Bookweird (5 page)

 

The Woods

T
he friction of his dad's scruffy chin against his cheek woke Norman, irritating yet somehow comforting, the way he leaned in to give him a hug and whisper that it was time to get up. But the scrape against his cheek seemed more focused, perhaps softer, and just a little bit…wet. He opened his eyes with a start, and the stoat that had been licking his face jumped back too, emitting a little squeak of surprise. Neither could help breaking down into laughter that they'd managed to startle each other.

“You're awake,” Norman said to the little stoat. His relief surprised him.

“And so are you, foignally,” Malcolm teased.

Norman scoffed at the little animal's boldness. “
I
didn't sleep all yesterday afternoon. And I didn't get carried over the top of the mountain, either.”

“I didn't sleep
all
afternoon,” Malcolm protested, but not strenuously. He didn't say thank you in so many words, but there was plenty of gratitude in this friendly banter.

“How are you feeling?” Norman asked, inspecting his companion.

“Foighting fit,” Malcolm replied, pulling himself up on two feet and thrusting out a proud white chest. Norman saw him wince as he did so.

“Your father will be relieved.”

Malcolm acted as if he hadn't heard this last thing. “So I hear you beat the ravens off single-handed. Lifted a huge boulder over your head and crushed six of them in one blow.”

Norman could tell he was joking. “They told you six, did they? It was eight, and not one less. Get it straight.”

The two laughed again. Only the sound of Duncan's orders cut them short. “Aye, are you kits going to lie around gossiping all morning, or are you going to make ready to march?”

Malcolm stiffened at the sound of his father's voice.

“Ready, sir,” he replied, in a low, subdued tone.

“And you, Norman Strong Arm,” Duncan asked. “Do you hibernate like a bear as well as smell like one?”

Norman was taken aback by the insult. Duncan had said nothing to his son about his recovery, and had not shown any relief that the boy was awake. He was back to the gruff creature that Norman had read about in the first chapters. He thought of his own father, and how differently he would have reacted in such a situation. Perhaps stoats were different from human fathers, or perhaps warriors were just different from professors.

They were very soon ready to break camp. Norman rubbed his stiff arms and legs until they felt like they might work properly. The stoats had left him a large bowl of raspberries and blueberries, which he took thankfully and gulped down quickly. Duncan was impatient to get going. They were safer under the cover of the trees, but not totally safe. Ravens could move more quickly in the air than stoats could through the bushes, and even through the branches of the forest canopy a raven's eyes were sharp.

They moved hurriedly in single file along a narrow path that Norman never would have seen himself. After twenty minutes young Malcolm was already struggling to keep up the pace. He scurried forward as quickly as he could, but his foreleg was injured and forced him to limp. His breathing was laboured and wheezy, and whenever he thought no one was looking, he held his ribs and
grimaced. Twice he refused a lift from Norman before he finally agreed to take a ride.

“I'll carry you later,” the boy promised jokingly as he climbed wearily back into the sling.

Malcolm did not lie still for long. Now that his strength was returning, the young stoat found it impossible to stay still in the sling unless he was actually asleep. A short nap restored him. He fidgeted and tossed about for a while longer before poking his head out impatiently. He soon clambered onto Norman's shoulder and began chattering into his new friend's ear. Every now and then he yelled out “duck!” to warn Norman of an approaching branch that threatened to poke his eye out. The forest path was not made for humans, not even eleven-year-olds. While the stoats scampered relatively carelessly along the narrow path, Norman had to be constantly on the lookout for low-hanging branches and outcrops of roots. In between his cries of “duck” and “look out,” Malcolm told Norman about his life among the river raiders.

“I've lived on boats all my life. I'd almost rather be on the water than on land. The best place in the wide world is up top in the sails. It's much like riding on your shoulder, 'cept smoother and safer. Riding with you is like riding out a storm clinging to a mast. You're lucky I have my sea legs, or else you'd have to catch me every few yards.”

Norman struggled to keep up his end of the conversation. It somehow didn't seem right for the stoat to know about a world of school buses and summer camps. He kept his eye on the path ahead of him and let Malcolm do most of the talking. “Your mother doesn't mind you going up there in the rigging?” he asked him. “How about coming on this expedition with your father?” Norman's mother didn't even let him ride his bike without a helmet. He couldn't imagine her letting him climb a ship's mast, or take a sword and a bow and arrow into a battle with ravens.

“My mother died when I was young.”

“I'm sorry,” said Norman.

“River rats found our warren one night. They caught us in our sleep. They would have murdered us all if the fleet hadna returned. Father says he knew I was in trouble. He says he'll always know when I need him. The ships came into shore in time to drive the rats off, but not before they'd overrun the warren. Father slit their throats. I saw it with my own eyes, how he held them by the scruff of their necks and drew the knife across.”

Norman thought of the raven he had killed the day before and felt a chill of horror go through his body.

“And your mother?” he asked.

Malcolm did not answer the question. “Since then, Father's kept me with him on the boats. He says that no one can protect me as well as he can. Says I'm safer with him in the midst of battle than home in bed with a hot-water bottle by myself.”

“Do you think he's right?”

“Here is where I'm meant to be. He's all the family I have. We're keepers of a great dynasty, you know. My grandfather was the last of the Mustelid kings, a great warrior like my father.”

“I know,” said Norman, remembering the last stand of King Malcolm. “Your grandfather fought valiantly at Tista Kirk. No stoat was braver.”

Malcolm seemed shocked that Norman knew the story of his grandfather. “It's true you're a seer then. Few creatures know the story of Tista Kirk. Fewer still know my own dad is King Malcolm's son. Amongst the marauders, only Rufus Singewhiskers, Simon Whiteclaw and Falk knew. The twenty that came with us are quickly learning. My father fears assassins. He said the wolves would send turncoat weasels to kill us if they ever found out about us.”

Norman had read enough to know that Duncan was probably right.

“There's a great deal of killing in my family, a great deal of spilt blood. I sometimes wish it would end.”

“What do you mean?” Norman asked. It was a curious sentiment for a stoat prince.

“I mean that there'll be a long war ahead of us. Many lads'll perish before it's won…” His resolve seemed to stiffen as he spoke. “…and I'll be at my father's side as I ought, a leader and a warrior.”

“Not all stoats are warriors,” Norman said, trying to rouse his friend from the gloomy mood that had descended upon him.

Malcolm snorted. “All the aloive ones are. Those that don't fight get slaughtered.”

“What about your uncle, then?”

“Dead, like the rest of 'em,” Malcolm muttered.

“No, he's not—he's alive,” Norman said. “He escaped from Lochwarren too, just like your father, only he went to the Five Cities. He left Logorno a few days ago to meet your father.”

“Logorno…,” Malcolm said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “And they say 'tis only a fairy tale.”

“No, it's not a fairy tale. It's one of the five great cities. Your uncle Cuilean studied there and served as clerk to the Duke. He is a fine swordsman, but a scholar too. The Duke depends on him and delegates the judge's gavel to him when he is unable to attend court. You'll like your uncle. He's a good man.”

“But not a warrior, you say?”

“In the Five Cities, he always wins the archery tournament.”

“An arrow is a boy's weapon,” Malcolm replied sulkily, but he argued like someone who wanted to be convinced otherwise.

Norman gave no second thought to relating everything he knew about Cuilean, though perhaps he should have. The boy listened eagerly, and it was only when they reached the end of their day's journey that Norman realized that he had done it again: he had changed the book. Malcolm wasn't meant to know about his uncle. The boy hadn't even been mentioned in the book as far as Norman had read, but almost certainly he wasn't meant to know about his uncle. His father had told Malcolm that Cuilean was dead. Was it a lie, or did Duncan believe his brother was dead? That must be part of the story. Probably he was supposed to find out at the end, when the brothers met again at Lochwarren. Norman was really messing this story up.

There was no use shutting up now. What was done was done: Malcolm knew about his uncle. Norman could hardly make him forget, so as they journeyed over the next few days, Norman and the young stoat traded stories about Undergrowth.

Once, and only once, Malcolm asked Norman about his own family. They were sitting down to an evening meal of nuts and berries. Norman scooped the last handful and smacked his lips triumphantly. The stoat shook his head and called him a pig, as if he wouldn't have taken the last handful just as quickly if he could.

“What about yer family then?” he said. “Are they all seers like yerself?”

Norman considered how he could describe his family to the young stoat. Would he be able to understand anything of this world of cars and homework and pesky sisters? He had only been away two days and already it seemed so far away. He had stopped hoping that sleep would return him. He knew that going back would take something else. But what? What could get him home? Maybe he had to get to the end of the book. That would surely do it, wouldn't it? Because if that didn't work, he hadn't the slightest clue how to get home.

Norman never answered his friend's question.

He fell asleep thinking of the new question that had replaced it in his mind. What if he never escaped the pages and forests of Undergrowth?

 

Plan of Attack

P
ancakes. It took a few moments to identify the scent wafting up from the kitchen, but he had it now—pancakes. Mom was making pancakes, which was strange on a school day, when everything was such a rush. Usually that meant a bowl of cereal, or peanut butter toast. Maybe Mom was staying home today. Maybe she was flying out to a speaking engagement later in the day, and this was a farewell breakfast. Never mind. Her pancakes had never smelled so good. She made them from scratch, not out of a box, and there was no comparison. He'd go down to find a huge stack of them in the middle of the kitchen table, or else she'd have set a plate out for each of them and written messages with syrup in hearts or stars, or their names and initials, or “You Rock” or “Good Luck on Your Geometry Test.” Only she couldn't have ever written that, could she? You couldn't drip all those words in syrup on a pancake. So why did he remember this? Why could he see it? It was like that trick your mind plays in a dream—you remember something that could never have happened in real life, but it seems so normal in your dreams. The strangest things seemed normal in your dreams, as if they had always been that way.

Norman's eyes snapped open. The forest was blurry beyond his sleep-encrusted eyes. He blinked them shut hard and opened them
again slowly. No good. Sleep dust still clouded his vision of the undergrowth. It was impossible to tell if something was really moving out there or if it was just a dead eyelash on his own cornea. Closing his eyes again, he let himself awake more slowly. The disappointment of the missed pancakes sank in now—the disappointment of the missed bedroom, the missed kitchen, the missed mother. Did she even know he was gone? What were they thinking back there in the world outside the book? Did they think that he had been kidnapped or that he'd run away? Maybe they had begun to give up hope, and they were starting to pack his things away, his figurines and his computer games, his books. If they would only pick up the book he had been reading, they would see where he had gone. Norman longed for his mother and father to pick up
The Brothers of Lochwarren
and read him. Maybe he should cry out, so that if they were reading, they would know that he missed them and wanted to get out. They would read, “Mom, Dad, I'm here, help me!”

He never did cry out. It was absurd to think it would work, and the stoats would have been all over him for making so much noise. But it didn't stop him from thinking it and wanting to scream at the top of his lungs for help.

 

Duncan's company travelled through the highland forest for three days, descending slowly to the foothills below. It was tough going for Norman. The path didn't get any easier. Occasionally he would spot a clearing or a stretch of grassland through the trees, but he gave up suggesting that they leave the path. The stoats told him time and time again that they needed to stay under cover. Out in the open they'd be visible to any raven patrol. They had no doubt that the crows were looking for them—raven calls reverberated through the forest as the patrols called to each other.

More than once Duncan ordered them to ground and the stoats scrambled into holes that Norman would never have seen, while he did his best to blend into the leaves. This was easier after a few days as his pyjamas became filthier. Sky blue no longer, they were covered with dirt and grass stains, which made a natural form
of camouflage. Norman knew he was in trouble if he ever got back home for laundry day.

The travelling made Norman grumpy. He could feel himself getting peevish. It was like being in the back of the car. He wanted to be home. He wanted to know how long it would be before they got where they were going. Only Malcolm made it easier. Wrapped around Norman's neck, he chattered incessantly, regaling Norman with stories of his life on the water, the grand future as a pirate king that he had planned but probably would have to give up now he'd found he was the last of the Mustelid dynasty. He was a happy little creature. Nothing seemed to bother him much. Not once did he complain about his injury or the difficulty of their journey. It made Norman feel silly for wanting to complain.

Norman was grateful for his company. When they stopped to rest, Malcolm didn't look for a hole like the others. He stayed outside and curled up with Norman. Duncan probably would have preferred that Malcolm sleep underground like the other stoats, but he did not protest. Each night, though, as he took the first watch, the warrior prince gave Norman the same look. Norman had lived with the stoats for only a few days, but he somehow knew that the sharp look in Duncan's glinting eyes was a warning: if anything happened to Malcolm, it was on his head.

On their third night in the forest, Norman was wakened by a faint whispering in his ear. He batted at his ear impatiently and grumbled, but the damage was done. He was awake now. He pulled the sleeping stoat beside him closer and tried to think of home, but the whispering restarted. It wasn't in his ear, he realized. It was some distance away. Norman had made his bed beside a hollow, moss-covered log. The speakers were at the other end of the log, whispering conspiratorially. They couldn't have known that Norman was listening.

“If it were up to me, I'd leave him lying there and be away with us. He's a foul-looking beast.”

By now Norman recognized each of the stoats in the party, but this voice was new—new and not at all friendly.

“He has proven himself a friend, Whiteclaw. He saved my boy,” Duncan answered.

“So I hear,” the other man muttered gruffly. “Are ye sure it were no trick? He might 'a brought the crows upon you himself, so that he could act the hero. An old spy's trick—and I would know.”

“It's possible,” Duncan replied, “but I think not. He has the look of no spy. Who would send a spy such as him? Strong he may be, but he's noisy as a boar. There's no guile to him.”

“An assassin, then,” said the new voice.

“Na, I think not. I saw his face at the pass. He has no taste for killing.”

The newcomer was skeptical. “Still…”

“Never you worry,” Duncan reassured the unknown stoat. “He's watched at all times. He does us little harm now, and he could be of good use when we come to the mine.”

“Aye?” grunted the other. “What use would that be, then?”

Duncan explained. “We'll need time to free the workers in the barracks.”

“A matter of minutes. I've lads ready to move at the signal. It is all set up like you planned.”

“Yeh, but it'll be a close thing. A diversion would give us more time.”

“And you've a mind to use the beast for that?” the suspicious stranger asked, unconvinced.

“Aye, you'll have heard the ruckus he makes.”

“Like an army of drunken rats,” the stranger scoffed.

Duncan chuckled. “That's when he's trying to be quiet.”

The newcomer laughed disdainfully, and then both were quiet. Duncan spoke no further of the plan.

“You'll not be forgetting the rest of the plan, will ye?” the other asked. “The ship broad enough to bear his load has never been built.”

Duncan tutted. “I've not forgotten.” His voice trailed off, as if he was considering an insoluble problem he'd tried to dismiss. “Even if the thing knows how to swim, he'd never squeeze his fat
self through the gap. Our paths must part after Scalded Rock. I've not asked him to follow us to Lochwarren. We've fed him long enough. He can fend for himself.”

Norman didn't sleep much the rest of the night. Hiking through the bush with a party of stoats was hard enough. He didn't know if he could survive on his own. The stoats had been feeding him. Without them he would be lost. He had to do everything he could to stay with them. It was more than just being lost in the woods—it was being lost in the book. He had to stay with the book's characters. If he was right, the only way to get out of the book was for the book to end. To have any hope of escaping, he had to stay with the plot. If he strayed away from the story, he had no idea what would happen.

It started raining just before daybreak. The trees offered some shelter, but not enough to keep him dry. By the time the stoats were ready to leave, he was thoroughly soaked. It made the trek all the more miserable. Today, Malcolm's continual chatter was more annoying than distracting.

“I ought to be better with a sword than I am,” the little animal was saying, his cheerfulness undinted by the drizzle. The rain ran off his sleek brown fur as if he were wearing a raincoat. “I'm a dab hand with the bow, and I throw a mean dagger, but I ought to improve with the sword. I'll get Simon Whiteclaw to duel with me when we get a break.”

Simon Whiteclaw was the stoat who had joined them in the night. From what Norman could tell—no one bothered to inform him—Simon was one of Duncan's chief henchmen. The mate of the
Hastewind
and Duncan's spy at Scalded Rock, he also appeared to be young Malcolm's bodyguard. He might be bad-tempered and unfriendly with everyone else, but he had all the time in the world for Malcolm. His opinion of Norman was clear. His eyes were rarely off him and there was no kindness in them. Doubtless the animal would be at Norman's throat if he made anything close to a threatening move toward the young stoat.

“Did you ever think you might be a soldier instead of a seer?”

“Huh?” Norman grunted. He'd stopped listening to his furry friend.

“Well, I'd be a soldier even if my dad wasn't,” Malcolm continued. “Did you always want to be a seer? Is it your father's profession?”

“I guess so. He…” Norman struggled to describe what his father did. It was hard enough explaining it to his friends in real life, never mind to someone who captained a ship of pirate weasels and stoats. “He's a teacher. He works at a university.”

“Ah, a university,” the young animal answered, in the tone of someone who had heard of such things but had no idea what one was.

“But I haven't really thought of what I might do when I grow up. Maybe something with computers.” Norman had forgotten who he was talking to.

“When you grow up? You mean to say you're not fully grown?”

“No. In ten years, maybe.”

“Ten years? You're still a kit? By the Maker, you'll be huge then!” Malcolm's voice went high pitched with surprise. “And you're out of the nest? Isn't your mother looking for you? I'll bet when she finds you she won't be gentle picking you up by the scruff of the neck.”

Norman chuckled. It was a funny image for Norman, imagining his mother trying to pick him up with her teeth by the scruff of the neck, like a mother cat. Simon Whiteclaw cast him an ugly look that cut the merriment short. They slogged on in silence for the rest of the day, Norman now preoccupied with thoughts of his mother. He'd been missing for days now. She would be angry, yes, but mostly she would be worried. His stomach tightened into a knot of guilt and despair as he imagined her pacing, crying, listening by a phone that would not ring.

At noon Duncan pulled them up at the edge of the woods. He alone strode out into the open, leaping quickly onto a tree stump and gazing at the rocky horizon. The forest gave way to scrub and stumps here. The hillside beyond them had been clear-cut. No tree
was left, and the ground was brown and barren. Forest creatures didn't do this. A line of smoke rising over the hills gave Norman some idea who did. Behind the smoke was a flat grey expanse—the Obsidian Desert.

“What do you see, lad?” Duncan asked.

Malcolm had clambered up onto Norman's head to get a better view.

“Smoke, over the cliffs. Is it the mine?”

“Musts be,” his father replied.

A branch beside Malcolm's shoulder twitched, and Simon Whiteclaw's voice added its agreement. “Aye, 'tis the Rock all right.” The surly old creature spat in disgust and scrambled back down the tree.

Duncan remained motionless on the stump, until with an invisible gesture his sabre was unsheathed. Turning to face his men, he wielded the weapon boldly.

“Tomorrow,” he growled emphatically, baring his sharp eye-teeth, “many more stoats will be free. Many more will raise their swords against the wolf occupiers. Tomorrow, it all begins.”

 

Simon Whiteclaw disappeared again that afternoon, as noiselessly and unceremoniously as he had arrived. Norman tried to take some cheer from it, but knowing what little he did of the battle plans, it was difficult to be too cheerful. Tomorrow, after the battle, the stoats would abandon him. It was hard to see any way around it.

For once Malcolm seemed to understand that his friend was in no mood to talk, and he left him alone. Norman sat on a log and watched the young animal talking with his father. The boy was almost fully healed now, and Norman expected that he was trying to convince his father that he was strong enough to play his part in the next day's fight. As he watched them, he thought of how similar father and son were, both so fearless, both so sure of themselves. He wished that he felt half as confident. As he watched and considered, both father and son turned suddenly toward him. There was a distinct look of surprise on the older stoat's face. Norman had the
impression that they had been talking about him. Uncomfortable with the thought and with the intensity of their sharp weasel eyes, Norman looked away.