Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  He never did cry out. It was absurd to think it would work, and the stoats would have been all over him for making so much noise. But it didn’t stop him from thinking it and wanting to scream at the top of his lungs for help.

  Duncan’s company travelled through the highland forest for three days, descending slowly to the foothills below. It was tough going for Norman. The path didn’t get any easier. Occasionally he would spot a clearing or a stretch of grassland through the trees, but he gave up suggesting that they leave the path. The stoats told him time and time again that they needed to stay under cover. Out in the open they’d be visible to any raven patrol. They had no doubt that the crows were looking for them—raven calls reverberated through the forest as the patrols called to each other.

  More than once Duncan ordered them to ground and the stoats scrambled into holes that Norman would never have seen, while he did his best to blend into the leaves. This was easier after a few days as his pyjamas became filthier. Sky blue no longer, they were covered with dirt and grass stains, which made a natural form of camouflage. Norman knew he was in trouble if he ever got back home for laundry day.

  The travelling made Norman grumpy. He could feel himself getting peevish. It was like being in the back of the car. He wanted to be home. He wanted to know how long it would be before they got where they were going. Only Malcolm made it easier. Wrapped around Norman’s neck, he chattered incessantly, regaling Norman with stories of his life on the water, the grand future as a pirate king that he had planned but probably would have to give up now he’d found he was the last of the Mustelid dynasty. He was a happy little creature. Nothing seemed to bother him much. Not once did he complain about his injury or the difficulty of their journey. It made Norman feel silly for wanting to complain.

  Norman was grateful for his company. When they stopped to rest, Malcolm didn’t look for a hole like the others. He stayed outside and curled up with Norman. Duncan probably would have preferred that Malcolm sleep underground like the other stoats, but he did not protest. Each night, though, as he took the first watch, the warrior prince gave Norman the same look. Norman had lived with the stoats for only a few days, but he somehow knew that the sharp look in Duncan’s glinting eyes was a warning: if anything happened to Malcolm, it was on his head.

  On their third night in the forest, Norman was wakened by a faint whispering in his ear. He batted at his ear impatiently and grumbled, but the damage was done. He was awake now. He pulled the sleeping stoat beside him closer and tried to think of home, but the whispering restarted. It wasn’t in his ear, he realized. It was some distance away. Norman had made his bed beside a hollow, moss-covered log. The speakers were at the other end of the log, whispering conspiratorially. They couldn’t have known that Norman was listening.

  “If it were up to me, I’d leave him lying there and be away with us. He’s a foul-looking beast.”

  By now Norman recognized each of the stoats in the party, but this voice was new—new and not at all friendly.

  “He has proven himself a friend, Whiteclaw. He saved my boy,” Duncan answered.

  “So I hear,” the other man muttered gruffly. “Are ye sure it were no trick? He might ’a brought the crows upon you himself, so that he could act the hero. An old spy’s trick—and I would know.”

  “It’s possible,” Duncan replied, “but I think not. He has the look of no spy. Who would send a spy such as him? Strong he may be, but he’s noisy as a boar. There’s no guile to him.”

  “An assassin, then,” said the new voice.

  “Na, I think not. I saw his face at the pass. He has no taste for killing.”

  The newcomer was skeptical. “Still…”

  “Never you worry,” Duncan reassured the unknown stoat. “He’s watched at all times. He does us little harm now, and he could be of good use when we come to the mine.”

  “Aye?” grunted the other. “What use would that be, then?”

  Duncan explained. “We’ll need time to free the workers in the barracks.”

  “A matter of minutes. I’ve lads ready to move at the signal. It is all set up like you planned.”

  “Yeh, but it’ll be a close thing. A diversion would give us more time.”

  “And you’ve a mind to use the beast for that?” the suspicious stranger asked, unconvinced.

  “Aye, you’ll have heard the ruckus he makes.”

  “Like an army of drunken rats,” the stranger scoffed.

  Duncan chuckled. “That’s when he’s trying to be quiet.”

  The newcomer laughed disdainfully, and then both were quiet. Duncan spoke no further of the plan.

  “You’ll not be forgetting the rest of the plan, will ye?” the other asked. “The ship broad enough to bear his load has never been built.”

  Duncan tutted. “I’ve not forgotten.” His voice trailed off, as if he was considering an insoluble problem he’d tried to dismiss. “Even if the thing knows how to swim, he’d never squeeze his fat self through the gap. Our paths must part after Scalded Rock. I’ve not asked him to follow us to Lochwarren. We’ve fed him long enough. He can fend for himself.”

  Norman didn’t sleep much the rest of the night. Hiking through the bush with a party of stoats was hard enough. He didn’t know if he could survive on his own. The stoats had been feeding him. Without them he would be lost. He had to do everything he could to stay with them. It was more than just being lost in the woods—it was being lost in the book. He had to stay with the book’s characters. If he was right, the only way to get out of the book was for the book to end. To have any hope of escaping, he had to stay with the plot. If he strayed away from the story, he had no idea what would happen.

  It started raining just before daybreak. The trees offered some shelter, but not enough to keep him dry. By the time the stoats were ready to leave, he was thoroughly soaked. It made the trek all the more miserable. Today, Malcolm’s continual chatter was more annoying than distracting.

  “I ought to be better with a sword than I am,” the little animal was saying, his cheerfulness undinted by the drizzle. The rain ran off his sleek brown fur as if he were wearing a raincoat. “I’m a dab hand with the bow, and I throw a mean dagger, but I ought to improve with the sword. I’ll get Simon Whiteclaw to duel with me when we get a break.”

  Simon Whiteclaw was the stoat who had joined them in the night. From what Norman could tell—no one bothered to inform him—Simon was one of Duncan’s chief henchmen. The mate of the Hastewind and Duncan’s spy at Scalded Rock, he also appeared to be young Malcolm’s bodyguard. He might be bad-tempered and unfriendly with everyone else, but he had all the time in the world for Malcolm. His opinion of Norman was clear. His eyes were rarely off him and there was no kindness in them. Doubtless the animal would be at Norman’s throat if he made anything close to a threatening move toward the young stoat.

  “Did you ever think you might be a soldier instead of a seer?”

  “Huh?” Norman grunted. He’d stopped listening to his furry friend.

  “Well, I’d be a soldier even if my dad wasn’t,” Malcolm continued. “Did you always want to be a seer? Is it your father’s profession?”

  “I guess so. He…” Norman struggled to describe what his father did. It was hard enough explaining it to his friends in real life, never mind to someone who captained a ship of pirate weasels and stoats. “He’s a teacher. He works at a university.”

  “Ah, a university,” the young animal answered, in the tone of someone who had heard of such things but had no idea what one was.

  “But I haven’t really thought of what I might do when I grow up. Maybe something with computers.” Norman had forgotten who he was talking to.

  “When you grow up? You mean to say you’re not fully grown?”

  “No. In ten years, maybe.”

  “Ten years? You’re still a kit? By the Maker, you’ll be huge then!” Malcolm’s voice went high pitched with surprise. “And you’re out of the nest? Isn’t your m
other looking for you? I’ll bet when she finds you she won’t be gentle picking you up by the scruff of the neck.”

  Norman chuckled. It was a funny image for Norman, imagining his mother trying to pick him up with her teeth by the scruff of the neck, like a mother cat. Simon Whiteclaw cast him an ugly look that cut the merriment short. They slogged on in silence for the rest of the day, Norman now preoccupied with thoughts of his mother. He’d been missing for days now. She would be angry, yes, but mostly she would be worried. His stomach tightened into a knot of guilt and despair as he imagined her pacing, crying, listening by a phone that would not ring.

  At noon Duncan pulled them up at the edge of the woods. He alone strode out into the open, leaping quickly onto a tree stump and gazing at the rocky horizon. The forest gave way to scrub and stumps here. The hillside beyond them had been clear-cut. No tree was left, and the ground was brown and barren. Forest creatures didn’t do this. A line of smoke rising over the hills gave Norman some idea who did. Behind the smoke was a flat grey expanse—the Obsidian Desert.

  “What do you see, lad?” Duncan asked.

  Malcolm had clambered up onto Norman’s head to get a better view.

  “Smoke, over the cliffs. Is it the mine?”

  “Musts be,” his father replied.

  A branch beside Malcolm’s shoulder twitched, and Simon Whiteclaw’s voice added its agreement. “Aye, ’tis the Rock all right.” The surly old creature spat in disgust and scrambled back down the tree.

  Duncan remained motionless on the stump, until with an invisible gesture his sabre was unsheathed. Turning to face his men, he wielded the weapon boldly.

  “Tomorrow,” he growled emphatically, baring his sharp eye-teeth, “many more stoats will be free. Many more will raise their swords against the wolf occupiers. Tomorrow, it all begins.”

  Simon Whiteclaw disappeared again that afternoon, as noiselessly and unceremoniously as he had arrived. Norman tried to take some cheer from it, but knowing what little he did of the battle plans, it was difficult to be too cheerful. Tomorrow, after the battle, the stoats would abandon him. It was hard to see any way around it.

  For once Malcolm seemed to understand that his friend was in no mood to talk, and he left him alone. Norman sat on a log and watched the young animal talking with his father. The boy was almost fully healed now, and Norman expected that he was trying to convince his father that he was strong enough to play his part in the next day’s fight. As he watched them, he thought of how similar father and son were, both so fearless, both so sure of themselves. He wished that he felt half as confident. As he watched and considered, both father and son turned suddenly toward him. There was a distinct look of surprise on the older stoat’s face. Norman had the impression that they had been talking about him. Uncomfortable with the thought and with the intensity of their sharp weasel eyes, Norman looked away.

  Duncan came to Norman just after nightfall. He looked preoccupied, as if he had been wrestling with a decision and still wasn’t sure what he’d decided. He stood by Norman for a minute before finally speaking.

  “Can you read a map, lad?” he asked finally. He spoke in a subdued voice that was far from his normal commanding tone.

  Norman nodded. Again the stoat was silent for a few moments before asking, “Is it true what the boy says, that you’re only a kit, not even a juvenile?”

  Norman wasn’t sure how to answer. Duncan knew he was not an adult. He had told him his age when they met, but perhaps years meant something different to stoats and other animals.

  “It’s true that I’m not fully grown. I’m still a kid to my kind. I really shouldn’t be away from home alone.”

  Duncan rubbed his sleek head as if trying to fathom this. “And so why are you out of the nest, then?”

  Norman really didn’t know what to say. “I’m trying to get back home, but I got lost.”

  “Well lost too, I imagine. There’s none of your kind in these parts. Likely home is beyond one of the barriers—sea, snow or desert.”

  If this was a question, Norman ignored it. He merely said, “Yes.”

  The stoat’s muzzle twitched, as if he was chewing on food as well as on a problem. “So a map would help, I imagine.”

  Norman found himself anxious to ease the animal’s obvious discomfort with this conversation. “It might, yes—a map would help.”

  Duncan thought for yet another moment then appeared to suddenly make up his mind. “You might as well have this, then.” He drew a piece of folded parchment from his cloak and held it out to Norman. Norman took it tentatively. “There are no giant lands on this chart, but perhaps this will give you some idea how to get back to your own folk.”

  Norman opened the parchment and peered at it intently. It was a very good map of this corner of Undergrowth.

  “I’d take you with us, lad, but you’d sink one of our boats.” There was real regret in his voice.

  Norman was about to say that he could swim or walk beside the river, but he’d just found their location on the map. Duncan leapt beside him onto the log. The stoat pointed out Scalded Rock on the map with a short dagger. “We’ll commandeer the mine’s boats here tomorrow and head back toward Rivernest.” His sword followed the snaking dark line of a river into the mountains. “Here the river goes straight through the mountains. There’s hardly any daylight to be had through that gorge.”

  “The gap,” Norman murmured, remembering what he’d heard whispered through a log the night before.

  “Aye. The water tunnels right through the rock. Even if you could follow that far, you’d never squeeze through that channel.”

  Norman could see that this was true.

  “But if you should not find your way home, the boy would be glad to see you again. When Lochwarren is ours again, you’re welcome there. I dare say we could manage some accommodation. It’ll be a few months yet, but if you see the red flag and my black ensign in the highland towers again, you’ll know that Lochwarren is mine.”

  Norman was so relieved to hear he still had this option that he ignored Duncan’s assumption that he was the heir.

  “You should be on your path in the morning before the attack,” Duncan continued. “You’ll want to be well out of the way when the fighting starts.”

  “You don’t want my help tomorrow?” Norman asked. “You don’t want me to cause a diversion?”

  Duncan regarded him sharply. “Aye, you are a seer, then…or a listener, perhaps. That was before I knew you were just a boy.”

  “Ah,” said Norman, finally understanding. Malcolm had spoken to his father about it. “I wouldn’t be in the battle. You’d want me away from it to cause a diversion.”

  “That was the idea,” Duncan replied cautiously.

  “Will the battle plan work without the diversion?” Norman asked.

  Duncan stroked his furry chin and considered the question. “It can still work, but it would be a surer thing with a little time.”

  “I’d like to help, then,” Norman said, surprised by his bravery. “For this.” He held out the map. “And for your family.”

  Duncan regarded him curiously. “You’re no warrior, Strong Arm, I see that. What’s your interest in this fight?”

  Norman didn’t have to think before answering. “The stoats are the rightful kings of the highlands.”

  “Aye. So, seer, what do you know of this fight? Will I be King before it’s over?”

  “I’m sure that the stoats will win.” Norman had read enough Undergrowth books to know that they usually ended well. “But it won’t be easy, and I can’t say who will be King.”

  “You can’t?” Duncan murmured thoughtfully, perhaps skeptically.

  Norman had noticed that Duncan didn’t like to talk about his brother’s claim to the throne. Young Malcolm had been surprised to learn that his uncle was alive. Norman wondered if anybody else knew.

  “Well,” said Duncan finally, affecting the cheerfulness of a good leader. “Since the seer predicts
success in this fight, I don’t see why he cannot help. Let me tell you what I would have you do, and once you’ve heard me out you can say whether you are still willing.”

  Scalded Rock Mine

  At the edge of the woods above Scalded Rock, Norman watched and waited. The camp and the narrow trickle of water behind it seemed deserted. A battered and dull wolf flag swung desultorily from a flagpole. At the quay on the narrow river, three merchant ships bobbed in the shallow water. These were the only movements, until, as the sun emerged from behind the black sand of the Obsidian Desert, there was finally some sign of life in the camp. A long, high whistle sounded. Duncan had told him this was the signal for the change of shifts, and sure enough there was movement at the mine’s mouth.

  From this distance, Norman could make out only shapes. The taller ones would be foxes—guards and supervisors. They took up positions at the head and tail of a long, slow line of labourers trailing out of the mine. Thankfully, there was no sign of wolves. The three wolf overlords of the mine were off somewhere hunting, as Simon Whiteclaw had predicted.

  Normally foxes would have nothing to do with wolves, but wolves were no miners, and these foxes extracted good profit from the partnership. The long line of small, bent figures hobbled after their fox masters, crawling as slowly out of the mine as the sun crawled into the sky. These were the stoat workers, rounded up and brought here to do the dirty work. They were the last of the generation that could remember a stoat king. They were the ones who had been too injured to flee or too stubborn to give up their homes. Even after the defeat at Tista Kirk and the fall of Castle Lochwarren, these proud farmers and hunters had stayed at their farmsteads vowing to fight for their homes to the last. This was their reward: enslavement, forced to work for their conquerors.