Urchin and the Raven War (5 page)

“Oh,” said Urchin. Of course Crispin wouldn’t stay in Mistmantle and send other animals to fight this war. He would lead the Mistmantle armies, taking the greatest risks himself. If—and it hardly bore thinking about—Crispin was killed in this war, Catkin would be queen.

“So she needs to have her freedom while she can,” he said.

“And she needs to grow up quickly,” said Padra. “Your turn. What was it that the queen wanted you to understand?”

Urchin scowled. “That I can’t go,” he said, and kicked open the next door.

“Of course you can’t!” said Padra. “You’ve already been beyond the mists twice and returned, and nobody has ever done it a third time.”

“I know the king’s going into danger, but I envy him riding a swan again,” Urchin admitted. “It won’t be easy watching them all go and having to stay behind.” He glanced toward a window and, seeing a swan sweep past, stopped. “Just look at that! Can you imagine riding a swan? It’s as near as you could be to flying! The air rushes through your fur, and even when it’s terrifying, it’s …”

“Urchin!” said Padra. “That’s not one of the swans who came before. It’s another one. And…and look, Urchin!” His eyes brightened. “Let’s tell the king!”

CHAPTER FOUR

EEDLE, THE PRICKLIEST
hedgehog in Mistmantle and Urchin’s oldest friend, was one of the best needle-hedgehogs on all the island. At her first coming to the tower she had been taught by Mistress Thripple, the wife of Docken the hedgehog and mother of Hope and Mopple. (Now that Docken was a captain she was Lady Thripple, but she didn’t expect anyone to call her that.) Thripple had a hunched and twisted look about her, but the longer Needle had known her, the less she noticed what she looked like. They had become great friends. If anything in the workrooms troubled Needle, she would ask motherly, sensible Thripple about it. So now she sat on a workroom bench when everyone else had left, surrounded by uncompleted tapestries, skeins of wool and silk, cord and ribbon, pale blue, deep blue, midnight blue, pale pink to deep pink, and every shade of green. Before her was a half-finished Threading of the tower, stitched on canvas.

“You wanted to see me?” said Thripple.

“Oh, yes, please!” said Needle, and shuffled along the workbench to make room. “Will you look at this, please?”

Thripple turned the Threading toward the light.

“It’s by one of the new apprentices, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, just a little bit of background,” said Needle. “I gave it to that shy little hedgehog Myrtle.”

“Oh, I know,” said Thripple. “She hardly ever says a word. I thought at first she was too young to work here, but she was longing to start, and she loves it. And she’s so talented. And such big eyes, more like squirrel eyes than a hedgehog’s.”

“And not—er—well, I don’t think she’s very bright,” said Needle.

“But a sweet nature,” said Thripple, examining the Threading. “This is very neat and even.” She ran her paw along the back. “And nicely finished. What am I supposed to be looking at? Oh!” She bent to look more closely. “Has she added something, here, in the window? Is it a sword?”

“Yes,” said Needle. With a claw she outlined the tiny shape worked into the stitches of the tower window. “At first I thought it was just a bit of highlighting, but it isn’t; it’s a sword. And nobody told her to put that in.”

“She isn’t the sort to think of it on her own,” remarked Thripple.

“No,” said Needle. “And when I asked her why she’d done it she went all scared and worried—I thought she was going to cry! She said she didn’t mean it, and she didn’t know she
had
done it. She turned those big frightened eyes on me and asked if she should take it out, but I told her to leave it. I said I wanted you to see it. I calmed her down, too, and told her she hadn’t done anything wrong.”

Thripple frowned a little in thought. “Does Myrtle know any of the symbols in the Threadings Code?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem likely.”

“That’s the other strange thing,” said Needle. “We haven’t got past the first lesson, and that’s hard work where Myrtle’s concerned. She just about remembers which color stands for which animal, and she knows that anything to do with the Heart is outlined in gold, but that’s it. She certainly doesn’t know what a sword means. It really is as if she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Sword for battle,” said Thripple thoughtfully. “And it seems that there really is going to be a battle, from what I hear about these swans. And she’s shown the sword pointing upward, which means victory. Could she have known there would be a battle?”

“She did it first thing this morning,” said Needle. “The swans hadn’t even arrived.”

“This is all very strange,” said Thripple. “And rather unsettling. If she does anything like it again, we should tell Brother Fir…I mean, Brother juniper.”

Something passing across the window shadowed the tapestry. Thripple and Needle looked up and gasped. Swan after swan after swan, flocks and hosts of swans, flew past the tower.

Padra and Urchin hammered at the door of the royal chambers and, as soon as Crispin called, ran in.

“Pardon us, Your Majesties,” said Padra, “but come to the shore!”

Already the sands were white and gray with swans. The sky was filled with them. Cygnets carried on their mother’s and father’s backs whimpered with weariness. Under Arran and Docken’s orders, animals ran to bring food and water to the birds.

“They’re worn out,” said Padra. “They’ll take some time to recover their full strength, but we needn’t worry about how to get an army to Swan Isle. You’ll get your battle, Crispin.”

More swans arrived the next day, and the next, with outstretched necks and white wings beating slowly, slowly, until they sank to the sea with tired eyes and bedraggled wings. Mistmantle animals fetched clean water and pondweed, and helped them to find the fresh water they needed. Tipp and Todd, Captain Lugg’s grandsons, led pond patrols to find the most suitable habitats on the island. Padra and Arran’s bright-eyed daughter, Swanfeather, having been named after swans, wanted desperately to help, and staggered up the shore with slopping buckets of water. She yearned to pick up the cygnets and cuddle them, but Arran urged her not to.

“The parents are fiercely protective of them,” she warned. “You’ll get a badly bitten paw if you try to touch their young.”

Swanfeather looked as if she’d very much like to try it, all the same, but it wasn’t worth the risk.

“When the adult birds have rested and recovered,” said Arran, “they can fly back to Swan Isle carrying Mistmantle warriors.”

“Is Daddy going?” asked Swanfeather.

Arran laughed. “Not otters,” she said. “We’re too big.”

“Not even small otters?” suggested Swanfeather.

“Not even
one
small otter,” said Arran firmly. “Sword-skilled animals and archers. Animals who have excellent balance, and can keep their heads in a crisis.”

“Are Catkin and Oakleaf going?”

“Certainly not!” said Arran. “They’re much too young!”

“Well, where
is
Catkin, then?” asked Swanfeather, picking up an empty bucket. “I never see her now. Where’s she gone?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” lied Arran.

Animals from all over Mistmantle gathered at the tower to join the war band, to say farewell to their warrior friends and relations, or simply to admire the swans. As their health and strength returned, the swans’ wings grew strong and smooth, their feathers gleamed white, and their eyes were bright as they prepared for battle. Even from the small, curved little bays on the northwest of the island, where animals lived contentedly and minded their own business, they hurried off to the tower to see the magnificent visitors and their own king and captains, who, they said, were worth more than a dozen swans.

In Curlingshell Bay, there was so much talk of the swans that they barely noticed the new hedgehog who had moved in. —
Nice fellow, though. Brindle, pleasant young chap, easy to get on with, always ready with a helping paw.
He was something to do with the tower, but had moved to the bay for some peace and quiet. Quite right too, they said. There was a young squirrel lass with him, whose parents worked at the tower. Apparently her mother made salves for the healers, and her father—what did her father do?—oh, he was a guard or something of that sort. Her name was Lapwing. She’d soon settle in, they said. There were plenty of youngsters about for her to make friends with.

Having said that, Lapwing hadn’t made a good start. The other young ones said she was bossy. They didn’t like a newcomer who behaved as if she ran the whole island, let alone Curlingshell Bay; but in time, and after a few tears, Lapwing seemed to understand this and settle down. They weren’t taking much notice of her anyway. They were much more interested in the great happenings at the tower than in one young squirrel.