Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  Cuilean, he was sure, would have offered him a sandwich. Cuilean would have talked to him properly and invited him into his confidences. After a morning’s march, Norman was more sure than ever of who was the rightful king of the highlands. And in his wistful sulk, he wasn’t overly focused on the path. Perhaps if he had been paying more attention he would have recognized the danger on the road ahead. When a bird settled at the crest of the hill before them, Norman saw only a bird. It wasn’t until it spoke that Norman remembered where he was, and what a large black bird like this must be.

  “Alarm, alarm!” the black bird cried in its raspy voice. It fixed an inscrutable black eye on Norman, and paused a moment before taking to the air.

  “Raven!” Norman cried, turning back toward the stoats, but his warning was late. Duncan and his men had already drawn their weapons.

  The Battle of the Ravens

  The stoat archers took position by the side of the path, sheltering behind whatever boulder or overhang they could find. Like them, Norman moved to the side, but he was too big for the soccer ball–sized rocks to offer him any protection. He had read about raven warcraft in The Helm of Bildung, book IV of the Undergrowth saga, and he had no desire to be part of it. Duncan and the swordsmen formed up in a circle in the centre of the road, their backs against each other and their blades bristling. All eyes were on the sky. For a moment it seemed that nothing might happen. No bird called out. The only sound was of the wind howling through the pass. Norman relaxed his shoulders and prepared to step forward, until he noticed that the stoats remained still and vigilant.

  Duncan’s warning cry came first. “Wits about you, lads. Here they come.”

  Then came the sound of a great bustling of wings, like water rushing through rapids.

  Norman crouched down as a black form wheeled into view around the curve of the mountain. The raven flock moved like a single entity, coming in high and circling the assembled stoats below.

  “Fire, fire! What are you waiting for?” Norman muttered, but the archers were experienced warriors. They waited patiently, arrows nocked.

  Norman squinted into the brisk alpine sky trying to tell how the ravens were armed. In The Helm of Bildung, the fox engineer Daedalus had built crossbow harnesses for his raven warriors. The weapons had been devastating. The ravens had been able to attack from a distance and height beyond the reach of ground archers. Only the owls and the hawks had been able to defeat the crossbow ravens. That was the only time that the micelings of Undergrowth ever allied themselves with their archenemies in the air. But this had been a long time ago in Undergrowth history, and Norman knew there was no chance of hawks or owls coming to their rescue today.

  “Draw,” the steady voice of Duncan finally commanded. The archers drew back their strings and planted their back paws.

  “Take aim.”

  A dozen arrows slowly tracked the sweep of the ravens, as the attackers made their approach.

  “Loose!” the Prince cried, and those dozen arrows took flight. They were too fast for Norman to track them—he only heard their whoosh through the air. The enraged cries of the ravens were the first sign that some arrows had found their target. Norman watched as a few black shapes tumbled from the sky. Surely if the ravens had crossbows the bolts would have been unleashed by now. The thought gave Norman some hope, but he had little time to savour it. The remaining ravens continued undeterred on their attack run, swooping overhead, unleashing a hail of rocks as they closed in.

  The missiles flew in along low trajectories, whistling through the air toward the ambushed party of stoats. The sound of them ricocheting off shields was shockingly loud. The swordsmen had anticipated the attack and defended themselves. The archers were not so lucky. They had admired the flight of their arrows too long and had ducked behind their boulders too late. Norman heard high yelps as three or four of them were struck and fell to the ground. In front of him a stoat archer lay motionless and unprotected in the middle of the path.

  Shock and pity made Norman act without thinking. He dashed out into the open to the stricken archer, who was not heavy. He’s about the weight and size of our old housecat Moggy, Norman thought incongruously as he lifted the furry little body. The thought made it worse. They had taken Moggy to the vet for the last time three months earlier. It still brought a lump to the top of his throat, but as he shuffled backward to the side of the cliff, his pity was shaken from his head—by a sharp blow and a stinging explosion in his temple. It made him stop for a moment to look up. A crow wheeled away from him now, shrieking victoriously.

  A curious thing happened then. The throbbing in his forehead made Norman realize that he was in real danger, but instead of frightening him, it only made him angry. Carefully he placed the unconscious stoat in a sheltered spot and turned to avenge himself.

  The ravens had circled again and were coming in for a second run. They had not had time to reload with rocks. This would be hand to hand.

  “Fire on your own marks, archers,” Duncan called out.

  Arrows were unleashed singly now as each archer tracked a diving bird. There were more ragged cries and more falling ravens before the squadron struck again, but still they struck, racking the little formation of swordsmen with steel-tipped talons that glinted in the high mountain sun. The swordsmen slashed at the sky, but the birds moved too fast.

  The force of the ravens’ attack was enough to knock a few of the stoats to the ground. They were still being helped to their feet when a second wave of rock launchers hurtled in. There was no sound of rocks bouncing off shields this time. Norman looked in dismay as more stoats fell. A trick, he thought—they’d held some back from the first attack. It was a clever ploy. The stoats were in disarray. The formation looked ragged, and at least half the archers were disabled. Another attack like this might break them.

  The ravens seized this chance to bring the fighting in close. They came in at all angles, each bird lining up a stoat. Bows and arrows were useless in such close quarters, and even the archers drew their swords now. Formations and battle plans were forgotten. The melee had degenerated into single combat, stoat against raven, sword against armoured claw.

  Through it all, Duncan called out encouragement to his fighters: “Have heart, men—remember what blood runs through those veins!” He swatted his own assailant away with a mighty swing of his sword, slicing across the angry bird’s face. The battling prince did not wait to see his attacker stumble and cover his blood red beak with a bent wing. Duncan knew what his blow had done and was now leaping to the aid of the man who fought beside him. Seeing it with his own eyes, Norman could not help but be reminded of Duncan’s father, Malcolm, battling on bravely at Tista Kirk, back in chapter one.

  Norman’s head still smarted. He longed to do something to avenge himself and the little archer slumped beside him, but he hadn’t a clue how to make himself useful. He watched helplessly as the battle raged around him. The ravens tried to pull their prey away from the main body of the fighters, where they could set upon them in murderous groups of three and four. The stoats tried to hold together, forming up around their leader and beating the ravens back, but the ravens’ cowardly strategy began to work. They singled out one wounded warrior, a tactic they must have learned from their wolf allies. Norman’s rage bubbled as he watched three ravens drag the poor stoat away from the main battle. His companions rushed forward to reclaim him, but more ravens intervened, slashing at the rescuers’ eyes with their claws. Norman was close enough to see the terror flash momentarily in the captured stoat’s eyes before the defenceless creature raised his arm to shield them. His attackers tugged his arms with their beaks. They meant to blind the poor thing.

  This was too much for Norman.

  “Get off him, you scum!” he screamed.

  His voice boomed through the canyon. Startled, the ravens stopped and looked. They regarded him disdainfully for just a moment, then set about their victim once more. What had the pink giant done in this fight yet? they m
ust have thought.

  Their contempt only made Norman angrier. Without a thought of what he might actually do, he ran at the three ravens at full speed. Some instinct took over as he hurled himself at them, as if he was charging down a loose ball on the soccer field. He followed through with a swift kick, connecting firmly with one raven’s flank and sending it hurtling into the cliff wall. The black bird struck the rock hard, then tumbled to the ground, shook itself from the blow and staggered back as if confused, one wing hanging at a sharp angle. The two other birds hopped back in surprise.

  Somewhere a stoat voice cried out in alarm, “’Tis young Malcolm!”

  Norman stepped over the prone stoat protectively. The ravens eyed him viciously and hopped tentatively where they stood, but neither advanced nor retreated. Their victim was still alive, but covered in too much blood for Norman to know where the wounds might be. Norman crouched down and stroked its ears instinctively as he would any pet. It was only now that he noticed how small the stoat was, not even fully grown. Once again, the unfamiliar battle rage surged in his belly.

  “Bullies!” he cried, facing the ravens again. His hand found a handy rock, and he stepped forward to hurl it side-arm at the defiant birds. If he tried a hundred times he would never again be able to throw another rock with that velocity and accuracy, with such deadly effect. The stone struck one raven full force on the head. It let out half a cry before falling still to the ground. Norman kept going, rushing toward the remaining raven, screaming once again, “Filthy vermin!” It was Undergrowth’s worst insult, and he meant it. What sort of creature picked on a poor kid like that?

  Norman’s charge turned the battle. The ravens had never seen anything like him—nothing so tall and so loud that wasn’t a bear. They would never dare face a bear, and Norman at this moment seemed as fierce and as deadly. They stumbled back toward the crest of the pass. Stoats harried them all the way. The blur of battle was slowly lifting for Norman. He sank to a knee beside the bloody stoat. The young creature was stirring, rising with the aid of two companions who had rushed to his side.

  Norman tore his gaze from the recovering stoat, his eye drawn reluctantly to the bird he had felled. Its repulsive glossy eye was motionless and unblinking. A sick churning tumbled through Norman’s stomach. He had killed that bird. It was just sinking in, as the cries of the ravens became distant and the pursuing stoats returned. Norman had never killed anything before. He knew kids who threw stones or fired BB guns at birds, and he hated them. Was he one of them now? For a long time Norman just stood there, looking but not really seeing anything.

  A deep growl of a voice disturbed his reverie. “You do more than see, then.”

  “Huh?”

  “You are a fighter as well as a seer.” It was Duncan who spoke.

  “Not usually,” Norman said slowly. “But I had to. They would have poked out—”

  “I know what they would have done, and I thank you for it. You fought bravely and well. You have saved my boy’s life. I will honour you for this.” Duncan crouched to feel the young stoat’s wounds. The youngster smiled woozily as Duncan introduced him.

  “My boy, Malcolm. He will remember his first battle, and I your part in it.”

  “Malcolm, named after your father,” Norman said softly.

  “Indeed, seer.” Duncan nodded as he spoke. “Indeed he is. And what are you called by your people?”

  “My name’s Norman.” He had told him twice already, but he didn’t mind repeating it.

  “Welcome, Norman Strong Arm, and thank you. Let’s be moving now. Those blackwings will be warning their masters.”

  Norman Strong Arm

  By some miracle all of Duncan’s stoats had survived the battle at the pass, although several had to be shaken back to consciousness. They rubbed their heads and grumbled, but they found their feet soon enough. Those that had taken cuts from the ravens’ steel-tipped talons and beaks were patched up and bandaged. They too would be able to hobble their way down the path. Only Duncan’s son, Malcolm, needed help to continue. Duncan ordered his men to make a stretcher for him. A piece of canvas sail was found, and a single pike for one handle, but they needed a second. All the other pikes had been broken during the confusion of the battle.

  “Well, find some other stick then!” Duncan was beginning to anger. “We’ve to be moving from this place.”

  Norman stood over the stricken stoat. He could not shake the uncanny memory of his lost pet cat. “I’ll carry him,” he said quietly.

  The animals looked up at him, still surprised every time he spoke.

  “Make a sling, like a hammock, that I can put around my neck,” he said more loudly. Norman had seen human mothers carry their babies in such contraptions. He didn’t see why it wouldn’t work for the wounded stoat.

  Duncan too saw immediately that it would work. “Aye, do as he says. Let Norman Strong Arm bear the bairn. We’ll travel faster for it.”

  And so the canvas sail was fastened into a sling and the half-conscious creature was slung around Norman’s neck. The weight was no burden at all. If anything, it was comforting to have the thing breathing slowly against his chest.

  Duncan regarded Norman curiously while he adjusted the sling. He held Norman’s eye for a moment then turned away. “Right, then, let’s be off,” he ordered gruffly, obviously eager to be away from this place. If they were lucky, the ravens would want to deal with the stoats’ incursion themselves. Scouting parties would be sent out, and a larger force mobilized against them. If they were unlucky, the ravens would pass the intelligence on to their wolf allies, and Duncan’s surprise attack on Scalded Rock would be no surprise at all.

  The barren mountaintops offered no protection. They needed to crest the mountains and descend to the tree line on the other side before sunrise. The party marched as quickly as it could, eating and drinking on the move. Bread was found for Norman, and a sort of salad was made from the weeds at the side of the road. It was enough to stop his stomach grumbling. The stoats were reluctant, though, to share the water from their skins with their giant companion. Norman could tell that they feared he would drain it all. When Duncan noticed this, he dropped back, handing his own water skin over to Norman before returning to the head of the column. The other stoats looked away, embarrassed.

  The animals still could not fathom what sort of beast Norman was, but at least they had a name they could call him now. Norman Strong Arm was the hero of the battle with the ravens. He had saved two stoats, one of them Duncan’s own son, and his throwing arm had driven off the birds when the battle seemed lost. Norman tried not to think about that moment. The ugly, plaintive squawks of the dying raven reverberated in his head and filled him with remorse. Death was strange and frightening to him. His sister Dora’s three goldfish had died, one after the other. He had had nothing to do with it, but he had still felt guilty when his mother had flushed them down the toilet. And there had been Moggy. The cat had been older than Norman himself. She had always been part of his family. Norman had not been able to understand why the vet could do nothing for her at the end. Dora had cried for a day and began asking for a new kitten the next morning, but Norman wanted no replacement. He had always felt that they should have done more. He didn’t know what, but something.

  Carrying the injured stoat made Norman feel like he was helping somehow. The animal’s body heat against his chest felt familiar and comfortable. Its body rocked with the rhythm of its breathing, and with each deep breath it let out a high-pitched little wheeze. It sounded like Norman’s father’s quieter snores.

  The party continued quickly along the path, the stoats dropping to all fours to pick up the pace. They dashed ahead in quick spurts, stopping at each corner or outcropping to quickly spy or sniff out danger. They looked more like animals this way, less like people, and it reminded Norman just how strange this whole situation was.

  I am in the book, he thought to himself. I really am in it. It might have been just his hunger, but the thought
of having fallen into the book made him feel oddly dizzy. He found himself looking up at the sky now, not for signs of the raven pursuit, but half expecting to see the eyes of the readers looking down on him.

  I wasn’t always in the book, he mused—not in the original version. The book has changed because I’m in it. He wondered if the actual physical book had changed due to his presence, whether the other kids higher on the library waiting list were wondering what a human boy was doing in the world of Undergrowth.

  Norman had not read this far. Would Duncan’s party have crossed the Glace Mountains without him? Maybe finding Norman had delayed Duncan’s party. Perhaps they would never have stumbled across the ravens if they hadn’t spent the morning dealing with him. But what if they had met the ravens in the book? Would they have fared as well? And what about young Malcolm? Was the young prince meant to die in the book?

  The human boy patted the sleeping body of the stoat he carried. “I don’t care whether it was meant to happen,” he said quietly. “I’m glad I saved you.” He scratched the little stoat’s ear gently, as you would a cat, and like a cat the animal let out a low purr. “Don’t worry, Malcolm. I’ll look after you,” he promised, reassuring himself as much as the stricken animal he carried.

  It wasn’t hard keeping up with the stoats. They were capable of intense bursts of speed, but they were sprinters, not cross-country runners, and their cautious instincts didn’t favour careening on heedlessly at full tilt. After every burst of speed there was a pause and a hasty peering around for danger. By maintaining a steady walk, Norman was able to keep pace with them. Only the sharp incline of the path caused him trouble. They were descending now, and Norman took the utmost care to keep his footing. A grazed elbow or stubbed toe wouldn’t be the end of the world, but a fall could harm his young charge. He picked his way carefully down the path, holding his hands in front of him—not just for balance, but to protect the sleeping stoat in the sling on his chest.