The Song of the Winns

by Frances Watts

  “By the time they’ve thought twice, we’ll be gone,” Alistair said.

  Tibby shook her head slowly, but Alistair could see she was intrigued by the idea.

  “I wonder how we’d go about it,” she mused. “I suppose we could collect some saplings and any fallen branches and tie them upright to the corners of the sled, then fasten their tops together like a teepee.”

  “I’ll get the pocketknife from your rucksack, shall I?” said Alistair.

  Tibby smiled. “Oh, all right. I think it’s a daft idea, but somehow your daft ideas have a way of working out.”

  An hour later, they were pulling what looked like a very strange tree through the forest toward the Gerandan border.

  As they crested the ridge, the tree cover grew sparser, and Alistair’s heartbeat started to accelerate. Queen’s Guards were ranged all along the border, the matron at the Soothing Springs Retreat had said. But to Alistair’s relief, the snowy slope stretching away before them was deserted. “Looks like we’ll have an easy run down into the valley, Tib,” he said.

  The words had no sooner left his lips than an angry cry echoed across the mountaintop. “Oy! What do you think you’re doing?”

  A small band of red-coated mice had stepped out from a group of trees some distance to their left.

  “Tibby, quick, onto the sled!”

  Tibby Rose pushed through the slender trunks to take up a position sitting on her rucksack at the back of the sled and Alistair clambered after her to sit at the front, the rough bark scraping his limbs. It was dark and close inside their tree teepee, with a sharp smell of pine, and the needles scratched his face.

  “Halt! In the name of Queen Eugenia I order you to halt!” The sound of their voices was muffled now, but a quick glance through the gaps in the branches told Alistair the guards were advancing quickly, seeming to glide effortlessly toward them. They were wearing skis, he realized.

  “Hang on, Tib,” said Alistair and, grasping the rope in both hands, he pushed off.

  The sled was slow to move at first, and Alistair scrabbled desperately at the icy ground with his feet, trying to get traction. At last they began to gather speed until they were hurtling headlong down the mountain.

  “Where are they, Tibby?” Alistair called over the rush of wind whistling through the branches. His hands held the rope tightly and his eyes were fixed on the slope ahead, watching for obstacles.

  “We’ve lost them,” reported Tibby.

  “Yes!” cried Alistair. “Tibby Rose and Alistair shall never vanquish’d be!”

  They careened down the slope, every bump threatening to dislodge them. “Lean hard right!” Alistair yelled, and they narrowly avoided colliding with a tree.

  Then, as they plummeted into a dip and flew out the other side, he saw a blur of red through the branches. “Oh no!” he said as the blur came into focus. “There’re two guards right in front of us!”

  “Barrel straight through,” Tibby advised breathlessly.

  The sled sailed down the slope toward the two guards.

  “Halt!” yelled the first guard.

  “Get out of the way, you idiot!” his partner called, yanking him back by his red coat. “It’s a runaway tree!”

  Then the vista was white once more and the only sound was the whoosh of the wind. They flew down a steep icy funnel lined on either side with towering trees, then shot out onto a wide slope that flattened out for fifty meters or so before dropping away again. The sled slowed to a stop.

  “We’ll have to pull it across this bit,” Alistair said urgently, and he and Tibby struggled free of the branches’ prickly embrace.

  “Wait,” said Tibby, as Alistair was preparing to climb back into position at the front of the sled. “I’ve got a better idea. What if we push the sled off without us? If the Queen’s Guards are following the tracks of the sled’s runners they’ll go that way. . . .” Tibby pointed down the slope. “We’ll go this way.” She indicated the forest to their right.

  Following Tibby’s lead, Alistair hastily untied his feather snowshoes and rucksack from the sled and slung the latter over his shoulder. Then together they pushed the sled, still bearing its tree teepee, down the slope. Alistair felt a pang of regret as it sailed out of sight.

  “Now we’ll get rid of the evidence.” Using one of her feathers like a broom, Tibby began to sweep away their footsteps. Then she walked backward into the trees, brushing away her footsteps as she went.

  Alistair copied her, walking backward until they were well hidden by the trees.

  Tibby put a finger to her lips. “Let’s watch and see.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Only minutes later three red-clad figures shot past them as swiftly as arrows.

  Alistair turned to his friend. “Brilliant, Tibby! That’s bought us some time.” But Tibby Rose appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.

  “Tibby, what’s wrong?” Alistair asked, then he saw that she was convulsed in giggles. “It’s a runaway tree!” she gasped, and they both collapsed to the ground in laughter. The cold of the snow was like a balm on Alistair’s skin after the irritation of the pine needles and for a few minutes he enjoyed the relief that came with laughter, the feeling of all tension dropping away. But all too soon the reality of their situation came back into focus. At the speed the Queen’s Guards were traveling, it wouldn’t be long before they caught up with the sled and found it empty. And then they would come looking for the two ginger mice who had crossed the border. . . . His concern must have shown in his eyes, because when Tibby met his gaze her laughter faded and she stood up. Without a word, they turned and headed deeper into the forest.

  They walked for hours through the trees, Alistair in the lead and, although several times they heard voices in the distance, they didn’t encounter anymore Sourian patrols. The two young mice tried to keep their own conversation to a minimum, speaking only in low murmurs. As they hiked farther down into the valley, the snow became patchy, giving way to meadows of soft green grass. They came across blueberry bushes, and then a patch of small, sweet wild strawberries, which they fell on ravenously. Tibby Rose paused periodically to gather mushrooms, which she wrapped in a handkerchief and stowed in her rucksack. “I’m not going to get caught short of food again,” she vowed.

  The hardships they had endured seemed a million miles away now, with the golden light of the afternoon sun making the flowers of the wild rhododendron bushes glow a vivid scarlet against the dark green foliage, and the air full of the sweet scent of meadow flowers. Yet even though the conditions had improved, Alistair grew more and more exhausted. His eyes felt gritty and bleary. His legs, his arms, even his tail seemed heavy, the scarf around his neck weighed his head down so that he could hardly lift it. Now that the adrenaline was draining from his body, Alistair felt wearier than he ever had in his life.

  When he judged that more than an hour had passed without any sight or sound of Queen’s Guards, Alistair said, “It’s going to be dark soon, Tib. Why don’t we try to find somewhere to stop for the night? We can get some sleep, then start out early tomorrow to look for the source of the Winns.”

  Tibby, he saw when he turned, was in mid-yawn. “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  It was in the sun’s dying rays that they stumbled into a secluded clearing. A mix of spruce and pine trees were etched in black against a deep blue evening sky, and Alistair felt needles from the trees under his feet and heard the burble of a spring he could barely see. “This is perfect,” he said, his eyelids already closing in anticipation. He shrugged the rucksack off his shoulders and helped Tibby off with hers, then sank with a groan onto a bed of needles. Tibby flopped onto the ground beside him.

  “I could sleep for a thousand years,” she murmured sleepily.

  Alistair had just muttered his agreement when he was seized roughly. His heart seemed to explode in shock and he could barely draw the breath to shout a warning to his friend.

  “Tibby!” he yelled.
But it was too late. Opening his eyes he saw a dark shape looming over his friend, about to pounce.

  8

  Departure

  Even the thought that he was playing a part didn’t make Solomon Honker any less intimidating. As Alex and Alice entered the classroom and sat at their desks, he didn’t betray the slightest hint of the cheery mouse of the night before, not by so much as a wink or a twinkle in the eye.

  “It’s time to focus on your new identities,” he said without even bothering to greet them. With a nod he indicated the folders standing ready on their desks, and Alice opened the topmost file, lowered her head and began to read the story of Raz and Rita of Tornley.

  Rita and Raz were the children of Jez and Webbley, though they never saw much of their father, for Jez was a Queen’s Guard. He had been sent to the Gerander–Souris border in the Cranken Alps, and only came home on leave infrequently.

  “Ha, look at his big ears!” Alex held up a photo and gave a snort of laughter.

  “That is your dead father you’re talking about, young man,” Solomon Honker reprimanded him. “Show some respect.”

  When the children were six, Jez had been stabbed and killed by a gang of Gerandan rebels trying to storm the border.

  “Oh,” Alice cried out involuntarily. “Their father was killed by Gerandans!”

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” Solomon Honker told her. “He was actually part of a patrol that lost their way in the mountains and fell into a ravine. It just makes a better story for the folks back home if he died a hero fighting the evil Gerandans.”

  Somewhat relieved, Alice resumed her reading.

  Now a widow, Webbley took in washing and ironing. Six years after her husband’s death, she fell ill and died. Her orphaned children, Raz and Rita, were passed from neighbors to relatives, but no one wanted to care for them full time. At last, someone had the idea of making them the responsibility of the Sourian army. Their father had given his life in service of his country, after all—let the army work out what to do with his children. And so jobs had been found for them at the palace in Cornoliana.

  Alice shook her head. “Poor Rita and Raz,” she said. “What a miserable life they had.”

  “Before you get too sentimental,” Solomon Honker said, “there’s something you should know.”

  “What’s that, sir?” asked Alice.

  Her teacher lowered his white head very close to hers. “They hated Gerandans,” he hissed.

  Startled, Alice leaned back in her chair, but Solomon Honker leaned too. “And guess what that means?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir,” said Alice.

  “It means, Rita of Tornley, that you hate Gerandans too.”

  Not for the first time, Alice had a sense of how difficult their undercover operation was going to be. Being Rita meant being completely unlike herself—and being it so completely and convincingly as to fool everyone she encountered. And Alice had never been a very good actor. . . . She hadn’t really questioned it before, but now she wondered why, exactly, Tobias had selected her and Alex for this very dangerous operation. Was it really just because they were the same age as Raz and Rita? It seemed beyond strange that FIG would pick two young mice at random and send them on a mission on which so much depended. Her musing was interrupted by her brother’s voice.

  “What happened to the real Raz and Rita?” Alex asked.

  “Killed in a house fire,” said Solomon Honker briefly.

  Once they had absorbed all the available material on the short lives of Raz and Rita, their teacher instructed them to open the file marked “Tornley—General.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever stop reading about our undercover mission and actually go on it?” Alex muttered under his breath as they plowed through a stack of reading material about life in Tornley. Flicking through the sheaves of paper, Alice noticed a map of the town, a section on rivers and streams (including which were best for swimming), a description of the school Raz and Rita had used to attend, pictures of their neighbors, lists of—

  “This afternoon,” said Solomon Honker from his desk at the front of the room.

  Startled, the two young mice looked up.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “You depart this afternoon, right after lunch, so if I were you I’d try to get through as much of that information as I could.”

  “Yes!” crowed Alex, who obviously wasn’t concerned about details like neighbors and swimming streams.

  This afternoon? Suddenly Alice felt woefully unprepared. How would she ever fool anyone that she came from Tornley? With a sense of panic, she picked up a page describing the best-known landmarks of Tornley and began to read.

  “How are we getting across the border?” Alex asked Solomon Honker.

  “You’ll see,” their teacher replied.

  “Will we have to slip across in the dead of night?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Will we be in disguise?”

  Their teacher shook his head.

  “Will we fly by owl?” Alex asked hopefully.

  “Oswald’s busy.”

  “Do you know an eagle?”

  “Young man,” said Solomon Honker, finally losing patience, “if your preparation is not complete, I will be forced to tell Tobias that the operation must be canceled and you won’t be going anywhere at all.”

  Alex hastily bent his head over the pages.

  For the next hour there was no other sound than the rustle of papers, then Solomon Honker rose from his chair and crossed the room to stand before his pupils.

  “Let us see how much you’ve retained. What is the favorite pastime of the children of Tornley on a hot summer’s night?”

  Alice, glad that he had opened with a question she could remember the answer to, put up her hand. “We go out to the cave on Whistler’s Road and scare the fireflies.”

  “Good, Rita. Now where did you—”

  “How do we scare them?” interrupted Alex. “Do we sneak up behind them and yell ‘Boo!’?” He laughed at his own joke.

  Solomon Honker tapped Alex’s desk with his ruler and Alex fixed a serious look on his face.

  “Where did you go swimming?”

  “That’s easy-cheesy,” said Alex. “Roxby Dam. I did the biggest dive bombs of any mouse there.”

  Alice nudged her brother sharply with her elbow. “Alex—er, Raz,” Alice quickly corrected herself as she saw the ruler in Solomon Honker’s hand twitch. “Stop joking around and concentrate. This is serious.”

  She glanced up at Solomon Honker. “I think Raz meant Roxenby Dam,” she said. “Didn’t you, Raz?”

  Alex shrugged. “Whatever. But I still did the biggest dive bombs.”

  The rusty-orange and white mouse just sighed and said, “At least Raz is bringing a certain authenticity to the role. That can be helpful.” He smoothed his bow tie as if to calm himself, then asked, “And when is market day?”

  “Wednesday,” replied Alice promptly.

  “What kind of cheese do they sell there?” Alex butted in.

  “Raz, I hardly think anyone will want to know about the cheeses of Tornley,” his sister objected.

  “I would,” Alex persisted stubbornly.

  Before Alice could point out that not everyone was as obsessed with cheese as Alex, Solomon Honker said, “Mozzarella.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” said Alice.

  “Tornley is famous for its mozzarella.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Alex, giving his sister a smug look.

  The morning wore on in the same way, with Solomon Honker giving them piles of information to read and memorize. As well as the lives of Raz and Rita and life in Tornley, they studied the geography of Gerander, the ranks of Queen’s Guards in the Sourian army, and the differences between Sourian and Gerandan cuisine. Alex acquitted himself very well in this last category, though as Solomon Honker reminded them, “All you need to do is say that Sourian food is delicious and Gerandan food tastes like dirt a
nd you’ll be believable.”

  At last, their teacher tapped his desk three times with his ruler and said, “Well, that’s all we have time for. I just hope it’s enough.” Alice was slightly alarmed to see the worried look creasing Solomon Honker’s white brow.

  Tentatively she raised her hand and asked the question that had been bothering her all morning.

  “Sir, what will the Sourians do if they catch us spying on them?”

  Silence filled the room as Solomon Honker gently laid down his ruler. Just when Alice was starting to think he hadn’t heard her question, he said quietly, “Don’t get caught.” Alice felt the fear that had been nibbling at the edges of her mind settle like a stone in her chest.

  Solomon Honker glanced at his watch and said, “You’d better get along and have some lunch. I’ll meet you by the cafeteria steps in one hour.”

  As they hurried across the oval (Alex was determined not to miss out on the Camembert this time), Alice anxiously tried to recall their lessons of the morning. So much depended on what they had learned, but her brain felt empty.

  “Alex, what were the names of our neighbors in Tornley?”

  Alex just shrugged. “Who cares? They didn’t offer to take us in when our parents died, did they? Come on, sis.”

  Although this wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for, Alice found herself comforted by her brother’s breezy confidence. Solomon Honker was right: Raz mightn’t have all the answers, but in a way that would make his performance quite convincing. After all, Alex wasn’t very good at answers either, and she never questioned it, just accepted that he was a bit careless with details.

  The cafeteria was crowded and noisy, with a long line winding back from the buffet.

  “Oh no,” groaned Alex. “I’ll never get to try the Stetson Camembert at this rate.”

  Alice scanned the room for their aunt and uncle. There were so many mice bustling about with trays of food and sheaves of papers that it took her several minutes to spot them. They were seated near the edge of the room, and Alice saw her aunt shake her head as a dark brown mouse approached with a tray of food, obviously hoping to sit there.