Bookweirdest (14 page)

“Now,” Kit resumed, “your sister seems bored, and I confess I’m having a little trouble getting past the setting and the characters on this one. Do you think it would help to introduce a dragon? It feels like we need some sort of conflict. Do you think a dragon would work? Nothing old Raritan couldn’t handle, but it would give the little princess downstairs something to do.”

“How about a vengeful stoat prince?” Malcolm asked pointedly.

Kit missed the jibe. “I hadn’t thought of that. Would that work, Spiny? Do you think our sharp-toothed friend has it in him to play the villain?”

Norman couldn’t resist provoking his uncle. “I thought this story already had a villain.”

Kit just made an exaggerated hurt face. Everything was a joke to him.

Norman read the page in front of him on the computer.

This seemed to go on for several paragraphs more, but Norman noted that the file was only two pages in total. “Is there more?” he asked. “Does anything happen, or is it just description?”

Kit seemed bothered by the question. “Well, I have to get the
beginning right. There’s no point going on from a bad beginning. I have to make sure it’s just right.”

“And what about the other file? ‘The Case of Madame Something’? Is that another story?”

“Yes, well, that’s normal. I always have several projects on the go. You can’t govern the imagination. You have to go where it tells you.” Kit was so busy pontificating on the art of the imagination, he didn’t notice Malcolm prowling around his desk and leafing through the crumpled printouts.

“So you’re a writer now?” Norman asked skeptically. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Malcolm had found several pages of interest and was slipping them into Norman’s knapsack on the floor.

“You know,” Kit said earnestly, “I think I was always a writer. It’s just taken me a long time to complete my apprenticeship. I’d like to think I’ve been studying all these years. I’ve really immersed myself in the world of books, you know.”

Norman shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Some imagination. You didn’t even make up the Shrubberies. It’s real. And Dora’s real too. It’s not right what you’re doing here. The tiara you gave to Dora is from another book. She told me. You stole it. I bet you even stole that tower and the moat and the stupid dolphin fountain. They don’t belong to you. They belong somewhere else.”

Kit’s frown seemed real for once.

“We’re not going to help you, you know. You might as well know that. What you are doing here is not right,” Norman repeated. “How long do you think Raritan will play along? He knows he doesn’t belong here. You’ve already made an enemy of the stoat king. Do you think you could handle Raritan as your enemy?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call young Malcolm my enemy.” Kit glanced towards Malcolm, who was now standing atop a pile of manuscript pages, scowling as if what he was reading was particularly bad. Kit paused and continued to bluster. “We’ve been through some adventures, you and I, haven’t we, Mal? We haven’t always agreed, but
‘enemies’ is going a little far. Am I right?” He tried to laugh, but it came out forced and unconvincing.

Malcolm looked up from his reading for a moment to stare at the man behind the desk. The look he gave him left no doubt as to how he felt about their past.

Kit had to look away. “Well,” he said, more softly, “I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

“With Raritan too?” Norman asked.

“Raritan is no problem at all.”

He didn’t sound confident, but there was no point in arguing any further. There never was with Kit. He helped only when it was to his advantage or when it amused him, and he had set his mind on building this fantasy world for Dora and himself. It didn’t mean that Norman had to play along, though, and from the looks of it, Dora was getting tired of the game too.

“I’ll be seeing you, then,” he said. Then he thought he’d put in a word for Dora. “Word of advice: if Dora is grumpy, it’s because she’s not eating right. Maybe she needs some fruit and vegetables before her ice cream.” Among other things, Uncle Kit was a terrible babysitter.

Malcolm’s parting gesture was less kind. He aimed a meaningful kick at the tallest pile of papers, sending them sprawling on the floor. Then he strode across the keyboard purposefully, leaving a string of gobbledygook across the screen. And they left Kit at the desk with his writing and his fantasies.

Back at Willowbraid, they had an appointment with the armourer. The talking rabbits of England had not forgotten the crafts of the Great Cities. Their blacksmith went by the traditional English name of Wayland, but he boasted of his Santandarian heritage as he laid out a selection of his finest swords for Malcolm to choose from. The stoat eyed them expertly, extending his arm and tossing each one from hand to hand to feel the weight of the blades. Wayland nodded knowingly when Malcolm made his selection. “Aye, that’s the one,” he said.

“It’s as fine a blade as I’ve ever seen,” Malcolm told the proud smithy as he slid the sword into its scabbard and belted it to his waist. “My last was a gift from my uncle, forged in Santander itself. This one is its equal.”

He had a quiver of new arrows too, and an English-style longbow that the rabbits had copied from their human countrymen. That afternoon, he spent an hour at the range befriending the archers of Willowbraid, but he still made sure he won the impromptu contest that broke out.

Norman had a weapon too. By design, it was a two-handed broadsword, meant for the burliest of rabbit warriors; in Norman’s hands, it was a short dagger. He’d tucked it into his belt at first, but instead of making him feel safer, it only reminded him of the danger. It was in his knapsack for the time being, with the human-sized pen and pencil Malcolm had lifted from Kit’s study and a sheaf of white computer paper.

There was celebrating that night in Willowbraid. All afternoon the town smelled like baking, and as night fell rabbit swains carried long tables and laid them in rows across the cathedral square. All the townspeople came out, carrying the trays of food they’d made for the festivities. Norman sat on the steps of the cathedral, beside the head table. Shy rabbit girls offered him bowls of salad and trays of tiny bread loaves that he ate in one gulp. The bread melted in his mouth. He had never tasted anything like it. When the rabbits saw him stuffing spare loaves into his knapsack, they brought out another tray and filled any remaining space in his bag.

“You know, when I became a vegetarian,” Norman told Malcolm, “kids at school teased me that I ate rabbit food.”

Malcolm raised a glass of raspberry beer and toasted, “To rabbit food—second to none!”

After dinner, the tables were pulled to the side and the square became a giant dance floor. Norman watched as the rabbits danced their complicatedly choreographed routines, forming lines, linking arms and turning in circles, making intricate patterns in the square. When the formal dancing was done, the tempo picked up and
young rabbit couples danced merrily together, whirling across the cobbles. Children had decided by this point that they were brave enough to approach the human boy sitting on the cathedral steps. They made a game of creeping up on him to try to touch him. Norman waited until the last minute before feinting towards them and sending them scrambling, giggling through the square.

“What does this remind you of, Mal?” He wondered if the stoat was thinking the same thing.

“The victory celebrations at Lochwarren,” Malcolm said with a slow smile. Despite this, he seemed distracted. On most days, no one enjoyed a feast more than the stoat prince. “It’s like that day in more ways than one.”

The victory they celebrated at Lochwarren had come at the cost of many lives. Malcolm’s father, Duncan, had not lived to see the stoat banner raised again over their ancestral castle.

“Cuilean will be okay,” Norman told him. “A few days of vegetable stew and Esme’s magic herbs, and he’ll be his old self.”

Malcolm nodded. “And still, this is not my celebration. You and I still have a battle to fight.” He tapped the hilt of his new sword instinctively. “More than one, it seems.”

As the festivities wound down and the rabbit mothers began dragging their excited children to bed, Esme finally appeared.

“Your uncle is a tough soldier,” she told Malcolm as she nibbled on whatever was left at their table. “He’s been treated badly. He has a touch of cellar fever and the damp from the dungeons has worked its way into his joints, but he’ll get through. He’s a battler.”

Malcolm snarled and tapped the sword at his side again. “I should never have left. It was reckless of me.”

“You needed the map. You
still
need the map. Jerome will help us. Once we have that, we’ll put Guillaume in his place.” Norman’s reassurance did nothing to dispel the bitter look in the stoat prince’s eye.

Esme broke the solemn silence. “I’ve brought you your papers,” she said, handing over two small pages of fine rabbit calligraphy. “I rewrote what you dictated in smaller script. Easier to digest.”

Norman scanned the pages and marvelled at what she’d managed to fit in. They’d debated long and hard about what to write. The return trip was easy—if they needed to escape, they would return to this very spot in the cathedral square. It was the outbound leg that challenged them. Days of captivity had stoked Malcolm’s anger, and he was ready for some fighting. He was all for getting to the heart of the matter, surprising John of Nantes in his tent and ending his reign of terror with a few well-placed strokes of his new sword. Norman wasn’t so sure that was a contest they would win. The only advantage they had was surprise. Nantes had all the weapons they had and more. In battle, size and numbers often matter.

Norman’s worry was rescuing Jerome. They needed to get him out of the library before John of Nantes’s archers burned it down. Then they needed to escape San Savino, or at least find somewhere safe from the fire—somewhere in the cellars, maybe, or deep in the clay fort. Anywhere but in the wooden rafters among the dry scrolls.

Norman scanned the page now and wondered if they had made the right choice. Esme watched and seemed to read his mind.

“Here,” she said, handing over a third piece of paper. “I wrote up the other one as well. In case you change your mind.”

As Norman took the page from her outstretched hand, he wondered if he was grateful or not. It only delayed the decision yet again.

The moon was out by the time they curled up on the straw that the rabbits had laid down in the square for them. Malcolm was yawning already. Norman was tired but not sleepy, if that made any sense. His stomach was a mess of nerves.

Malcolm could see what he was thinking. “Fear is normal,” he assured him. “You aren’t any less of a warrior for it. Even my father was afraid.” Norman found this difficult to believe. Duncan had seemed fearless. “In battle, he always said, we conquer our fears first and our enemies second, and the strength comes from our allies, the friends who fight beside us. We fight to keep them from harm, because the fear of losing them is greater than the fear of dying.”

Norman thought about that and was shocked to realize the stoat was right. In all the battles he’d fought, the fear had always
disappeared into the background when he thought of Malcolm. Knowing that his friend felt the same calmed him instantly. His body felt warm from the inside, like he’d just eaten soup on a cold day.

“You’ve made your choice?” the stoat asked, indicating the pieces of paper that Norman held in his hands.

“I have,” Norman told him confidently. He ripped a corner from the page and began chewing before offering Malcolm a symbolic bite. The pages were almost as easy to digest as that night’s bread loaves. Norman had eaten a lot of paper in his short life, but nothing went down as easily as fine rabbit-made rice paper.

A
lot happened very quickly, or seemingly within the same moment. A blood-curdling scream brought Norman to. It was the kind of noise that they say could wake the dead. Norman wasn’t dead, but it woke him anyway. He rose with a start, shouting, “What?”

He didn’t know who was being attacked or by what, but the shrieking continued, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo. The screamer wasn’t the woman in the old-fashioned dress and fancy hairdo of cascading ringlets who stood several feet away, although she had every reason to scream. A man in a blue military jacket and a stage villain’s moustache aimed a short-barrelled revolver at her chest, and yet she seemed remarkably calm. Her head was tilted to one side and her arms were crossed in front of her as if she was about to lecture her assailant on the rudeness of pointing guns at people.