speak of that reality while strong rabbits stand prepared to receive and give harm on our behalf. Much of our work here is to support the citadels. We supply food, clothing, and much more to these brave fighting rabbits who stand ready every day to go to war on our behalf. My dear friends, I give you the lords, captains, and soldiers of the secret citadels.”
As a mass, everyone turned to the back, to face them. Then the crowd erupted in wild, exuberant applause and cheers. Those toward the back surged on the visitors. They shook hands, bowed respectfully, and in their many ways thanked and paid tribute to the warriors. There was a mingling for nearly five minutes, and then Lord Rake tapped a staff on the floor of the platform.
Rabbits began to reform the crowd into something like the shape it had before. But Heather noticed that it was harder to see now where the Cloud Mountain community and the citadel rabbits were divided. She saw that many of the soldiers now wore wreaths of flowers and held other gifts. They seemed pleased, but embarrassed. She still stood beside Picket, and Uncle Wilfred was beside him on the other side. But she couldn’t see Smalls. She wondered if he was nearby or if he’d simply slipped out.
“My dear friends,” Lord Rake spoke again, “I will not keep you long. I ask you to quiet down, as much as you can, and listen for a moment to one of Cloud Mountain’s most lovely treasures. Maggie O’Sage.” He went to the steps and helped her up. She walked slowly, using a cane. When she reached the center of the platform, the room was silent.
Hea
ther stood on tiptoes and dodged back and forth to see over the shoulder of the tall, swaying rabbit in front of her. She wanted to see Mrs. Weaver.
“Hello, my friends and fellow heralds of the Mended Wood. I speak to you today because Lord Rake has asked me to, believing it will serve you to hear my story. I have been here for seven years, in this seed of the new world, in this little community of anticipation, in this shadow of the Mended Wood. Though I am not noble born or anything more than a commoner at work on her sewing, I have somehow come to be seen as wise. Some of you have come to me for advice, and I have given you the best I could. This puzzles me still, but I have come to a kind of acceptance of it. I’m so honored to have a place among you and to serve you however I can, whether by sewing or sayings.
“You find me on the mossy porch, looking into the mist, beyond which lies the ruins of the Great Wood. Why? Am I insane? Many have asked, but few have received an answer. Now, I will tell you.
“When our king was betrayed and murdered, my husband, Mr. Edward Weaver, was taken prisoner in the afterterrors. He gave himself so that I could get away. I honored his sacrifice, did just as he said, and escaped. Almost every day I am thankful to him but also regretful that I did not stay with him to the end. But that is not important now. Mr. Weaver was a good husband, a fine weaver, and a rabbit deeply loyal to the fallen king. I do not know if he is alive or—” and here she stopped and looked down.
The hall was silent. She coughed and then went on. “Though I sometimes hope he is alive, other times I hope that he has been spared the terrors of captivity by those monsters of the sky. One of the worst things about this world is that we so often don’t even know which terrible thing to hope for.
“I know you mean well when you honor me with the title of Maggie O’Sage, but this is why I insist on Maggie Weaver. That is who I am. Mr. Weaver is my other half. If he is gone, then I am half-dead. So, while you mean well, it’s disrespectful to Mr. Weaver to give me another name, and I won’t allow it. I am Maggie Weaver, and I never will be anything else.
“I stand on the porch, overlooking the Great Wood, believing that perhaps one day the mist will clear, and Edward will be there. The Mended Wood is not a place to me only; it is a person. It is all our loved ones, as they are or in the place they longed for and loved.