Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  The sun was setting when they finally saw the tree line. It cut a jagged silhouette across the orange sphere, like teeth gradually nibbling away at it as it descended. Duncan urged them to hurry, but they were all tired by now.

  “C’mon, lads, let’s not dawdle. There’s dry beds and fresh victuals beyond those trees. Let’s have at ’em before it’s too dark, eh?”

  There were a few weary grunts of agreement, but the stoats quickened their steps only briefly before falling back to the same exhausted plod. The party drew up tighter as the light faded. No one wanted to be out of earshot or eyesight of his companions as the night came on. In the dark of early night, they would not see the ravens until it was too late. Duncan peered anxiously at the sky more often now, and around at his men, gauging their strength and calculating their odds if they had to fight another squadron of ravens. Frequently his gaze fell on Norman, his sharp eyes darting over him, judging him before falling on the bundle around Norman’s chest. Norman tried to look strong and dependable.

  That last half hour before nightfall seemed to last forever. The stoats were accustomed to moving around in the dark, but Norman’s eyes weren’t quite so acute. He frequently stumbled on the rocky path, making a huge ruckus. His travelling companions glared back at him scoldingly, as if they could not believe he could be such a clumsy oaf, then motioning upward as if they were sure that his din would summon the blackwings.

  When the sun itself finally disappeared into the jaws of the forest and only a few faint orange rays seeped up into the sky behind them, Duncan’s party fell into a more constant bounding sprint. It was as if they could hear the wing beats of their enemies behind them. They forgot all caution and ran headlong for the trees. It was almost easier now for Norman, at a jogging pace. He lifted his feet higher, avoiding the ruts and boulders that had tripped him up when he walked, but he ran with one arm around the sling and the other in front of him. If he fell forward, he would rather break his arm than crush the little stoat.

  He did not dare look back, but the sound of his own rushing blood in his ears sounded for all the world like the rustle of predatory birds at his back.

  Norman picked out as his target a slender birch sapling at the edge of the forest. The pale gleam of its white bark was the only thing that stood out for him in the forest gloom. Upon reaching it, he grasped it tightly with his free arm and let his own momentum turn him around to face the direction from which he had come. The stoats scrambled in behind him. The closed bunch had broken up now, and each stoat was running at the best of his ability to the safety of tree cover. Only Duncan held up at the forest edge, urging the stragglers on, telling them how close they were to safety, reminding them of their brave deeds in the past and of their bold adventures to come.

  Norman scanned the night sky and strained his ears, but there was no sign of a pursuit. He stood at that tree and counted the stoats as they rushed passed him. Duncan was the last. He slowed his pace and strode proudly into the forest on two feet, adjusting his sword hilt and Cavalier hat and nodding solemnly to Norman as he did so.

  “That’s all of them then?” Duncan asked.

  Norman whispered, “Yes.”

  “And the boy? How’s my boy?” the Prince asked, lowering his voice. Up close, the stoat’s eyes and snout were more expressive. His bushy eyebrows were knitted close together, and his mouth twitched just slightly.

  “Still asleep,” Norman answered. He worried that the small animal might be slipping into unconsciousness. The boy’s father bared a fang. It worried him too, but he took pains not to show it.

  “Wise lad,” he muttered gruffly. “Best we should all be asleep. Though where we’ll find a stoat hole big enough for you, I don’t know.”

  It was all right by Norman if they didn’t. He didn’t think he could sleep in a hole if he tried. Not too far into the woods, the stoats found a large oak tree whose roots had been undermined by some long-dried-up stream. Below the tangle of roots were more than enough hiding places for the stoats. Norman curled up on a sheet of canvas at the foot of the tree and covered himself with another one, placing the still sleeping Malcolm beside him on the inside, nearer the tree. Duncan posted two sentries, who were to change every three hours, but he stood the first watch himself.

  They were still too close to the edge of the forest to risk a fire for warmth, but Norman hardly minded. He was exhausted. The fight and the long trek had been more exercise than he was used to. He felt it in his bones as soon as he lay down.

  It should have been easy to fall asleep, despite the awkwardness of his bed, but the stillness finally allowed him to think about the strangeness of the surroundings and of the day’s events. If this was not a dream, how did he get here, and how would he get back home? What were his parents doing now? Had they been looking for him all day? Had they called the police? The image of his mother crying at the kitchen table occurred to him—like a sudden, unpredictable memory. These thoughts, the thoughts that he had not let himself think all day, sent a shiver through him. He wrapped his arms around himself and pretended that it was the cold that made his body tremble.

  The murmur of conversation from the resting stoats slowly died down, and all Norman could hear were the hoots and cracklings of the forest. He rolled onto his back and stared at the moon, careful not to crush the little stoat sleeping at his side. Only by imagining himself back in his own room could he coax himself to sleep. He had done the opposite so many times before, closed his eyes and imagined himself in a book with a forest or a castle just outside his closed eyelids. Tonight he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his own bed, imagined that if he opened them, the blinking amber lights of his computer would be there. He visualized a book laying splayed open on the bedside table next to his bed and pretended he could hear the indistinct ebb and flow of his parents’ conversation downstairs.

  Very gradually sleep overtook him, but not before, in a second of lucidity, he realized that falling asleep was as good a proof as any that he was not dreaming. You don’t fall asleep in dreams.

  The Woods

  The friction of his dad’s scruffy chin against his cheek woke Norman, irritating yet somehow comforting, the way he leaned in to give him a hug and whisper that it was time to get up. But the scrape against his cheek seemed more focused, perhaps softer, and just a little bit…wet. He opened his eyes with a start, and the stoat that had been licking his face jumped back too, emitting a little squeak of surprise. Neither could help breaking down into laughter that they’d managed to startle each other.

  “You’re awake,” Norman said to the little stoat. His relief surprised him.

  “And so are you, foignally,” Malcolm teased.

  Norman scoffed at the little animal’s boldness. “I didn’t sleep all yesterday afternoon. And I didn’t get carried over the top of the mountain, either.”

  “I didn’t sleep all afternoon,” Malcolm protested, but not strenuously. He didn’t say thank you in so many words, but there was plenty of gratitude in this friendly banter.

  “How are you feeling?” Norman asked, inspecting his companion.

  “Foighting fit,” Malcolm replied, pulling himself up on two feet and thrusting out a proud white chest. Norman saw him wince as he did so.

  “Your father will be relieved.”

  Malcolm acted as if he hadn’t heard this last thing. “So I hear you beat the ravens off single-handed. Lifted a huge boulder over your head and crushed six of them in one blow.”

  Norman could tell he was joking. “They told you six, did they? It was eight, and not one less. Get it straight.”

  The two laughed again. Only the sound of Duncan’s orders cut them short. “Aye, are you kits going to lie around gossiping all morning, or are you going to make ready to march?”

  Malcolm stiffened at the sound of his father’s voice.

  “Ready, sir,” he replied, in a low, subdued tone.

  “And you, Norman Strong Arm,” Duncan asked. “Do you hibernate like a be
ar as well as smell like one?”

  Norman was taken aback by the insult. Duncan had said nothing to his son about his recovery, and had not shown any relief that the boy was awake. He was back to the gruff creature that Norman had read about in the first chapters. He thought of his own father, and how differently he would have reacted in such a situation. Perhaps stoats were different from human fathers, or perhaps warriors were just different from professors.

  They were very soon ready to break camp. Norman rubbed his stiff arms and legs until they felt like they might work properly. The stoats had left him a large bowl of raspberries and blueberries, which he took thankfully and gulped down quickly. Duncan was impatient to get going. They were safer under the cover of the trees, but not totally safe. Ravens could move more quickly in the air than stoats could through the bushes, and even through the branches of the forest canopy a raven’s eyes were sharp.

  They moved hurriedly in single file along a narrow path that Norman never would have seen himself. After twenty minutes young Malcolm was already struggling to keep up the pace. He scurried forward as quickly as he could, but his foreleg was injured and forced him to limp. His breathing was laboured and wheezy, and whenever he thought no one was looking, he held his ribs and grimaced. Twice he refused a lift from Norman before he finally agreed to take a ride.

  “I’ll carry you later,” the boy promised jokingly as he climbed wearily back into the sling.

  Malcolm did not lie still for long. Now that his strength was returning, the young stoat found it impossible to stay still in the sling unless he was actually asleep. A short nap restored him. He fidgeted and tossed about for a while longer before poking his head out impatiently. He soon clambered onto Norman’s shoulder and began chattering into his new friend’s ear. Every now and then he yelled out “duck!” to warn Norman of an approaching branch that threatened to poke his eye out. The forest path was not made for humans, not even eleven-year-olds. While the stoats scampered relatively carelessly along the narrow path, Norman had to be constantly on the lookout for low-hanging branches and outcrops of roots. In between his cries of “duck” and “look out,” Malcolm told Norman about his life among the river raiders.

  “I’ve lived on boats all my life. I’d almost rather be on the water than on land. The best place in the wide world is up top in the sails. It’s much like riding on your shoulder, ’cept smoother and safer. Riding with you is like riding out a storm clinging to a mast. You’re lucky I have my sea legs, or else you’d have to catch me every few yards.”

  Norman struggled to keep up his end of the conversation. It somehow didn’t seem right for the stoat to know about a world of school buses and summer camps. He kept his eye on the path ahead of him and let Malcolm do most of the talking. “Your mother doesn’t mind you going up there in the rigging?” he asked him. “How about coming on this expedition with your father?” Norman’s mother didn’t even let him ride his bike without a helmet. He couldn’t imagine her letting him climb a ship’s mast, or take a sword and a bow and arrow into a battle with ravens.

  “My mother died when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Norman.

  “River rats found our warren one night. They caught us in our sleep. They would have murdered us all if the fleet hadna returned. Father says he knew I was in trouble. He says he’ll always know when I need him. The ships came into shore in time to drive the rats off, but not before they’d overrun the warren. Father slit their throats. I saw it with my own eyes, how he held them by the scruff of their necks and drew the knife across.”

  Norman thought of the raven he had killed the day before and felt a chill of horror go through his body.

  “And your mother?” he asked.

  Malcolm did not answer the question. “Since then, Father’s kept me with him on the boats. He says that no one can protect me as well as he can. Says I’m safer with him in the midst of battle than home in bed with a hot-water bottle by myself.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  “Here is where I’m meant to be. He’s all the family I have. We’re keepers of a great dynasty, you know. My grandfather was the last of the Mustelid kings, a great warrior like my father.”

  “I know,” said Norman, remembering the last stand of King Malcolm. “Your grandfather fought valiantly at Tista Kirk. No stoat was braver.”

  Malcolm seemed shocked that Norman knew the story of his grandfather. “It’s true you’re a seer then. Few creatures know the story of Tista Kirk. Fewer still know my own dad is King Malcolm’s son. Amongst the marauders, only Rufus Singewhiskers, Simon Whiteclaw and Falk knew. The twenty that came with us are quickly learning. My father fears assassins. He said the wolves would send turncoat weasels to kill us if they ever found out about us.”

  Norman had read enough to know that Duncan was probably right.

  “There’s a great deal of killing in my family, a great deal of spilt blood. I sometimes wish it would end.”

  “What do you mean?” Norman asked. It was a curious sentiment for a stoat prince.

  “I mean that there’ll be a long war ahead of us. Many lads’ll perish before it’s won…” His resolve seemed to stiffen as he spoke. “…and I’ll be at my father’s side as I ought, a leader and a warrior.”

  “Not all stoats are warriors,” Norman said, trying to rouse his friend from the gloomy mood that had descended upon him.

  Malcolm snorted. “All the aloive ones are. Those that don’t fight get slaughtered.”

  “What about your uncle, then?”

  “Dead, like the rest of ’em,” Malcolm muttered.

  “No, he’s not—he’s alive,” Norman said. “He escaped from Lochwarren too, just like your father, only he went to the Five Cities. He left Logorno a few days ago to meet your father.”

  “Logorno…,” Malcolm said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “And they say ’tis only a fairy tale.”

  “No, it’s not a fairy tale. It’s one of the five great cities. Your uncle Cuilean studied there and served as clerk to the Duke. He is a fine swordsman, but a scholar too. The Duke depends on him and delegates the judge’s gavel to him when he is unable to attend court. You’ll like your uncle. He’s a good man.”

  “But not a warrior, you say?”

  “In the Five Cities, he always wins the archery tournament.”

  “An arrow is a boy’s weapon,” Malcolm replied sulkily, but he argued like someone who wanted to be convinced otherwise.

  Norman gave no second thought to relating everything he knew about Cuilean, though perhaps he should have. The boy listened eagerly, and it was only when they reached the end of their day’s journey that Norman realized that he had done it again: he had changed the book. Malcolm wasn’t meant to know about his uncle. The boy hadn’t even been mentioned in the book as far as Norman had read, but almost certainly he wasn’t meant to know about his uncle. His father had told Malcolm that Cuilean was dead. Was it a lie, or did Duncan believe his brother was dead? That must be part of the story. Probably he was supposed to find out at the end, when the brothers met again at Lochwarren. Norman was really messing this story up.

  There was no use shutting up now. What was done was done: Malcolm knew about his uncle. Norman could hardly make him forget, so as they journeyed over the next few days, Norman and the young stoat traded stories about Undergrowth.

  Once, and only once, Malcolm asked Norman about his own family. They were sitting down to an evening meal of nuts and berries. Norman scooped the last handful and smacked his lips triumphantly. The stoat shook his head and called him a pig, as if he wouldn’t have taken the last handful just as quickly if he could.

  “What about yer family then?” he said. “Are they all seers like yerself?”

  Norman considered how he could describe his family to the young stoat. Would he be able to understand anything of this world of cars and homework and pesky sisters? He had only been away two days and already it seemed so far away. He had stopp
ed hoping that sleep would return him. He knew that going back would take something else. But what? What could get him home? Maybe he had to get to the end of the book. That would surely do it, wouldn’t it? Because if that didn’t work, he hadn’t the slightest clue how to get home.

  Norman never answered his friend’s question.

  He fell asleep thinking of the new question that had replaced it in his mind. What if he never escaped the pages and forests of Undergrowth?

  Plan of Attack

  Pancakes. It took a few moments to identify the scent wafting up from the kitchen, but he had it now—pancakes. Mom was making pancakes, which was strange on a school day, when everything was such a rush. Usually that meant a bowl of cereal, or peanut butter toast. Maybe Mom was staying home today. Maybe she was flying out to a speaking engagement later in the day, and this was a farewell breakfast. Never mind. Her pancakes had never smelled so good. She made them from scratch, not out of a box, and there was no comparison. He’d go down to find a huge stack of them in the middle of the kitchen table, or else she’d have set a plate out for each of them and written messages with syrup in hearts or stars, or their names and initials, or “You Rock” or “Good Luck on Your Geometry Test.” Only she couldn’t have ever written that, could she? You couldn’t drip all those words in syrup on a pancake. So why did he remember this? Why could he see it? It was like that trick your mind plays in a dream—you remember something that could never have happened in real life, but it seems so normal in your dreams. The strangest things seemed normal in your dreams, as if they had always been that way.

  Norman’s eyes snapped open. The forest was blurry beyond his sleep-encrusted eyes. He blinked them shut hard and opened them again slowly. No good. Sleep dust still clouded his vision of the undergrowth. It was impossible to tell if something was really moving out there or if it was just a dead eyelash on his own cornea. Closing his eyes again, he let himself awake more slowly. The disappointment of the missed pancakes sank in now—the disappointment of the missed bedroom, the missed kitchen, the missed mother. Did she even know he was gone? What were they thinking back there in the world outside the book? Did they think that he had been kidnapped or that he’d run away? Maybe they had begun to give up hope, and they were starting to pack his things away, his figurines and his computer games, his books. If they would only pick up the book he had been reading, they would see where he had gone. Norman longed for his mother and father to pick up The Brothers of Lochwarren and read him. Maybe he should cry out, so that if they were reading, they would know that he missed them and wanted to get out. They would read, “Mom, Dad, I’m here, help me!”