The Urchin of the Riding Stars (23 page)

Urchin knelt. He felt very calm now that he knew he was about to go. Fir’s voice was as old as a threadbare cloak, but it rang with authority as he held a paw over Urchin’s head.

“May the Heart keep you, Urchin of the Riding Stars,” he said. “May the Heart guide you, guard you, nourish you, enlighten you. And may the great love of the Heart bring you safely back to Mistmantle.”

The boat was prepared, well furnished, with oars and a sail, though Urchin hadn’t practiced using the sail and hoped he wouldn’t need to. Food, water, cordials, and cloaks were neatly stacked.

“Look after Apple for me,” said Urchin to Padra.

“Remember all I told you,” said Fir.

“And wear this,” said Padra. From under his cloak he produced the small sword Urchin used for practice, with its own belt and scabbard. “Use it only if you must, and remember all you’ve learned. If you do strike, strike quick and clean.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Urchin. “And thanks for everything.” It would be best now to go quickly and get it over, but Padra suddenly caught at his shoulders.

“You can’t go alone,” he insisted. “I can’t do this, Urchin—you mustn’t be left alone when we get to the mists. Somebody has to go with you.”

“No, sir!” said Urchin, though he would have been glad of a friend. “That would be putting another animal into exile!”

“I’ll find Lugg,” said Padra. “He can look after himself.” He slipped into the water and swam swiftly away. Urchin watched until he was out of sight, then turned to Fir.

“Will you push the boat out for me
now
, please?” he asked.

Brother Fir’s nose twitched.

“Please, Brother Fir,” said Urchin. “And Padra was going to row me as far as the mists, so I haven’t said good-bye to him properly, so will you say it for me? Tell him I’m sorry for disobeying my captain, but he mustn’t send Lugg. Lugg can’t be spared from the island. And he has a family. He has to stay.” He sprang into the boat. “Now, please, Brother Fir. Before I change my mind.”

Urchin would remember these moments all his life. The dip of the boat as it bobbed into the water. The cry of a gull. A tear shining on Brother Fir’s kind, wise face. A starfish on the sand. A sea urchin. The smoothness of the oars, creaking and dripping; the glint of sunlight on the water as he squinted over his shoulder to get his bearings. The tang of salt on the air. A fish gliding away under water. Steadily, stroke by stroke, he was nearer to the mists.

He reminded himself that he did not come from Mistmantle. Fir had said he could come back. He pulled steadily at the oars, though soon the mists clouded his vision and he could no longer see the pale gold rising of Mistmantle Tower. He shut his eyes and rowed on.

He hoped he was heading southeast, but he could see nothing but mist. The wake was straight, as far as he could tell, but the mists grew closer and whiter until he could hardly see even that. It was encouraging to think that if he emerged at night, he could navigate by the stars—Padra had taught him the stars—but he was losing track of time. He wrapped himself in a cloak and wondered what his friends on the island were doing. Needle, Padra—no, he mustn’t think of them. It made his eyes sting.

He tried singing to keep his spirits up, but in the white wreaths of mist his voice sounded thin and lost. He prayed silently inside himself, instead. Tiny diamonds of vapor clung to his fur and whiskers. He wondered about who his parents were and what they’d do if they could see him, and hoped they’d be proud of him. He mustn’t feel sorry for himself; he mustn’t wish he’d waited for Lugg.

The mists seemed like a weight. The effort of rowing grew heavier. Behind his closing eyes he saw a squirrel, a female, pale like himself…

He was falling asleep. He must have been rowing forever. He shipped the oars and lay down to snatch a few minutes of rest, but he was soon deeply asleep. Night drew in and grew cold, and the boat drifted on. And as Urchin slept in the drifting boat, Gloss slipped out from behind the food stores and crept toward him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T WAS ALL VERY WELL FOR SQUIRRELS
. Urchin could run through woods, scurry up and down walls, and jump over brooks with a heavy satchel over his shoulder and not even notice it was there. Needle took the bag filled with cakes, biscuits and cheese for Apple, impaled it firmly on her spines, and trundled through the forest.

Much as she loved her work, she was glad of the morning’s freedom. The hours of work grew longer and longer, and her paws were sore. Thripple, the kind and rather ugly hedgehog who sat next to her, had given her salves to put on her paws to heal them. They helped, but lately the work had been so hard that even Thripple’s salves could not altogether heal the cuts and scratches. In the spring morning, she felt sorry for the animals in the workroom. The buds were fresh and green. Poppies and daffodils were springing up. She ran on through the wood, scenting the rising hyacinths, hearing the stream, picking up notes of birdsong, watching a blackbird gathering twigs for a nest. At the foot of the beech tree she scrabbled about for the nuts Apple liked, unearthing a few worms and beetles, too, which she ate. The stream gurgled invitingly, and was deliciously cool and fresh when she drank from it and splashed her paws.

On the other side of the stream, the cushions of moss were as springy as waves and as green as caterpillars. When she came this way with Urchin, he always took this stretch at a jump, while she trotted round to the shallows and waded across. Sometimes she jumped it, but her jump was always a dumpy thud compared to Urchin’s.

But Urchin wasn’t here today to compare to. Wistfully she thought of him, alone in a small boat on the friendless sea. He’d like her to do that jump for him. She adjusted the package on her back, retreated a few paces to get a good run, and leaped across the stream. The dry moss gave way under her paws. In sickening terror, she fell, faster and faster, too fast to save herself, hearing her own voice screaming—but her scream was lost in the deep shaft as she scrabbled helplessly at the earth.

The sharpness of her spines catching on the earthen walls slowed her fall, and by scratching and clinging, she managed to dig her claws hard into the soil. With all her strength she clutched, gritting her teeth, pressing her back against the earthen wall behind her, but she was slipping. She tried to climb—but even lifting one claw was enough to send her slipping farther down. Bracing herself, she tried again, but she fell so far that the daylight above her was now nothing but a dot of white.

But this time, she had fallen to a tree root which had grown out into the shaft. It wasn’t much, but it provided a thin ledge where, so long as she didn’t panic, she could balance and keep from falling any farther. She tried again to climb up, but again, she fell. She wondered if she could climb down in search of a tunnel entrance—but if she fell again, how far would it be? And what was underneath? Rock? Deep water? What if she went down and down into blackness and earth, and there still wasn’t any mole tunnel? She might never be able to climb back up.

“I’ll stay on this ledge,” she told herself sensibly. “Somebody will find me.”

She took a deep breath and yelled for help, but her voice sounded pale and scared, and she couldn’t tell how far it would travel. She tightened her claws. She could be here for hours before anyone found her. Days, even.

Nonsense
, she told herself firmly.
Pull yourself together, hedgehog.
Somebody would notice she was missing. Padra would. The hedgehogs in charge of the workroom would go to him demanding to know why she wasn’t back, and he’d send a search party, and they’d find her. He’d come looking for her himself. Padra was like that. Afraid of falling, she wriggled to get a better grip, and prayed that Padra would come soon. He’d come. He’d hear her, he’d see where the moss had fallen in.

It never did that when Urchin landed on it. Yes, Urchin was light—but surely, if there was a tunnel underneath, somebody would have fallen in before now?

And then she suddenly felt very shaky, and had to brace herself harder. This wasn’t an old mole tunnel. Tunnels didn’t go straight down. This trap had been made for Urchin. To be left here would be terrible, and to be found by Husk’s claw thugs might be worse. She felt sick.

Was there a sound? She strained to hear. Yes, there was a rustle. Then paws, lots of paws, on the other side of the earth wall. She had opened her mouth to shout for help when she decided it would be safer to wait and find out who it was.

There was the dragging of a tail, and the slap of paws on earth. An otter!
Please, Heart, let it be Padra!
There were small, busy paws, too, mole paws. But when the otter began to speak, Needle’s hopes sank.

“Attend to me, now,” said the otter sternly.

It was Tay. Wretched with fear, sick with disappointment, Needle gripped the root and stayed silent.

Cramped from his long wait behind the stores, Gloss stretched himself and raised a claw over the sleeping figure in the moonlit boat. He had brought a sword, concealed on a black belt with a black scabbard, but a claw would do it. He could kill Urchin now and return by tunnels, taking one of Urchin’s ears to prove he had done it. But it would be better to stay hidden and let Urchin lead him to Crispin. Then he could kill both, and return with an ear from each.

But he might not return. Why settle for being Husk’s assassin when he could find another island and become king in his own right? Squirrels thought themselves so superior. Crispin might be on an island in need of a king. And if there was a way back to Mistmantle, he could return through tunnels with an army of moles at his back, and conquer it. Then Husk would have to run errands for him, and Aspen would kneel at his paws and beg for her life.

He would not kill Urchin yet.