The Heir of Mistmantle (30 page)

He looked up to meet Urchin’s eyes. The two squirrels stood on either side of Husk’s skeleton, each holding up a light.

“I’ve found him,” said Juniper.

Urchin came to stand beside him, looking down on the circlet, the sword, and the robe that he had last seen when he had seemed to have been much younger, when the gleam of that circlet and the magnificence of that robe had drawn the whole island to Husk’s power, when murder had always been in the air. So here was the end of Husk’s story. Shreds of nibbled cloth, dulled jewels fallen from a battered circlet, a tarnished old sword blade, and shattered bones.

“I wish none of it had happened,” whispered Juniper. “All the things he did and what he became. But it did, and we can’t change the past. We can only make a difference now.” From the scene of old death, he looked up to the reassuring glow from the Chamber of Candles above them. “Now,” he added quietly, because he didn’t want Needle to hear this, “nobody can ever see me in a dim light, from far away, and think they’ve seen my father.”

Urchin stared at him. He was about to say that Juniper didn’t look a bit like Husk, but, now that he came to think of it, there was something, just now and again, in the turn of his head—seen from a distance, in a poor light, he would look a bit like Husk.

“I climbed to the top of the dead tree this morning,” said Juniper.

“I know,” said Urchin. “In the trees. Crispin and I were just coming out of the burrow.”

There was a little gasp from Needle, and they turned sharply to run back to her. She lay on the ground, her mouth tight with pain.

“I tried to walk,” she said, “I think I’ve done something to the hind paw on that side, too. I’m a bit bruised down one side. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Try taking deep breaths,” advised Juniper.

“I did,” she said, “but it hurts.”

“We need to get her out quickly,” said Urchin to Juniper. “We can’t get her up there without help.”

“Excuse me, I’m still here,” said Needle with all the indignation she could manage.

“Sorry,” said Urchin, “we need to get
you
out, and we need help. We need a team with a rope or a sling, or a basket or something, to fetch you. None of us had the sense to bring a rope. Needle, it’s best if Juniper stays with you because he’s the one who knows about injuries. I’ll tell Crispin what we’ve found and get a rescue team down here.”

“Fast as you can, Urchin,” said juniper. Suddenly hungry for warmth, he realized that Needle would be cold, too. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her as she flattened her spines.

Urchin stood back to take a long look at the way they had come, weighing up the angle of the slope, the steps, the ledge, and the sheer cliff. Making a good, fast run up the loose stones and gravel would be difficult, but without that he hadn’t a hope of getting up the cliff. Even with a good launch, it would be hard. He couldn’t remember running up anything so smooth and so high. He ran up the scree, took a deep breath, and gathered all his powers for the spring.

It was a strong, stretching leap that took him far up the cliff, but the height still above him was daunting, and he felt himself slipping as he scrabbled for a claw hold and slithered helplessly back to the ground. Angry at himself, both for failing and for failing in front of his friends when Needle needed help, he took a few deep breaths and with all his strength and skill launched himself at the cliff, scrabbled, and fell again.

He had done all he could, he had used all he had to give, and it had not been enough. The strength he needed was beyond anything he knew. Deep in his heart he prayed, and felt that Juniper was praying, too.

Heart who brought me through stars and sea and over the clouds, give me your strength. Heart who brought me through the earthquake, help me. Be the strength of my strength. Be the Heart in my heart.

He thought of woods in spring, with young squirrels racing and chasing from tree to tree, faster and higher. He thought of flying, with a flicker of joy. He sprang.

Think higher, think higher,
he told himself, stretching out his claws into the air.
Fly!

He landed not far from the cliff top, but still not close enough, and felt himself slipping. This time, he didn’t scrabble to stay up.
Fly!
he thought, and pushing his paws against the cliff, he sprang once more, stretching out his claws for the cliff top and heaving himself over the edge.

“Well done, Urchin,” yelled Juniper. “Heart speed you!” Then Urchin was running back the way they had come, sniffing the air, feeling in the dark for Juniper’s marker leaves as he ran for Crispin.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

INTY, WITH CATKIN IN HER ARMS
, pressed herself against the back of the cave and gave thanks. It had been hard, dragging the supplies here through tunnels and cave ways, and, of course, with every trip she had to carry Catkin, who seemed heavier every time. But she was ready now. She had only to load the boat, and conditions at sea were perfect. The tide had brought in the fog, and soon it would be twilight. No such chance would come again.

“We’re going in a boat, my little Dais—Catkin—my little one, my baby,” she whispered softly, rocking Catkin. “The tide will carry us away from here, and evil Husk will never get you, and we’ll never come back here, we’ll find a lovely place to live, and your mother and father…” She hesitated, twitching uneasily. “I’m your mother now. I’m your real mother. It’s me that’s looked after you. You’re my little baby.”

“How’s the forepaw?” Juniper asked Needle. He held her tightly in the cloak, both for her warmth and his own.

“It’s better since you bandaged it up,” she said.

“And the hind paw?”

“So’s that. And the bruising isn’t so bad as long as I keep still. Aren’t you cold?”

“Not me,” said Juniper. “I don’t feel it.” He reached into his satchel as carefully as he could, not wishing to move her. “Have another drink.”

She drank from the bottle of cordial. “Was it worth it?” she said drowsily. “Coming all that way to see
him
?”

“It was for me,” said Juniper. “But I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” she whispered. It had been worth it for her, too. She’d learned to like Juniper. If she had to be lying injured at the bottom of a dark pit, Juniper was a good animal to have with her. It was almost as good as having Urchin there—better, really, because Juniper knew more about injuries than Urchin did. They were part of each other’s lives now, all three of them.

In Seathrift Meadow, King Crispin sat on a rock and looked down at the young animals. He didn’t look like a king rallying the island, more like an uncle telling stories.

“When I was a very small squirrel,” he said, “my parents would sometimes take me to tea at the cave of an elderly otter, on winter nights. It was meant to be a treat—and it was, she made a wonderful tea. But I feared those outings. I feared them because of a stone that stood by the cave entrance. It was almost black, and strangely veined. In daylight, it was a stone. But as the shadows grew, I felt that stone behind me. If I turned to look at it, I knew that those veins would look like a hideous face that would follow me home. Not looking at it was worse, because I knew it was watching me. It became a horror.”

He looked down at the young animals gazing upward. “Do you have things like that? Things that frighten you?” Wide-eyed, they nodded. Each one could think of a twisted tree root or strange shadows in the firelight.

“I’ll tell you what I did about it,” he said. “I told myself it was only a stone, and there was no point in spoiling a good tea by being afraid of it. I asked the otter-wife what it was for, and she said she had rolled it over a place that had let the draft in. So I went up to it in broad daylight, had a good look at it, and kicked it. It hurt my toes, and I limped all the way home, but it was worth it.”

The little ones laughed shyly. Crispin went on, “I’m sure you all have something like that, something you’re afraid of,” he said. “When your parents and grandparents were little, they were scared, too. Scared of a twisted tree, a pattern in the cliffs, or an animal they were shy of. We all have fears like that, and we all have to learn that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He raised his head, looking out at the crowd. “Isn’t that true? Weren’t you all afraid of something when you were young?” Then he sprang to his paws, and his voice rang from the rocks. “So you’re afraid of Husk! You’re worried that he could be alive and among us. Maybe he is! Heart help us, he’s only a squirrel! Paws, ears, and a tail, like the rest of us! He only took over the island before because we let him! He has no power over us unless we give it to him!”

“And we’re not going to!” piped up Hope, then curled up as everyone laughed.

“Well said, Hope,” said Crispin. “We won’t! For myself, I have enough to do with fouldrought, landslides, floods, and Catkin missing, without one troublesome squirrel who doesn’t know how to stay dead!”

Thripple gasped. Lugg grinned.

“Good at this, isn’t he?” he said.

“What are your fears?” demanded Crispin. “Be honest with yourselves! What do you fear? Do you fear a ghost? Do you fear the unknown? Because the queen comes from a place strange to you, are you afraid of what she might do? Are you afraid of what you see in nightmares or hear in rumors? Are you afraid that I won’t govern you well, that Cedar and I and the captains will let you down?”