YPICAL!” PROCLAIMED HOBB to his audience. “The king keeps us all waiting, then he says he’s not coming! Couldn’t look us in the face! I managed to get here, and I haven’t been well!”
It had been a great relief to Hobb when the king’s messenger arrived, soaked and breathless, to tell them that due to an emergency the king must put off his meeting with them. Hobb had waited until the messenger was out of the way before telling his friends what he thought of the king. The sense of relief made him confident.
“May as well go home,” shrugged a hedgehog.
“It’s pouring,” said a squirrel.
“Want to call on Yarrow, Master Hobb?” suggested a mole, and Hobb said that he might as well. It was nearer than going home, where his wife would tell him to stop strutting about and putting the island right, and mend the toasting fork.
Urchin perched in the tree with his shoulders huddled against the rain and his gaze on the waterlogged ground, watching for approaching animals and also for any sign of trembling in the earth. Now and again a movement would catch his eye and alarm him, but it was always a mole or a hedgehog popping to the surface to call “All’s well,” or “The roof looks poor to me.” As the darkness grew, lanterns were lit and flickered in the storm, and more lights moved and swayed in procession far off, as little animals from the Mole Palace were led over the hills to safety. He hoped not many of them were making the long journey to the tower and Falls Cliffs, not in this driving rain, not in this wind that rocked the tree where he stood.
A squelch of wet paws behind him made him dart around to warn whoever it was to stay back, but the pawsteps had already stopped. Twirling his tail for balance, squinting against the rain, he saw that Fingal had spread-eagled himself on the ground with his paws outstretched and his head raised.
“I can’t come near,” called Fingal, “and I have to lie like this to spread my weight. Padra’s upstream. There are streams bursting their banks and rain making the mud waterlogged, and mud and rocks and all that stuff, they’re all coming down. Padra’s leading a team to build a dam to stop the water and a channel to divert it so it’ll go over the, you know, that whatsitswhiskers. The rocky bit that won’t collapse. The ridge.”
“Do they want me up there?” Urchin called back.
“No,” yelled Fingal. “There’s a danger of rockfalls from below the dam. We have to look out for them.” He suddenly gave some sort of a nod, turning his face to the side to keep out of the mud, and Urchin turned to see Crispin behind him with Captain Lugg, Longpaw the messenger, and a young squirrel at his side. Rain streamed from Lugg’s blue cloak and sparkled in lantern lights on Crispin’s tail and whiskers. Fingal, still sprawled on the boggy ground, took a deep breath and repeated all that he’d just told Urchin.
“Then I’ll get you some help, and you can go to the channel and keep it clear of rocks, Fingal,” said Crispin. “Longpaw, we need three or four young otters to help him.” Longpaw dashed away toward the shore, and Crispin guided the young squirrel forward. “Urchin, Dunnock is here to take over from you.”
“Can I have Urchin to help evacuate the animals from the burrows around here, Your Majesty?” asked Lugg. “He’s fast and light, and he’s been in so many tight places I know he can cope with another one.”
“It’s too risky, and he’s done enough,” said Crispin. “He needs a break.”
“I’m volunteering for it, Your Majesty,” said Urchin hopefully. Cold and wet as he was, the challenge was irresistible, and it would be good to be at the heart of the action by Captain Lugg’s side again. “If not me, somebody has to do it.”
“He’d only get swept away in a mudslide if he stayed here, Your Majesty,” called Fingal, raising his dirty face from a tree root.
“They’re brave lads, these,” remarked Lugg.
“Please, Your Majesty?” pleaded Urchin, and Fingal said something that sounded as if he had a mouth full of mud.
“Go on, then,” said Crispin. “Fingal, get out of there. Backward, very slowly. And Urchin,” he went on as Urchin ran down the tree trunk, “the first sign of a shaky tunnel and never mind being a hero, just get yourself out, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Urchin, stepping as lightly as he could to Lugg’s side.
“Keep an eye on him, Lugg,” said Crispin. “If anything happens to Urchin, one of us will have to answer to Apple, and sooner you than me.”
Juniper could not move. He could only wait, kneeling on the hearth in the dim turret, trapped in his nightmare, as the door opened. What could he say? He didn’t know. His mind, like his body, failed him.
The sight of Sepia, sweet-faced, wet, and worried, trailing a soaked cloak behind her, flooded him with relief. He had been caught out, but by one of the few animals who might possibly understand.
Sepia took in the gentle light of the chamber, the sleeping figure of the priest, the warmth from the fire—not as warm as she would have liked, but far better than outside—and Juniper crouching on the hearth with alarm and fear on his face. Or was it guilt?
She had been so worried about him. She had hunted for him through the lashing rain, growing more breathless and anxious as the light faded, guessing that he might go to Urchin, but where would Urchin be? Darting through treetops rocked with storms, calling to every animal she met, she had heard that Urchin was with the king and Captain Padra, and they were moving the little ones away from their hiding place and trying to hold off a landslide, and it all looked very dangerous. But was Juniper with him? Please, please, had anyone seen Brother Juniper?
Nobody had seen him at the landslide site, but somebody had seen a squirrel who looked like Juniper—at least it might have been Juniper, hard to tell in this light and in this weather, you can hardly look up—hurrying to the tower. Limped like Juniper, come to think. She had sent a message to tell her family she would not be back tonight and had struggled on to the tower as the wind whipped the branches under her paws. Drenched, tired, and anxious, she had reached the turret at last—and here was Juniper, kneeling on the floor with a box before him.
She slipped nearer to the bed to see if Fir was sleeping and was relieved to find that he was. She huddled on the hearth beside Juniper.
The firelight showed clearly the pale pink box and the stone nestling at its center. Sepia gasped. When she managed to speak, her words were barely a whisper.
“What are you doing? That’s the Heartstone!”
“Yes,” said Juniper harshly. “Watch this.”
“Don’t touch it!” whispered Sepia in horror. “Juniper, please don’t, you mustn’t!” She put out a paw to stop him, but he jerked away from her, held his right paw in his left in a failed attempt to stop it from shaking, and scooped up the peach-pink pebble. It rolled softly onto the floor.
“Put it away!” urged Sepia with a glance toward the bed.
Juniper swept the Heartstone back into the box. “I had to do it,” he said, and the wretchedness in his voice made her hurt for him. “I had to prove it to myself. I’m not a real priest.”
“You’re a novice!” she said. “It just means that you’re not a real priest yet, and you knew that!”
“But I told Damson I was, and I heard her confession,” said Juniper. “And I wish I hadn’t. And I wouldn’t have heard it, if I hadn’t pretended I was the priest. I should never have done it.”
“But you didn’t do it just to hear her confession,” said Sepia. “You did it so she could die in peace, and she did. Think what it would have been like for her if you hadn’t!”
Juniper stared into the deep orange glow and white ashes, wrapped in his own misery. He knew Sepia was right, but he was wrung out with grief and guilt and the weight of his secret. Into the silence came a single sound, soft with weakness, but so familiar.
“Hm!”
“Brother Fir!” gasped Sepia.
“Plagues, lice, and fire,” grumbled Captain Lugg, shoving his head and shoulders into a tunnel. “Get out, you lot, quick about it, an
d be light on your paws.”
“I’ve not been very well,” moaned a voice from inside. “I can’t hurry.”
“That’s Hobb, is it?” said Lugg. “Well, you’ll be worse if the tunnel comes down. Is Yarrow the squirrel down here anywhere? Yes, I know you’ve been ill, you’re not the only one. Get out. Plague and lice! Urchin, tell 'em not to move anyone out of the burrow below this one yet. Let’s get this one clear first. Don’t want too much coming and going at once. We need more pit props.”
Urchin leaped lightly forward through the tunnel, scampered up the next layer of burrows, and called for pit props. He looked up to the hillside, where storm-tossed lanterns rocked in a wild dance as otters and hedgehogs worked furiously, building dams and channels. Wild clouds whipped across the sky. Crispin, with a few Circle animals, stood up to his knees in water, stopping the dislodged stones that rolled down the hillside. Urchin ducked into a burrow.
“Be ready to leave when Captain Lugg calls for you,” he ordered. “Till then, don’t move unless you absolutely have to.”
Above him, a tree root shook. Rough and ready props for holding up tunnel roofs had been made from whatever timber Twigg and the other carpenters could supply and from branches wrenched away by the storm. Urchin darted out of the burrow to find one. Lightning flashed, followed by a rumble that he hoped was only thunder.
“That’s all we need,” muttered Lugg, pushing Yarrow into the open. “And you needn’t think I can’t hear you muttering about Husk, because I can. Can’t see how he could make it thunder. Watch out, young Urchin. It’s getting worse.”
“Dearest Juniper,” said Fir, when Juniper and Sepia had told their story. “You hate yourself now because you heard Damson’s confession. If you had not done it, you would hate yourself for that instead.”
Juniper found that his despair was not quite as heavy as it had been. Miserably, with the gales battering the dark windows and the lamp casting a steady light on Fir’s calm, wise face, he had poured out his story to Brother Fir, and Damson’s story, too—"She meant you to hear it, sir,” he said. Sepia had plumped up the pillows for Fir, built up the fire, and heated cordials. The firelight cast a warm light on her face and flickered on the walls. Juniper was aware of peace around him, even if he wasn’t at peace himself.
“It had never occurred to me,” said Fir, “that Husk might be your father. I remember Spindrift. We thought she had left the island with someone from one of the ships. A quiet, shy little squirrel with a gentle nature. She must have loved you very dearly. So, Juniper, now you know. May the Heart rest her, and dear Damson, too.”
“She was the only parent I ever had,” said Juniper. “I wish I had her here. I’d rather have Damson alive than know the truth about my father.”
“I know, I know,” said Brother Fir sadly, “but that’s not the way it is. The Heart brings good from all things, all things, however impossible that may seem. Bring your wretchedness, your anger, and your unwelcome knowledge to the Heart.”
“I can’t, sir,” said Juniper.
“You can’t yet,” said Fir, “but you will. Life consists of doing the impossible. Thank you, Miss Sepia,” he added, putting down his empty wooden mug. “I feel much better for that cordial. What else is happening on this wild night?”
“They’re moving the little ones out of the Mole Palace,” said Sepia, cupping her paws around her drink. “There are streams bursting and water rushing off the hills, it’s so heavy that they’re building defenses and things to prevent a landslide. The king and Captain Padra and everybody, they’re all there, getting people out of burrows.”
“That’s dangerous!” said Juniper.
Sepia hesitated. He was right, but if she said so he’d want to go straight there. Juniper didn’t wait for an answer.
“Is Urchin there?” he demanded.
“Well…” said Sepia, already wishing she hadn’t said anything.
“You mean he is?”
“The king will not put Urchin in danger,” said Fir mildly.
“The king can’t be everywhere at once!” cried Juniper, jumping to his paws.
“And neither can you,” said Fir. “You have had more than enough for one day, and you are distressed.”
“I’ll be a lot more distressed if Urchin gets hurt,” argued Juniper, “without me lifting a paw to help him. There should be a priest there. You can’t go, so I must.”
“I will not forbid you to go,” said Fir, “but I would advise against it.”
“I have to!” said Juniper. “I have to prove to myself that I can rise above being Husk’s son!”
“You rose above it, long before you knew about it,” said Fir. “If you must go, remember that you must not put Urchin or yourself in any greater danger. And however much you want to be a hero, remember that you are inexperienced. Obey orders, whether from the king or from a captain.”
“Yes, Brother Fir,” said Juniper. “May I have your blessing anyway?” He knelt for the touch of Fir’s paw on his head and the murmured words of blessing, took the dry cloak that Sepia held out to him, and pattered down the stairs.
Fir sank back onto the pillows, his eyes closing. Sepia, not sure whether he was praying, falling asleep, or both, settled the blanket gently around him to keep him warm.
She couldn’t do much good at the landslide site. There were enough animals there already. After the long day, the leaping flames and surrounding quiet made her realize how tired she was.
It would be nice to go home and be in her old nest with her sisters, but it was too stormy to go home now, and too far. The quiet, sleepy breath of Brother Fir made her intensely lonely. He could sleep and she couldn’t, not after all she had seen and heard that day. Once, he stirred in his sleep and said “stars” very clearly as if he were awake, but he slept peacefully after that. She wrapped herself in a cloak and, reluctant to leave the fireside, looked into the kindly fire, holding Damson and Juniper in her heart. She had sunk into a light, restless sleep when someone tapped softly at the door. She jumped up, took the lantern, and slipped to open the door.
“Your Majesty!” she said, and bobbed a curtsy—then when the light fell on the queen’s face, Sepia stepped back, holding the door wide, and stretched out her paws.
The queen was thin and haggard, her eyes red-rimmed with sorrow and tiredness, the catkin blanket clutched in her paws. Her flame-red coat had grown dull, and the familiar smell of herbs and vinegar hung about her. She looked wild with grief, and Sepia saw more than the Queen of Mistmantle. She saw a mother facing yet another long, terrible night of not knowing where her baby was.
“I went out to see to Yarrow,” she said. She looked tightly huddled, as if she were cold. “He’s had fouldrought badly, but he’ll live. I’ve washed, I’ve done all the right things. I came to see if Brother Fir was all right.”
“He’s much better. He’s asleep now,” said Sepia. “Come in, Your Majesty. Come and get warm.”
The queen knelt by the fire and sipped the hot cordial Sepia put into her paws. She still looked cold, so Sepia put an arm around her.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed?” she said gently.
“Thripple keeps telling me that,” said Cedar, but she put down the mug. “I don’t want to sleep. I have nightmares. But I’ll go.”
“No, don’t!” said Sepia. “I mean, not if you don’t want to. Not if you’d rather be here. Excuse me, I won’t be long.”
She ran quietly down the stairs and, with the help of a mole maid, fetched the quilt from the royal bedchamber. Back in Fir’s turret, she warmed it by the fire and spread it on the floor while Brother Fir talked to the queen.
“You stood up to Smokewreath in Whitewings,” he was saying. “Stand up to him in your dreams. And tell him no curse can stand against the Heart. Tell him that!”
At last, the queen drifted into a few hours’sleep. It was as if Brother Fir’s quiet breathing had a power to soothe. Sepia slept, too. She dreamed of stars, mists, and Catkin, while Brothe
r Fir dreamed of exactly the same things. Halfway through a dream in which stars danced around Mistmantle Tower, she woke.
What had woken her? She sat up, aware of the empty space beside her where the queen had been, and of the figure of a squirrel looking out of a window.
“Your Majesty?” she said.
“Did I wake you, Sepia?” said the queen softly. “I slept well for the first time since…for the first time. Then I woke and realized I hadn’t said good night to her. I always do that, wherever she is.” She leaned from the window. “Heart bless you, Catkin,” she whispered. “Mummy’s here.”
Sepia rubbed her eyes and remembered her dream. It seemed important.
“Your Majesty,” she said. “You know on the night of riding stars before…”
The queen shuddered.
“Sorry, but, you know the stars circled the tower?”
“Did they, Sepia?”
“Well, that’s supposed to make you think of your hopes and dreams,” she went on. “And, I mean, I think it’s because, when they go around the tower, they disappear, as if they weren’t there anymore. As if your hopes and dreams had just gone away and disappeared. But you see them again, Your Majesty, they always come around.”
“I suppose they do, Sepia,” sighed the queen, and put a paw to her mouth as she yawned. Sepia slipped downstairs. She’d fetch some pillows and lavender, and perhaps, in the soothing peace of the turret, the queen would sleep without nightmares again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LAGUE, LICE, FIRE, AND VERMIN!” cursed Lugg, ankle-deep in mud. Through the drenching rain and darkness, he passed an armful of wet pit props to Urchin. “Them otters must be dislodging as much as they stop.”
“They’re not!” yelled Crispin. “They’re doing a great job up there. This will soon stop!”
“Not blooming soon enough!” growled Lugg as another wave of mud and stones slithered downhill toward them. “Are them hedgehogs out of that burrow?”
“All out and accounted for,” said Urchin, struggling through mud as he passed along the pit props. “But there’s another burrow beyond it. What’s their best way out?”
The Heir of Mistmantle Page 13