Urchin and the Heartstone

by M. I. McAllister

  “Please, Sepia,” said a small squirrel, “Fingal says Captain Gorsen brings his girlfriends here.” There were spasms of squeaky giggles.

  “It’s true!” said another. “My sister said she saw him coming here.”

  Sepia shrugged. “It’s anybody’s cave, not just ours. Now, choir. Low voices—that’s you, Swish, and Fallow and Grain, on the left. Siskin…no, you don’t have to stand beside Fallow. I know she’s your best friend, but I need you on this side….”

  It took some time for Sepia to organize the small animals, during which Fingal took to the water, and Needle, curious to know if Gorsen really did take his girlfriends there, explored a cleft in the back of the cave. There was a lot of twisting about and looking over shoulders, and squeals of “What’s she looking for?” and “Ooh, look, he’s going in the water,” and some squirrels begging to be allowed to play in the water, and another one, called Twitch, was crying because she didn’t want to go in the water, and her older sister snapped at her that nobody said she had to, and Twitch cried even more, while somebody asked if they could play “Find the Heir of Mistmantle.”

  Finally Sepia tapped her hind paw on the ground for silence and raised a claw to conduct, but they had hardly sung the first note when Needle whispered urgently, “Sepia! Come here!” She was half wedged into the cleft in the rock, beckoning furiously.

  Sepia sighed quietly. “What now?”

  “It’s important! Fingal, you too! Quietly!”

  Needle squeezed through an impossibly small gap, said “Sh!” again, turned sharply right, left, and right, and disappeared into almost total darkness. After that, she didn’t say “Sh!,” but only found Sepia’s paw in the dark and squeezed it, which meant the same thing. From an intake of breath behind her, Sepia knew that Fingal was about to speak, so she felt for his mouth and pressed it shut.

  Needle smelled earth, tree roots, and stone. The caves must be linked to a tunnel network, and the tree roots had formed a narrow split in the rock ahead of them. Through it, she heard a hedgehog voice. At first it was impossible to understand any words, but from the tone of voice the hedgehog seemed to be giving instructions.

  “Throne Room…” She heard that clearly, then something about “attack.” But it couldn’t be, surely? Then came the words that made her skin shiver and her fur stand out—

  “…when Crispin is dead.”

  She felt her fur bristle, and pressed a paw against her chest. Silently they slipped back the way they had come, back to the dimly lit cave with the chattering squirrels, who were now chasing around the cave and daring each other to jump into the water.

  “No!” commanded Needle so sharply that they were instantly still and silent. “Stay where you are and don’t make a sound!”

  Needle, Fingal, and Sepia huddled together at a little distance. From Fingal’s face, even he was taking this seriously. He looked like Padra.

  “They’re planning to kill the king!” whispered Needle.

  “But who’d want to?” said Sepia.

  “Whoever they are, they must have found a way to the Throne Room from there,” said Fingal. “The tunnels must link to the one I found on the other side of the lake. I’ll go by water and get to Crispin before them.”

  “It would take too long!” said Needle. “It took all night last time!”

  “That’s only because I tried to climb back up first, and Hope needed to rest and be carried. We’re wasting time.”

  “You might get caught,” warned Sepia.

  “I might not,” said Fingal, and disappeared down the waterslide.

  “I’ll go through the trees,” said Sepia. “I’ll be faster than hedgehogs in tunnels.”

  “And I’ll go through the woods,” said Needle, “but we should send this lot home first.”

  Sepia clapped her paws together. “No practice today!” she called. “Something important has to be done. Never mind what, Siskin. Have a race home!”

  There were a few squeals of protest, but soon Sepia had left them far behind. Needle bustled them from the cave and toward the wood, trusting the smaller ones to their older brothers and sisters and to Damson, who lived nearby and had come to see what all the squeaking was about. There were still squeaks from those who wanted to go with Sepia, but she was far ahead: bounding and leaping from one bare tree to the next, twisting and balancing with her tail as dry twigs snapped and branches bent and sprang, her breath in clouds of mist around her, stopping only when she absolutely must gasp for breath. The chill winter air hurt her lungs. Never had she flown through the trees so swiftly, never had she raced so furiously over the bare forest floor, never, never before had her paws trembled like this with exhaustion. By the time she reached the tower her throat rasped with thirst and her paws ached and shook.

  In the winter afternoon, the light was already low. To exhausted Sepia, the walls of Mistmantle Tower looked so forbidding that her courage failed her, but they were the quickest way to the corridor outside the Throne Room. She took a deep breath and gathered herself up for the climb. On the third attempt she managed the leap that sent her clawing and scrambling up the stone, tumbling in through a window, and staggering to the corridor where Gorsen and Lumberen stood on duty. They weren’t agitated, they weren’t fighting off intruders! She wasn’t too late!

  Crispin sat straight-backed on the throne, his head and tail upright, his paws on the carved arms, his face stern. Brother Fir sat on a low stool beside him. A young mole page, Burr, stood on duty beside a table where wine and biscuits had been set out, a fire crackled low in the grate, and untouched on the hearth lay the sword the envoys had offered to Urchin. Tall, dignified, and fierce-eyed, his silver chain about his neck, Lord Treeth stood before Crispin.

  “So,” said Crispin patiently, “you are still complaining of your rooms, your lack of freedom, and the visits of Mistress Tay. Your rooms are among the finest on the island. Of course you are not allowed your freedom, after what you did when you had it. As for Mistress Tay, she is a very learned and distinguished otter. You should consider yourself honored by her company. Doesn’t it while away your imprisonment?”

  “That is hardly the point, Your Majesty,” said Lord Treeth sternly. “We should not be captives here at all.”

  “The point,” said Crispin, “is that Urchin of Mistmantle should not be a captive. Please don’t tell me again that he went of his own accord.”

  “Now slow down, little Sepia,” said Gorsen outside the Throne Room door, stooping over her with a waft of scented soap. “Take a deep breath and start again.”

  “But there isn’t time!” insisted Sepia furiously. “It’s very urgent!”

  “So you think you heard hedgehogs, Sepia? Tell me again—this is important—tell me exactly what you heard them say.”

  “They said there’d be an attack, and something about ‘when Crispin is dead,’” said Sepia. Lumberen laughed, and she wanted to hit him.

  “You’re sure of this?” asked Gorsen gravely.

  “Yes, I’m sure!” she cried, and beat her paw on the floor.

  “Then it doesn’t amount to much of a plot, does it?” he said, and smiled kindly. He leaned closer and softened his voice. “They must have been discussing what happens when His Majesty dies—he will one day, you know—and who would lead us if we were attacked. You’ve been a brave young squirrel, Sepia, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  Sepia burned with embarrassment. Gorsen might be right, and she was a silly young squirrel with too much imagination, turning snippets of gossip into a plot against the king. But it hadn’t sounded like a chat between hedgehogs, and she knew every animal had the right to see the king.

  “All the same,” she said firmly, “I want to tell the king at once. We mustn’t take chances.”

  “No, we mustn’t take chances,” agreed Gorsen as his paws closed on her throat.

  Crispin offered wine to Lord Treeth, and saw him look down his nose at Burr the mole as he poured it. Burr w
as nervous, and his paw shook so that the wine splashed a little. He mopped at it with a napkin as Lord Treeth gave a low sigh.

  “Well done, Burr,” said Crispin to the mole. “Lord Treeth, if you’ve nothing else to tell me, the hedgehog on duty will presently escort you back to—”

  “My prison?”

  “Your chamber,” said Crispin.

  Treeth bowed stiffly. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he said. “Permit me to drink the health of my king.” He raised his voice. “King Silverbirch!” With a flourish he drank the wine, then a swift movement of his paw made Crispin reach for his sword hilt.

  With a swish and flash of silver, Lord Treeth swept a dagger from inside his cloak and hurled himself forward. A twist of Crispin’s sword sent the dagger whirling across the room, but Treeth snatched Urchin’s sword from the hearth.

  Sepia fought, kicked, scratched, struggled, tried to scream, and bit with all her might into the paw that covered her mouth until Gorsen curled over with pain, and Sepia pulled hard at his ankle. Voices in the Throne Room shouted for the guards. Off balance, Gorsen fell heavily and Sepia scrambled over him to the door, but Lumberen was through it first. She tried to cry for help, and couldn’t. Everything was happening at once: Gleaner was tearing along the corridor and hurling herself at the door; Fir was at the door, then at the window, shouting for help; Lord Treeth was on the floor, grappling with Burr the mole page; Lumberen had drawn a sword from under his cloak and was fighting with Crispin; and as Sepia threw herself, biting at Lumberen’s sword arm, the floor seemed to wobble as if it would give way altogether. Gleaner was pulling Lord Treeth from Burr, digging her claws into his shoulders. Sepia was flung from Lumberen’s arm. Crispin stooped to seize Lord Treeth by the scruff of the neck, and turned to aim a blow at Gorsen, who had struck at him, as Lumberen threw a sword to Lord Treeth. Burr was biting a hedgehog ankle, and from under the floorboards Fingal appeared with a cry of, “Treason, Your Majesty!” before launching into the fight. Brother Fir took the tablecloth and threw it over Lord Treeth’s head. Fingal, having felled Lumberen with a swish of his tail, turned to the throne and was trying to drag it into place over the hole in the floorboards, but Sluggen was already clambering up into the chamber. Fingal knocked him on the head, and he tumbled back down, but more came, some seeming to lose their footing. Docken and a company of moles had run in from the corridor, crying, “Treason! Look to the king!” There were cries and clashes, blood and fur. Padra hurled himself into the room, and suddenly it was over, with Docken, Padra, and Crispin holding drawn swords to the throats of Lord Treeth and the rebel hedgehogs. Fingal picked up Gorsen’s dropped dagger, looked to see what Padra was doing, and copied him. Brother Fir was attending to Burr the mole, who appeared to be injured and was shaking. Guards blocked the doorway and window, and two of them were struggling to hold back Gleaner as she screamed tearful insults at Lord Treeth.

  “Quiet, Gleaner,” ordered Crispin, still breathless from the fight. “You have done your part bravely, and may rest now.”

  “I did it for my lady!” snarled Gleaner.

  “I know,” said Crispin. “Guards, take her and leave her with a sensible squirrel who can calm her down. Take Lord Treeth, Gorsen, and Lumberen here under guard to the Gathering Chamber, and put the rest in cells.”

  Padra bowed and gave orders, and the rebels were taken away. Fingal mentioned that there were more of the vermin down there, then vanished down the gap, and bobbed up again to report that the ones he’d knocked down were still there, and a bit bruised.

  “Then I will attend to them next,” said Brother Fir calmly, and patted the young mole on the shoulder. “Bravely done, Burr. What a very good thing you spilled that wine. There was still enough left for the hedgehogs to slip on.”

  “Was that wine?” asked Fingal. “I thought it was just wet floor from wet otter! Sorry I didn’t get here a bit faster, Your Majesty.”

  “Loyal and true animals, all of you,” said Crispin, throwing a paw across Fingal’s wet shoulders. “Well done, and thank you. I owe my life to each one of you, and the island owes you more than we can ever know. Burr, well done! Are you hurt? No? We’ll have to make sure your family knows how brave you’ve been. Moles, send some fast squirrels to gather together as many of the Circle animals as you can find and send them to the Gathering Chamber, and I need two good tunneling moles to investigate under the Throne Room.”

  Mother Huggen and a team of efficient hedgehogs and moles slipped in quietly to care for the wounded. A silent procession made its way to the Gathering Chamber—guards, Lord Treeth, Gorsen, Lumberen, Fir, Crispin, and Docken bleeding from a cut to his paw but insisting that he didn’t need help.

  “I’ll join you presently,” called Padra.

  Fingal, who hadn’t been in the Throne Room often, was lying on his back under the throne to inspect it from underneath.

  “Fingal, get out of there,” ordered Padra. “You’re in the royal Throne Room now, not a cave at low tide.” Fingal wriggled out. “You’ll be needed in the Gathering Chamber.”

  “Good!” said Fingal.

  “Well, move, then!” said Padra, and as Fingal lolloped away, Padra added, “Well done, you.”

  Fingal grinned back over his shoulder. “I enjoyed it,” he said.

  Padra called back one of the guards. “We’ll need Mistress Tay,” he said, “and that other Whitewings squirrel, Scatter, just in case she knows anything. And Whittle, as he’s learning law and history. He should be there. Sepia, would you—” But as he turned he saw tears standing in Sepia’s eyes, and knelt before her in concern.

  “Sepia!” he said, “You’ve been so brave, and I’m neglecting you! Are you hurt?”

  Sepia put her hands to her throat.

  “Can’t…” she whispered hoarsely, and struggled painfully to swallow. “…He tried to strangle me, and…”

  “You can’t speak?” said Padra.

  “Sing,” whispered Sepia, and sobbed with heartbreak into Padra’s shoulder.

  The Gathering Chamber had hardly been used lately, and though somebody had hastily made up a fire, the air was still forbiddingly cold. The gallery built for the Hedgehog Host was conspicuously new and empty. Dust sheets covered the chairs brought in for the coronation and the new Threadings, but a Threading of a young female squirrel with a circlet on her head hung uncovered outside the doorway, looking serenely across at them. Crispin’s eyes flickered toward it as he took his place on the dais in a grim, cold silence. Tay had been sent for, and stood rigidly upright with Scatter beside her. She glared across the room at Fingal, clearly annoyed at his presence. Whittle stayed two paces behind Brother Fir, to the right. Padra and Sepia arrived, Sepia trying not to cry, Padra stern and tight-lipped, slipping to the dais to whisper something to Crispin.

  Before the dais stood Lord Treeth, Gorsen, and Lumberen, their forepaws tied, each one attended by a guard with a drawn sword. The Circle animals, stern-faced, stood in an arc around them. Mother Huggen, having attended the wounded, took her place among them, and when all were gathered, Crispin spoke.

  “Gorsen,” he said slowly, “Lord Treeth, and the rest of you who took arms against me and my subjects today, you have endangered the peaceful animals of Mistmantle. Gorsen, you attempted the murder of our young and loyal Sepia. You were one of our most trusted animals, nurtured by Mistmantle all your life. Explain yourself.”

  Gorsen cleared his throat and drew himself up.

  “I am delighted to, Crispin,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t call you Your Majesty, but, of course, you’re nothing of the kind. You’re only a twitch-tail squirrel. I believe in some places they’re called tree-rats.”

  Padra’s paw was on his sword, but he watched Crispin.

  “Go on, Gorsen,” said Crispin calmly.

  “The only kings of Mistmantle are hedgehogs,” said Gorsen. “For generations, we had hedgehog kings and the island was well-governed. King Brushen was the last. His son was murdered by a squirrel. Who brou
ght King Brushen down? Husk and Aspen. Squirrels. And,” he raised his voice, slowing down the words for impact, “Husk the squirrel encouraged the king to cull the young! Husk the squirrel forced us into underground labor in far corners of the island! All our woes have been caused by squirrels!”

  “May I interrupt?” said Brother Fir mildly. “They were caused by only two squirrels, Husk and Aspen. Crispin the squirrel and Padra the otter freed you.”

  “They were only doing their duty as captains,” said Gorsen loftily. “I have no complaint about that. They were adequate captains. But having freed the island from a tyrannous, false, murdering squirrel, they made another squirrel king.”

  “You are at fault,” came a clear, stern female voice, and Tay stepped forward with a frown that made her strong, dark whiskers stand out more than ever. “Nobody made Crispin king. Under the laws of Mistmantle, he was next in line to the throne. His suitability for the crown might be questioned, but his right to it cannot be.”

  “Thank you, Tay,” said Crispin.

  Gorsen cast a glance of contempt at Tay. “This is what I’d expect from an otter,” he said loftily. “Otters are only fit for splashing about in streams, just as squirrels are only fit for fetching and carrying. Moles are quite happy if they’re kept underground, and they don’t talk much because no mole ever has anything worth saying. Hedgehogs are creatures of the earth. We take life at a sensible pace. We have dignity and understanding. King Brushen was a true king, a good king. Who can respect a king with…” He gave a snort of laughter. “…A bushy tail and tufted ears? A king who runs up trees? Those who fought against Crispin the squirrel today—myself, Lumberen, Sluggen, Crammen, and our supporters—were sworn to a secret brotherhood of hedgehogs, and not even our closest families and colleagues knew our plans. You needn’t think the rest of the Hedgehog Host had an in. We were a very select band, only ten of us altogether, but we swore we wouldn’t rest until we had a hedgehog on the throne again. We were few, we were brave, we were determined, we were loyal to our own kind. We would have given our heart’s blood for our cause.”