Bookweirdest (7 page)

“Have you seen the size of the liocorno with him? He’d trample us to death.”

“Or gore us with his horn.”

“But he says he’s with Cuilean from the old stories.”

“Anybody can say he knows Cuilean. If I told you I was best mates with Mad King Boris, would you believe me?”

“I’d believe you if you said you
were
Mad King Boris,” another voice snickered.

“Shush, you. I believe the boy. No human would know about Cuilean and the Great Cities unless he’d spent time with a civilized rabbit.”

“Maybe he’s come to take us back. Mightn’t it be a sign of the end of our exile?”

“More likely a sign of us at the end of a liocorno’s horn.”

Norman knew this was the sort of argument that could go on forever if he let it.

“Please,” he interrupted. “I need your help.”

The rabbits in the grass went silent. He fully expected them to scatter now, but it didn’t matter—he would stay here, sleeping in the ruined church if he had to, until they trusted him.

He didn’t even hear the rabbit’s footsteps as she emerged from the grass. He saw her before he heard her. She was smaller than Norman had expected. He wondered if she was even fully grown. Having hopped out from the grass, she came no farther, just stood there at the edge of the lawn. If not for the tiny crown of buttercups woven between her tall, attentive ears, no one would have thought her anything other than a wild animal.

On some impulse, Norman dropped to one knee so that he was closer to her height. At this level, he could see by her eyes that she was different. A wild rabbit never looked at you directly like this. A wild rabbit’s eyes were always elsewhere, focused on the point of escape. This rabbit didn’t look ready to run just yet.

“I’m Norman.” He introduced himself in the kindest, softest voice he could muster.

She stared back for a long time, assessing him before answering. “I’m called Esme,” she replied. “You’d better come with us to Willowbraid.”

Norman rose slowly and took a step forward. The rabbit’s ear flicked. Suddenly a dozen other rabbits appeared behind Esme at the edge of the tall grasses. She was the smallest of the bunch, but only she dared hop all the way out.

“You’d better leave your liocorno,” she told him. “The boys are terrified.”

Raritan snorted defiantly. Nobody was going to tell him what to do. Only Dora seemed to have any influence on him.

The thought of his little sister, alone back at the Shrubberies, gave Norman a little pang of guilt. “I need you to stay here,” he told the unicorn. “Look after Dora, please,” he asked. “Don’t trust Kit. He’s up to something.”

The unicorn stared back defiantly before dipping his horn in assent. “I could do no less,” he declared. Raritan’s eyes flicked to the rabbits once more, as if he was still wondering if he’d done the right thing. He gave them a solemn nod before turning and trotting away. Norman and the rabbits felt the thud of his hooves as he moved to a gallop at the far end of the field and was gone.

“Willowbraid is this way,” Esme said, her tall ears bending to indicate the woods at the edge of the great lawn. “We’ve sent someone ahead to tell the magistrates. They’ll be arguing about you already, I expect.”

Norman had some experience following woodland animals. They paid scant attention to the requirements of human travel. While the rabbits darted, barely seen, through gaps in the tall grass, Norman waded after them through the weeds. Burrs clung to his jeans and sharp leaves cut at his hands as he tried to make a path for himself. An abandoned rake lying hidden in the grass tripped him, nearly sending him headlong. He managed to stay on his feet, but a peal of rabbit laughter told him that his trip hadn’t gone unnoticed.

It wasn’t any easier when they got to the woods. The rabbits must have had paths down there in the brush, but they were no good for humans. The paths went through brambles and thorn bushes for a reason: rabbits don’t like to be followed. The more Norman struggled, the braver his travelling companions became.

“Try to keep up,” one insolent fellow told him.

“Watch out for the br—” another called the moment before a branch cracked him on the forehead.

Esme remained patient. “You’ll need to crawl from here,” she told Norman, and he followed her instruction, falling to his knees and moving forward on all fours. It didn’t make him any
faster, but it was the only way to proceed. The brambles had closed in over his head. It was almost as if they had been grown that way on purpose, arched over the path like a vaulted tunnel. Just enough light came through the cracks to illuminate the way. It made little diamond patterns on the firmly packed soil beneath. For the rabbits it was a broad, protected avenue. For Norman it was like trying to crawl through the Tunnels-O-Fun at Dora’s last birthday party.

Seeing Norman tattered and gasping on his knees did wonders for his companions’ confidence. They hopped back every now and then to encourage him, darting between his legs as they came up behind him and passed him. It would have been more discouraging if Norman hadn’t felt so at home. He’d been through this before. It was like his first time in Undergrowth, trying to keep up with Malcolm and his father, Duncan, as the fearsome River Raider led his band of rebels back to Lochwarren. The thought of reuniting with his lost friend made the difficulties of the path easier to take. Despite the scratches on his arms and the twigs in his hair and the friendly insults of the rabbits, Norman was happy. He was back among the people of Undergrowth, and he was sure that he would soon see his friend again.

Even so, it was a relief to finally emerge from the tunnel and rise from his knees to stand again. But he could only just stand. A canopy of woven branches arched upwards, forming a huge dome that just grazed his head. It was like standing inside a huge overturned wicker basket. Vines of flowers and ivy twisted through the weaving, providing a decorated canopy for the wide clearing below. Norman, still capable of being surprised by the ingenuity of the Undergrowthers, gasped as he surveyed it all.

There was a whole village in there. Beneath the canopy the clearing was laid out with streets, each of which was lined with little wicker dwellings, modest huts towards the edge, growing in size and grandeur towards the middle. In the centre was a single building that looked like it had been made of scavenged brick. A broad avenue led from this building to the stone cathedral. It was a perfect
Undergrowthian town. It wouldn’t have been out of place in the Borders or the Windward Dales, but here it was instead, hidden in the woods, just a short distance from Norman’s house in the countryside of England. It made him want to cry out with joy.

“Welcome to Willowbraid,” Esme called up from beside his foot. “You’d better wait at St. Peter’s. It’ll be about the only place you’ll fit.”

Norman skirted the edge of the village until he reached the square in front of the cathedral. The two tall doors at the front might open wide enough for him to fit his head inside, there was no way he was going to fit his shoulders through. Instead, he just sat down cross-legged in the square.

A delegation of rabbits approached, following the avenue from the brick hall, where they had evidently just finished meeting. Many of the rabbits wore brown monks’ robes, which were almost indistinguishable from their fur. At the head of the delegation was a dark brown rabbit in red robes. He wore a black hat and had a gold chain around his neck. As he got closer, Norman could see that his hair was grey beneath his ears and about his whiskers. Norman could also see that he wasn’t happy. He carried a tall staff that he jabbed angrily into the ground as he walked.

Behind the official party, all of Willowbraid seemed to have come out. Rabbits young and old poured out of their houses and onto the street, rushing to the square to see the spectacle. The crowd halted when they reached the edge of the square. No rabbit seemed to want to get any closer than two human arm’s lengths, and yet none of them could take their eyes off the human who sat cross-legged in the middle of their church square.

The members of the official delegation also kept a wide berth, skirting the edge of the square around to the steps of the cathedral, where they all gathered in rows as if they were assembling for a group picture. The old rabbit in the red robes climbed the steps last and took his place at the front of their ranks.

“Who is responsible for bringing the two-legger here?” he demanded, rapping his staff on the stone steps as he did so.

The rabbits in the crowd took their eyes off Norman for just a moment to look around. Their eyes flitted madly as they tried to guess who would be mad enough to bring a human here.

Esme stepped forward. “I am, Father. I brought him here.”

The crowd gasped.

The old rabbit frowned, but his voice softened. “Esme, you should know better. There are rules against talking to the two-leggers, and they are made for good reason. You want to end up a martyr like St. Peter up there?”

Norman hadn’t noticed the mosaic on the front of the cathedral. It showed a little rabbit in a blue coat being stuffed into a burlap sack by a giant human hand. The human boy turned around to look at the crowd that had gathered. There were a lot of wary faces and a lot of baby bunnies cowering behind their mothers’ aprons.

“He’s going to bake us all into a pie!” one tiny voice cried out in a panic. It was greeted by muttering and grumbling. Somewhere a baby rabbit started crying. It was about the most pitiful thing Norman had ever heard. Humans, he realized, were the stuff of rabbit horror stories. He was their bogeyman.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Norman whispered to no one in particular. He was starting to realize that he was not in Undergrowth—that this was the human world and the rabbits were as lost as he was.

Esme, still standing beside him, repeated his assertion earnestly. “He’s a vegetarian.”

If the crowd heard her, they didn’t show it. Their voices continued to rise in panic and anger.

“Blind him!” someone cried.

“Throw
him
in a burlap sack, Alderman,” shouted another.

More children started to cry.

Esme tried to mollify the crowd, but they pressed in closer, and her protests were drowned out by the din. Norman watched nervously as the rabbits closed in. The bigger ones pushed to the front of the crowd; some of them held pitchforks.

A flick of Esme’s ears alerted Norman to a movement at the top of the cathedral. Behind the steeple crouched two rabbits in
silver-grey hoods. They had unslung their longbows from their backs and were reaching for their arrows. Norman went from nervous to panicked very quickly. The rabbits and hares of the Great Cities were renowned archers.

“This two-legger is special,” Esme shouted. “He has heard the old stories. He knows the legend of Cuilean of Lochwarren.” Her tiny rabbit voice went unnoticed.

Only Norman saw her struggling to be heard. Being too quiet had never been his problem, and now it was time he spoke up. He’d talk some sense into them, he thought, pressing his hands to the ground to raise himself to his feet. He’d hardly raised himself an inch off the ground, but the crowd gasped and took a step back.

“Esme!” the old man called nervously from the stairs. “Step away from the two-legger. Come to safety.”

But Esme didn’t move. Norman could tell from her twitching ears that the archers were getting into position. He didn’t dare turn around. They would aim for his eyes and might be the last thing he saw. He let himself down to a seated position again.

“Rabbits of Undergrowth,” Norman began, as calmly as he could. There was a murmur of disbelief as he spoke, but he did not yet hear the whistling of arrows. “People of Willowbraid, citizens of the Great Cities,” he continued. He tried to look a few rabbits in their eyes, like they teach you in public speaking, but they averted their stares. “My name is Norman Strong Arm,” he said, using the name the stoats gave him and trying his best to duplicate the formal language of the books he loved. “I come here to ask your help. Long ago, the people of the Great Cities took in Cuilean of the Stoats. You fought at his side in the war with the wolves. I come here as a friend of the stoats, as the protector of my lord, Malcolm, heir of Lochwarren. The stoat throne is in danger again.” A hundred little rabbit jaws dropped as he spoke. “I need your help to return to Lochwarren, to the side of my friend and king.”

There was a long silence after he finished his speech. Esme looked up at him, her whiskers twitching and rippling in puzzlement. When still no one said anything, Norman screwed up his
courage and turned his head slowly towards the cathedral. He couldn’t help squinting instinctively to protect his eyes.

The delegation of rabbit dignitaries stood in stunned silence. Esme’s father opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out and he closed it again.

At Norman’s side, Esme raised her voice again. “He’s been to Lochwarren, Father. It means we can go back. It means the exile is over.”

For a long time, Esme’s father just stood there. A hundred decisions seemed to be made and unmade in that silence.

“We’d better have the whole story,” he concluded finally.