Urchin and the Rage Tide

by M. I. McAllister

  “Corr!” whispered Crown.

  Corr realized he had been dreaming again. He sat up, felt for Sepia’s pulse, and listened again to her breathing.

  “Did you see it?” asked Crown.

  “See what?” His eyes still wanted to close.

  “Something silver,” said Crown. “It moved in the mists. No—sorry—it’s gone now. You go back to sleep. I’ll watch her.”

  Crispin rowed steadily on, thinking of the first time he had rowed a small boat through those drifting white wreaths, and how bleak and wretched everything had seemed. At the thought of all that had happened since, how much and how good it had been, he was astonished. He could not have imagined such wonderful years. Every dip and swish of the oars in the quiet night water took him deeper into the mists, and with every stroke he knew that what he was doing was the right thing, the only thing to do; and his heart became more and more at one with the Heart that made him.

  Stroke by stroke, with each creak and splash, the mists grew denser around him. He could see nothing else.

  Feeling rested at last, Corr woke and found he could stay awake. He decided he might as well try rowing again. The sky was just a little lighter, and the tide would soon turn, so, with a yawn, he stretched the stiffness from his arms and took up the oars. Crown spread a wing over Sepia, to keep her warm.

  “How’s your other wing?” asked Corr.

  “I think it’s mending,” said Crown. “It doesn’t hurt so much now, I think the moss helped. I’ll see if I can fly a little today.” He extended the wing, then gasped.

  “Did that hurt?” asked Corr.

  “Corr!” cried Crown. “We’re moving! We’re going into the mists!”

  Juniper, leaving Urchin, would have climbed up to his turret, but he saw the glimmer of a light behind the windows. Hope must be there. That was good. Somebody should be there just now, and his own heart was restless. The Chamber of Candles seemed to call him. It would still be dark and damp from flooding, but it was the right place to be. With a lantern and a basket of candles he hurried alone through the tunnels with his lopsided limp, as Brother Fir had done long before, glad of his cloak, for these tunnels were damp. He opened the Chamber of Candles.

  He felt the change in the air as soon as he opened the door. The chamber was warmer, drier, and cleaner than he could possibly have expected. He couldn’t explain it, and didn’t try.

  He walked slowly to the center of the room and raised the lantern. Every candle had been cleared away before the rage tide had struck, and the room was now bare. He limped steadily around the chamber, setting out candles on ledges and on the floor as they had always been; white candles, cream candles, tapering candles, wide, round candles, and from the lantern he kindled a taper. One after another the candles flickered, faltered into weak blue lights against the dimness, and grew strong. He moved to the next, and the next, from ledge to floor to ledge again. At last, he blew out the taper and knelt.

  He stayed in deep silence, his back straight, his paws turned palm upward, his eyes closed. The candle flames rose and grew stronger. When he opened his eyes, their power surprised him.

  A little before dawn, light blazed into the chamber. Juniper shielded his eyes, but the light struck into his heart and mind. He knew that it had always been there, but he had never truly seen it until now, when it had been set free and become, for a few seconds, wonderfully and terrifyingly visible.

  Instinct led him from the tower, and he had no need to call the other animals to follow him. They simply did, running to the shore, raising their faces to the sky.

  “Stars!” said Crispin. His heart lifted high with joy. One more night of riding stars! The mists were thinner now, and soon he would see the wide sea and sky beyond them. The tide had not yet turned. He felt his heart beating faster, and reassured himself that there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be lost. Now the mists were only light fingers of cloud around him. He rowed on until there was no need to row. For the third time in his life he had passed beyond the mists, and dawn was tracing pale gold in a waking sky, gilding the waves.

  He tried to stand in the boat, but the pain of his old wound ripped through him so suddenly that he fell and caught his breath. At last, a little unsteadily, he rose, turning to face the mists, knowing that the island he would never see again lay beyond them.

  A single star twirled, danced, swooped, and spun so close to him that he might have touched it. Where did that brightness in the sky come from? Was it in the mists? Was it sunrise? And as he watched the mists, rising and swirling, a joy grew in him so strong that it spread from his heart to his limbs, his paws, his head. It shone in his eyes, filled his lungs, and exploded into stars. One last pain tore his heart before joy overwhelmed him and he reached out his paws.

  “It’s you!” he cried, and fell.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  T’S RAINING STARS!” cried Crown, but on this night of riding stars they were not simply dancing across the sky. They were flying, soaring, and swooping; so many of them that it seemed not a single star could have stayed in its orbit. It was like a salute.

  Corr rowed on. Every stroke of the oars brought him nearer to Mistmantle. At any time the boat might stop, but they had come this far. Something had happened. Something had changed, something so solemn and powerful that he barely dared to speak, and it was Crown who whispered to Sepia, telling her that they were nearly home, that the queen would look after her.

  “And the stars!” he said. “If I could fly now, I’d fly among them! It’s like a dance! Sepia, can you open your eyes? The stars are dancing for you!”

  Every animal on the shore was on its knees. They watched the sky and the sea. Urchin and Juniper, captain and priest, knelt side by side. Urchin had taken off his circlet. Catkin, her eyes pink and welling with tears, came to hold paws with both of them.

  “Where’s Queen Cedar?” asked Urchin.

  “She wants to be left alone,” said Catkin.

  Urchin nodded. He could understand that.

  “May I join you?” said Padra, coming to kneel beside them.

  In all his life, Urchin had never thought of Padra as someone who needed looking after. Padra had always been the one to give encouragement and reassurance. But now, in this moment, he could feel the heaviness of his old captain’s heart, and put a paw on his shoulder. A star above them spun wildly, stopped for a second, and shattered in the sky, and Urchin felt it like the breaking of his own heart. Catkin hid her face, and Juniper put an arm around her.

  “You were born on such a night as this, Urchin,” said Padra. “And on such a night as this, we faced the worst that Husk could do.”

  “On a night like this,” said Urchin, “the Heartstone brought us home—Juniper and me, and Lugg. And it brought Cedar to us.”

  “On a night like this,” said Juniper, “you were rescued, Catkin, and the stars fought for us against the ravens.”

  “There has never been a night like this,” said Catkin quietly, and turned her face against Juniper’s shoulder.

  A figure was walking slowly along the shore toward them. With nothing being said, they all saw him at the same time.

  Urchin felt his heart had stopped. He could not move, and hardly breathed. From the soft gasps and sudden stillness of Juniper and Padra, he knew that they felt the same—then Juniper said quietly, “It’s Oakleaf,” and Catkin ran to hug her brother.

  “I’d never realized he was so like Crispin,” said Urchin.

  “I don’t think any of us did,” said Padra. “The island will be all right, with those two and Cedar.”

  “The islanders will need to be told,” said Urchin. “I mean, about Crispin.”

  “It has to be Cedar’s decision,” said Padra. “The family need time to sort themselves out before we tell the rest of the island, and she’ll choose the right moment.”

  More animals came to join them. The tower was behind them, and all Urchin could see was sand, sea, the far-off mists, and the sky growi
ng a little lighter all the time.

  Among the animals, the whisper spread: —It’s Urchin, have you heard, they made him a captain, yes, a captain! —Are you sure? He isn’t wearing a circlet…oh, yes, there it is, he’s holding it in his paws. Won’t it look good on that pale fur? Captain Urchin!

  Shyly watching him, they saw a new confidence in Urchin. As he looked up to observe the sky they saw him as an animal in command with an air of authority about him. But Urchin was looking up at the rising of the sun and wishing he could slow it down, and freeze the moment until Queen Cedar’s medicine was ready. He closed his paw around the bracelet and thought of his mother and father, hoping that, if Sepia died, they would welcome her to whatever lay beyond. But it seemed too harsh, if he must face the future without parents, without Crispin, and without Sepia.

  Heart help her, he thought, and closed his eyes. Heart have mercy. Bring her home. Let her live.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t ask that. Perhaps the Heart knew better.

  If she has to die, let her die peacefully, without pain, and help me to live without her. But please let her live.

  Padra touched his shoulder. “Urchin,” he said, “there’s something moving in the mists.”

  He opened his eyes and leaned forward. The shape, ghostly at first in the misty distance, emerged clearly through the mists. It was a boat, a small Mistmantle rowing boat with an animal heaving at the oars. He barely breathed.

  Fingal, Tide, and Swanfeather were already in the sea. Padra followed them. Urchin leaped up and ran.

  “We need ropes!” yelled Fingal. Urchin and Longpaw flew to the Spring Gate, but it seemed that a thousand paws were there with them, dragging out coils of rope to throw to the otters. Catkin stood ankle deep in the sea, calling out instructions before turning suddenly to run toward the tower. Dawn was spreading over the sky, but still stars skimmed across sea and lifted again to the sky. All around Urchin voices rose—Sepia’s family, the choir she had taught, Apple, Crackle, Tide and Swanfeather, Hope, all calling her name, Sepia! Sepia!

  “Heart bring her home!” cried Urchin. “Heart let her live!”

  Standing in the water, he strained to see the otters as they reached Sepia’s boat, fastened their ropes to it, and swam. With all their speed and strength, more otters swam out to join them. Suddenly the boat was nearer, it was skimming through the waves—Corr was rowing, Crown stood with his wings spread. Then the singing started.

  “Well done, Corr!” shouted Urchin. “Well done!”

  Catkin had gathered the choir. They sang at their sweetest and best, every note shaped and offered, singing Sepia home until tears blurred Urchin’s eyes. Though the sun had risen, the stars still rained and danced.

  There was no more need for Corr to row. The tide and the otters brought the boat rushing to the shore. He stood up in the bow, held up an oar in salute, then laid it down in the boat and sprang into the sea.

  Urchin rubbed his eyes with the back of his paw and ran to the jetty, hardly noticing how the crowds parted to let him through. Corr reached the jetty as Urchin knelt, reached down, and pulled him dripping from the water.

  “Well done, best of Voyagers,” said Urchin as he clasped Corr in his arms. “Brave, true Corr.”

  “She’s alive, sir,” gasped Corr, though the cheers of the animals nearly drowned out his voice, “but only just. We did our best, sir.”

  “You did more than your best,” said Urchin, and turned to hold up his paws to silence the crowds.

  “Let her hear the choir!” he called, so the animals were silent while the sea and the choir sang Sepia to the shore, and every beat of Urchin’s heart was a prayer until the boat was almost at the jetty. He sprang in beside her and knelt. Crown lifted a protecting wing.

  Urchin gasped. Beneath the great soft wing lay the limp, tiny figure of a squirrel, her face gaunt and sunken, her paw in her mouth.

  “Sepia!” he whispered. He slipped an arm behind her shoulders and raised her, shocked and afraid to find how thin she had become. Taking her paw, he felt the framework of frail bones that could snap like twigs. In spite of all that Corr and Crown could do, she felt frozen to his touch. He forced himself to keep hoping, but how could anyone so frail grow strong again?

  “Sepia,” he said again, “can you hear me? I’ve got you. You’re home now. You’re going to be well. You’re back among your friends, and we can heal you. You’re going to be all right, Sepia.”

  He looked up, noticing for the first time that Crown’s other wing was limp, his face hollow with exhaustion, and his feathers rough. He, too, had suffered for Sepia.

  “Thank you, Crown,” said Urchin, and the swan bowed his head.

  The crowds on the jetty were parting. Urchin turned to see that they were moving aside to make room for the queen as she ran through, a basket on her arm and a quilt in her paws.

  “Get her onto the jetty, Urchin!” she called.

  The boat glided into its place by the jetty and the keen, quick otters tied it with ropes. Urchin wrapped the yellow-gold cloak around Sepia and, as he lifted her, was terrified to find how light she was. Then he stepped from the boat, facing the tower with Sepia limp in his arms, as all around them the stars still fell into the sea and the choir sang, and it seemed to Urchin that this was the moment he had been born for. He laid her down at the queen’s paws.

  “Give them room!” ordered the queen. She wrapped the quilt tightly around Sepia, putting her paw to Sepia’s head and her limbs, looking into her eyes, feeling for a pulse. She unstoppered a bottle and forced it into her mouth.

  “Is that the medicine?” asked Urchin.

  “No, that isn’t ready yet,” whispered the queen, still looking into Sepia’s face. “But this may keep her alive until it is.” She raised her voice. “Stay with us Sepia,” she said. “You have to, you don’t have a choice. Stay with us.” She looked up at the crowd. “All of you, look after Corr and Crown! Now, Urchin, quickly!” And she ran ahead of Urchin to the tower.

  Animals were already gathered around Corr and Crown, congratulating them, asking them questions, and hurrying them back to the tower. Padra and Fingal seemed to be quietly taking over there. And still the stars fell and the choir sang, as Urchin carried Sepia home at last.

  Needle, watching from the tower, turned and dashed to the workrooms where the newly finished swansdown pillow lay by itself on a table. She snatched it up, struggling to get her arms around it, and ran to Sepia’s chamber, where she found the queen there already, feeding wood to the fire in the grate, while mole maids poured steaming water into a bath. Needle had only just laid the white, scented pillow on the soft bed when the door swung open.

  Urchin carried Sepia in, let the damp, grubby cloak fall to the floor, and laid her gently down, turning her hollow cheek against the soft cotton. He knelt beside her, holding her paw.

  “Let me see her,” said Cedar, bending over Sepia. Urchin watched the queen, but there was no expression in her eyes.

  “We have to wait until noonday to give her the antidote,” she said finally. “It’s settling and clearing now, but it isn’t ready yet. We have to keep her alive for the next few hours, and that means getting her warm. Hot bath with lavender, then dry her by the fire and put her to bed. We’ll try to get some drinks into her.”

  Needle was staring at the cloak as the queen and the maids carried Sepia to her bath. “That’s your cloak, Urchin,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Urchin. The cloak was the last thing he cared about. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” she said. She smoothed it down, frowning at the stains of seawater and the frayed hem. “You weren’t meant to. It was a surprise. Sepia was making it for you.”

  “Sepia was?” He reached out to hold it again. “For me?”

  “Who else would?” snapped Needle. “She needed help with it, so it was in my workroom. I’ve been wondering all this time where it had gone. Corr must have taken it when he went to find
her. I wish he’d asked me first.”

  “I suppose he just went to find a cloak and grabbed the nearest one,” said Urchin.

  “He grabbed the best cloak in the island,” said Needle. “She even had it lined.” She stroked the cloak fondly. It was good to feel that her work had been a part of saving Sepia, even though Sepia had done most of the sewing herself. “It might have made all the difference. I’d better sort out that hem for you, but I’m not sure if we can do anything about the stains. Thripple might know.”

  The queen lifted Sepia from the bath and carried her to the fire to dry her, wrapping her in the towel as if she were a baby. “Stay with me, Sepia,” she said, rubbing the thin limbs in the soft white towel—gently enough, though Urchin was afraid that Sepia’s wrists would break. “Don’t give up. Keep fighting.”

  “Here’s Juniper,” said Needle. Juniper limped in to bend over Sepia, and gave the queen a look of question.

  “She’s going to get better,” said the queen firmly, though Sepia’s eyelids had not even flickered. “She’s home.”

  When Sepia was dry, Needle plumped up the swansdown pillow on the bed. Urchin lifted her onto it, and when the queen and Needle had laid the quilt softly over her and left, he took her paw and sat beside her, talking to her. He told her that all was well on the island now, that the tower was safe, that Mossberry could do no more harm, and that her family was well, Twirl was safe, her choir was still singing for her. He told her of summer, with honeysuckle climbing up the tower walls, and fruit ripening on the trees, and of the party they would have to celebrate her homecoming.