The Song of the Winns

by Frances Watts

  7

  Never Vanquish’d

  Huddled next to Tibby Rose under the overhang of the rock, Alistair drifted in and out of a restless doze; he had too many anxieties gnawing at his brain to allow him to really relax. The first, and most urgent, was the situation he and Tibby Rose were in: lost in an unforgiving terrain with no hope of rescue and no idea where they actually were. As the wind howled around their meager shelter, Alistair knew there was a very real possibility that they would not make it out of the Crankens alive. But if they didn’t, who would rescue his parents? Alistair reached for the ends of his scarf, now encrusted in ice. The paths through Gerander would remain a secret as long as his scarf was lost in the Crankens. There would be no help for Emmeline and Rebus on Atticus Island, no safe passage through Gerander for FIG members. He tugged at his scarf and felt it tighten and rub around his neck, and remembered Slippers Pink rubbing her own neck as they’d said good-bye in Stetson just over twenty-four hours earlier. She had sensed something wasn’t right. Was this what her “sixth sense for danger” had been warning her about? Were she and Feast Thompson waiting and worrying by the source of the Winns, wondering why Oswald hadn’t yet delivered Alistair and Tibby Rose? Or were Slippers and Feast in trouble too? Had the Queen’s Guards discovered them?

  It was the longest night of Alistair’s life. He could hardly wait to leave their lonely shelter and continue their journey, and as dawn broke he nudged Tibby Rose. She responded so quickly that he suspected she too had been awake. Neither of them mentioned the hunger clawing at them as they drank from their water bottles and brushed the snow from their fur before lashing their rucksacks back onto the sled.

  “If you’re better, maybe we don’t need the sled anymore,” Alistair suggested. He was still feeling the ache in his arms from the weight of it the day before.

  Tibby said, “I think we should keep it. It might come in handy.” Her tone was serious, and Alistair wondered if she was thinking of Charlotte Tibby’s broken leg, and how easily something like that could happen to one of them. “I’ll help you pull it, though.”

  They each took hold of the rope and together began to haul the sled up the long, steep incline.

  “At least it’s stopped snowing,” Tibby remarked.

  But the night’s blizzard made their trudge up the never-ending slope even harder than it had been the day before, as with every step they sank into drifts of soft, knee-deep snow. For a long time they plodded on without speaking, all their concentration focused on the effort required by each step. The silence was broken by Tibby.

  “Alistair, look.” She was pointing to a dark smudge on the pristine expanse of white ahead.

  Alistair, who had been keeping his head down to avoid the blinding light on the snow, lifted his gaze. His heart nearly stopped when he saw what Tibby had spotted. It was a large striped feather.

  “It looks like an eagle feather,” he said, swallowing, as they drew closer. He tilted his head back to peer at the clear sky. There was no sign of the storm of the day before in the sweep of blue. The icy peaks soaring above them glittered like crystals in the glare of the sun. Squinting against the dazzling light, Alistair searched anxiously for any hint of a giant raptor, but there was none.

  Tibby picked up the feather and stroked it thoughtfully. “This might be just what we’re looking for,” she murmured.

  Alistair looked at her. “You must be mad, Tib. The last thing we want to see now is an eagle.” He shivered with the sudden memory of a grating screech followed by Oswald’s cry of pain.

  “I haven’t forgotten what happened to Oswald,” Tibby said softly, and Alistair noticed a slight tremble in her whiskers as she said the owl’s name. “I only meant that feathers could be useful.” She slipped the feather she was holding under the cord securing their rucksacks to the sled, and they resumed their silent course.

  Reluctant though he was to see an eagle, looking for feathers distracted Alistair from their arduous trek, and he felt quite jubilant when he spied a second and then a third feather. By this time, the sun on his head and the hunger in his belly had combined to make him feel quite light-headed.

  “Are you trying to collect enough to make a feather quilt?” he called when Tibby sprang forward with a happy cry to pick up a fourth feather.

  “Better,” said Tibby.

  “Unless we can eat them it couldn’t possibly be better than a feather quilt,” Alistair said, thinking of the freezing night they had just passed.

  “Okay, it’s not quite as good as food,” Tibby conceded, “but what I have in mind is more immediately useful than a feather quilt.” She rummaged in her rucksack and pulled out some string, then ordered, “Now sit down and hold your feet up.”

  “What?!” Alistair didn’t know whether to laugh or fear for his friend’s sanity, but he did as he was told.

  As Tibby proceeded to tie an eagle feather to each of his feet he really did start to wonder whether the knock on the head she’d received yesterday had affected her more than he knew.

  “Tibby, are you sure you’re all—”

  “Just wait till you’re standing up, Alistair,” his friend said. “You won’t think I’m crazy then.” She grabbed him by the wrists and hauled him into standing position. “Now take a few steps.”

  Alistair took one hesitant step, then another. To his surprise, instead of sinking into the snow, he remained on top of it.

  “Tib, how come I’m not sinking?” He gestured at his feet, then took another couple of steps. His gait was ungainly—he had to turn his feet out slightly so that the feathers didn’t catch against each other—but walking like a duck was much better than wading through deep snow.

  Tibby Rose was looking very pleased with herself. “They’re like snowshoes. Instead of all your weight being concentrated on your foot it’s distributed over a larger area. So instead of sinking into the snow you kind of float on it.” Sitting down, she took the two remaining feathers and strapped them to her own feet. “So what do you think?”

  “I think you’re a genius,” said Alistair fervently.

  Now that it was easier to walk, Alistair’s spirits lifted, and he felt that they were making good progress toward the top of the mountain. He tried to imagine what they would see when they reached the pass. Would they be able to see the Winns? Or, even better, a restaurant? That sounded like something Alex would wish for. Alistair rubbed his grumbling stomach and tried not to think about his brother and sister, and how they must have felt on seeing his empty bed the morning before.

  It was early afternoon when, panting from the final steep climb, they reached the cleft between the mountains and gazed eagerly down the other side.

  There was just a series of ridges rising and falling away into the distance like a rumpled sheet, dotted with pine trees. The deep trough between where they stood and the nearest ridge was quite densely forested, Alistair saw.

  “The snow seems lighter down there,” Tibby said, nodding toward the trees below. “I wonder if that means we’re coming out of the mountains and into the foothills?”

  “You mean we could be in Gerander?” Alistair said.

  “We could be,” Tibby said, “though we shouldn’t get our hopes up.” Despite her caution, Alistair noticed that she, too, sounded excited.

  And it was impossible not to feel elated as they descended toward the trees and saw a large wooden chalet with three stories nestled in a clearing. The sign above the door read SOOTHING SPRINGS RETREAT.

  “Soothing Springs,” Alistair read aloud. “Remember what Tobias said? The source of the Winns is a deep mountain spring said to have healing properties. Tibby, we must be close! Let’s go find out.” He moved forward but was halted by a tug on his tail.

  “We can’t just knock on the door and ask the way to the Winns,” Tibby argued. “That chalet could be full of Queen’s Guards. We need a plan.”

  Alistair thought for a second. “We can pretend we wandered off from a picnic with our parents.”
>
  “A picnic?” said Tibby Rose doubtfully. “Up here?”

  “How about we get a bit closer and observe it for a while?” Alistair suggested. “If we don’t see any Queen’s Guards we’ll try the picnic story.”

  Tibby Rose shrugged. “Okay.”

  Taking care to stay concealed by the trees surrounding the clearing, they edged closer to the chalet. After many minutes had passed without any sign of life at the front, they circled around to the back.

  There was a wide veranda lined with French doors. Outside one pair of open doors, a beige mouse in striped pajamas was rocking peacefully in a chair and basking in the hot sun reflecting off the snow.

  Alistair shot Tibby a questioning look. The chalet really did seem to be a health retreat, and there was not a red-coated Queen’s Guard in sight.

  Tibby answered his silent question with a nod, and the two ginger mice swiftly untied their snowshoes and left them with the sled in the shelter of the trees.

  “Excuse me,” Tibby called as they walked into the clearing, “could you tell us if the Winns is nearby? We were having a picnic with Mom and Dad and . . . we got lost.” She ducked her head sheepishly.

  The mouse planted his feet on the veranda to still his chair and gave a toothy, happy grin.

  “Well, hello, little ginger friends!”

  Alistair exchanged a relieved look with Tibby Rose. If this mouse thought of them as friends they definitely must be in Gerander—and the mouse in pajamas must be Gerandan.

  As they moved closer to the veranda the mouse in the rocker fixed them with a bright inquisitive gaze. “What was that you wanted? The wings?”

  “No,” said Alistair. “Not wings—the Winns.”

  “Oh the Winns,” said the beige mouse. “Hang on . . . I know this one. . . . It’s a banjo, right?”

  “Er, no,” said Alistair as Tibby let out a small giggle. “It’s a—”

  “Wait!” The beige mouse held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s . . . one of those whirlamagigs that you put on your hat and it spins around!”

  “No,” Tibby Rose burst out. “It’s a river. The Winns is a river.”

  “Oh, of course!” The beige mouse threw both hands in the air, then slapped his thighs. “The river. Yes, yes, I know all about it. It’s on that thingamajig in my room. The whatsit that has all the places on it.”

  “A map?” said Alistair.

  “Yes, yes, one of those. Come on in, I’ll show it to you.” He rose from the rocker and led the way through the open doors, beckoning to the two young mice to follow.

  “This is great,” Alistair said to Tibby. “We’ll be able to see exactly where we are.”

  They entered a small bright room with a wooden bed, a wooden dresser, a wooden wardrobe, and wooden floors. The shutters were flung open, and light streamed through the window above the bed.

  “You sit there and I’ll find it,” the beige mouse said, pointing to the bed.

  Alistair and Tibby obediently perched on the bed while the mouse in pajamas started rummaging through a dresser drawer.

  “No, that’s not it. . . . No, not that. . . . Oh, here’s something.” He held up an apple, and Alistair fixed his eyes on it ravenously. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  “No,” said Tibby patiently, “you were going to show us a map.”

  The beige mouse looked momentarily perplexed. “Was I?”

  The two young mice nodded.

  “Maybe it’s in here,” said the beige mouse, hurrying over to the wardrobe. He had just opened the wardrobe door and peered inside when there was a tap on the door.

  The beige mouse turned to look at Alistair and Tibby Rose in surprise. “Were you expecting someone?” he said.

  “Shhh,” whispered Alistair frantically. “Don’t tell anyone we’re here.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the beige mouse. He put a finger to his lips and said in an exaggerated whisper, “It’s a secret. Quick—in here.” He gestured and the two young mice scampered into the wardrobe just as the door to the room opened. The beige mouse pushed the wardrobe door till it was almost shut. Alistair put an eye to the gap and saw a mouse in a starched white nurse’s cap.

  “Wilbur, who were you talking to?” she demanded.

  “Two ginger mice, Matron,” the beige mouse replied promptly, and Alistair let out a silent groan.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the matron. “You know there are no ginger mice in Souris.”

  Souris? Alistair felt Tibby’s hand grab his arm.

  “Oh, I know they weren’t real,” Wilbur was assuring the nurse. “They were very friendly, though,” he added.

  “That just proves it then, doesn’t it?” said the matron. “If they were ginger, they wouldn’t be friendly; they’d be violent, dangerous rebels.”

  “I suppose so,” said Wilbur doubtfully.

  “You don’t believe me?” said the matron. “You just walk across the border over the next ridge there and you’ll see—you’ll be set upon by violent ginger mice as sure as your name is Wilbur John Bullwinkle-Fotheringham the Third.”

  Wilbur peered nervously out the window as if expecting to see hordes of ginger mice. “Are you sure we’re safe here?” he asked.

  “There’s nowhere safer,” said the matron. “The Queen’s Guards are ranged all along the border. Anyway, enough of this nonsense about ginger mice. It’s time for you to take the waters.”

  “Of the Winns?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Wilbur. The Winns is in the valley on the other side of the ridge. The Gerandan side.” She said “Gerandan” as if the word left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “With the ginger mice?”

  “That’s right,” said the matron. “Now let’s take you to the lovely hot springs.”

  “Will I need my dressing gown?” asked Wilbur. He moved toward the wardrobe.

  “No,” the matron decided. “You’ll be warm enough without it.”

  Alistair sagged against the back of the wardrobe in relief, then sat bolt upright as the wardrobe door was flung open and Wilbur gave them a toothy smile.

  “Wilbur, what are you doing now?” asked the matron impatiently.

  “I’m just saying good-bye to the two ginger mice in my wardrobe,” Wilbur explained. “Good-bye, ginger mice.”

  Alistair and Tibby stared at him in terror, but the matron merely said firmly, “Come along now, Wilbur,” and with one final cheery wave the beige mouse disappeared.

  As soon as the door to the room shut behind Wilbur and the matron, Alistair and Tibby Rose crept out of the wardrobe. Pausing just long enough for Alistair to snatch the apple from the dresser, they dashed to the doors leading onto the veranda. Alistair craned his head around the corner.

  “All clear, Tib,” he said, and the two mice scurried back to the safety of the trees.

  “So, good news and bad news,” Alistair said when he had caught his breath. He handed the apple to Tibby Rose.

  “The bad news,” said Tibby, “is that we’re in Souris.” She took a big bite of the apple and handed it back.

  Alistair bit into the apple, savoring the crispness of the flesh and the tart sweet juice. “But the good news is that Gerander is just on the other side of the next ridge, and the Winns is in the valley.”

  “But there’s more bad news,” Tibby remembered. “The matron said that the border is lined with Queen’s Guards.”

  They sat in gloomy silence. Alistair tried to imagine he and Tibby waddling like ducks across the border with feathers tied to their feet, pursued by Queen’s Guards. “We’re too slow,” he said. “We’ll never be able to outrun the guards.” He glanced at the feathers, lying atop the sled, and was struck by a thought.

  “What about the sled?” he said. “That’ll give us some speed.”

  “But when they see us they’ll chase us on their own sleds,” Tibby pointed out. “And their sleds are probably a lot faster than ours. I think we’re better off tryin
g to stay out of sight under the cover of the trees.”

  “Under the cover of the trees . . . ,” Alistair repeated thoughtfully. Tibby’s words had given him the germ of an idea.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tibby Rose. “I recognize that faraway look in your eyes. You’re about to propose an idea based on some book you’ve read, aren’t you?”

  “Kind of,” said Alistair. “Though it’s a play, not a book, and I haven’t read it myself. My teacher told us about it. We were talking about camouflage in nature, and somehow he ended up telling us the story of Macbeth and reading out some of his favorite passages.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard of Macbeth,” said Tibby Rose. “That was one of Great-Aunt Harriet’s favorite plays. It’s by Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Macbeth starts out this brave and noble mouse, but then he and his wife get greedy for power. So he murders the king and becomes king himself, yet instead of it making him happy he’s tortured by guilt, but at the same time is desperate to stay in power. Anyway, these three witches who had predicted that he would be king tell him that . . .” Alistair paused. “How did it go? I think it was: ‘Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him.’ So you see, he thinks he’s safe, because a forest can’t get up and walk, can it?”

  “No,” said Tibby cautiously. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “But it did!” said Alistair. “Because the soldiers who marched on his castle each plucked a branch from a tree and held it in front of them as a disguise.”

  “So you’re suggesting that we hold branches in front of us and walk across the border and the Queen’s Guards will think we’re trees?” Tibby sounded rather disbelieving, Alistair thought.

  “That’s right,” said Alistair. “Except we don’t walk—we sled.”

  “Um, Alistair, won’t the Queen’s Guards think it’s a bit strange to see a tree sledding across the border?”