Bookweirdest (6 page)

There was no point taking the road. That was his mistake all along. Kit had figured that Norman would make a break for it and had twisted the roads around like a maze. But Norman wasn’t going to let Kit determine his route any longer. From his vantage point on the embankment, he could see a narrow path along the edge of the hills. He leapt down from the embankment and set off along the path towards the house.

He couldn’t say that he was happy—he was too tired to be happy—but he was relieved. This book made him nervous. It was too much like the real world. It made him wonder if he would be able to tell the real world if he saw it again. When he thought of this, it made him feel a little sick to the stomach. His mother had warned him that the bookweird was dangerous. Maybe this is what
she meant. Maybe it made you so crazy that you could never tell what was real and what was made up. Maybe that was Kit’s problem. There was certainly
something
wrong with him.

Norman had sworn to give up the bookweird, and it was Kit who’d drawn him back in. Norman had had no choice, really. His uncle had bookweirded Malcolm into
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies
and left him to be captured by the Kelmsworth Poacher. He’d known that Norman would follow him into the book. It was a game for Kit, and he didn’t seem to get that Norman didn’t want to play anymore. Norman needed to settle things with his uncle if he was ever going to be done with the bookweird for good.

Maybe it was the worry that distracted him, or maybe it was because everything had looked so familiar today, but he didn’t recognize the fields and paths he followed towards the red-roofed house in the distance. When he saw the unmistakable black shape of the unicorn standing at the edge of the field, however, he realized where he was. It wasn’t just any ivy-covered, red-roofed house—it was
his
house, the Shrubberies.

Raritan wasn’t in his usual spot in the back garden. Instead, he stood on a small rise at the end of the neighbouring field, staring out as if on lookout. He looked for all the world as if he was waiting for Norman to return, as if he’d expected him to come back empty-handed and defeated.

Norman didn’t even meet the unicorn’s eye as he trudged past him towards the back gate. Raritan let out a little whinny as the boy passed him, almost like a human’s exasperated sigh, but Norman refused to acknowledge him. Nobody likes to hear “I told you so,” not even from a unicorn. Raritan turned and followed Norman up the path to the garden gate, as if he had been waiting for him.

Norman took his frustrations out on the garden gate, slamming it open aggressively. Then he stood aside and held it open for Raritan to go through. He glared at the unicorn now, almost daring the creature to say something. Raritan, who had no need for gates, was already rearing to leap the fence when Norman turned to him. He
seemed to stop mid-leap and acknowledge the gesture with a twist of his horned forehead, before striding through the gate.

Mollified a little by the unicorn’s polite gesture, Norman closed the gate a little more gently behind him. He really just wanted to go into the house. He was famished now and exhausted. He needed to lie down on the couch with whatever junk food Kit had stocked the pantry with.

The unicorn stopped him with a little nicker, almost like a polite cough to catch his attention. Norman turned to stare at him. The frustration was clear on the boy’s face, but he said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about your friend the talking stoat?”

Norman lifted his hand from the doorknob and shook his head. He had been ready to call a truce with the unicorn, but he didn’t need to be teased like this. Raritan just stared back, however, his big brown eyes as inscrutable as ever.

“Okay,” he said, exasperated, “let’s get this over with. Have you seen my friend Malcolm, king of the stoats? He’s about this high, and he doesn’t like to be made fun of either.”

Raritan continued to stare. His eyes always seemed to be assessing the boy. Up close, his horn seemed to wave in judgment over Norman’s head.

Norman closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. What was the point of this? He turned back to the door.

“Rabbits,” Raritan murmured. His voice was low and secretive. It was almost like he didn’t really want to say it.

“What?” Norman asked, not sure he’d heard right.

“Rabbits,” Raritan repeated in his grumbling horse-whisper. “Not stoats but rabbits. Singing in the woods.”

Norman couldn’t contain his surprise. “You heard rabbits singing? Where?”

Raritan backed up, drawing him away from the kitchen door, and continued in his reluctant tone. “You won’t harm them?” It was half a question, half an order.

“Harm them?” Norman replied, offended. “Why would I hurt them?”

Raritan turned his head and pointed his horn towards the window of Kit’s bedroom.

Norman scowled. “I’m not like him.”

Raritan exhaled a dismissive whinny. “Yes, you are.” He stomped a foot emphatically. Norman felt the vibrations through the ground. “Very like him. Meddlesome and dangerous.”

Norman wasn’t going to stand there and take this. “I’m not anything like him! Kit messes up things for fun. He doesn’t care. I’m trying to help.” His voice squeaked in protest, but he didn’t like to be lumped in with his uncle. Calming himself, he asked, “What were they singing?” He’d heard singing himself yesterday by the footbridge. He’d told himself he was imagining it, but he had recognized the tune.

He hummed the tune to himself again now, trying to remember where he’d heard it before. “Mmm … mm, mmm … the streets of Cuaderno.” It was there, on the tip of his mind. “Sound the trumpets from the towers of Logarno … mmm … mmm, mm … the tall ships in port.” He got louder as the words came back to him, realization coming as fast as the tune. “The Great Cities!” he almost shouted.

Raritan actually shushed him.

“It’s a song from The Great Cities of Undergrowth,” Norman insisted in a whisper. “I heard it the other day by the bridge. You have to take me to those rabbits.”

Raritan gave him another of those long, evaluating unicorn looks, then nodded and tossed his head towards the back gate. Norman followed him back down the path. He suddenly wasn’t quite as tired anymore. Even his hunger could wait. The Great Cities were from the Undergrowth books—Malcolm’s world. Norman had assumed that he and Malcolm had been separated—that the stoat king had been sent back to Undergrowth and Norman to the Shrubberies—but if there were talking rabbits here, rabbits who sang songs about the Great Cities, didn’t that mean
this
was Undergrowth? Was it possible that Uncle Kit had managed to bring the Shrubberies to Undergrowth? It would explain the complete
absence of people. It would mean that his friend was closer than he realized. But it would also mean that Kit was far more powerful than he thought, and that he was messing with Norman’s favourite book again.

Outside the gate, Raritan stopped, halting Norman in his tracks. Had the fickle unicorn changed his mind again? But Raritan hadn’t changed his mind. In a one strange, majestic movement he lowered his head and bent his front legs so he was kneeling. Norman watched dumbfounded, unsure what to do.

Raritan made up his mind for him. “Get on before I change my mind,” he commanded.

Norman shook himself out of his reverie and climbed onto the kneeling unicorn’s back. He had never actually ridden a horse before. That was Dora’s thing, and he had a whole new appreciation for it as he wobbled on Raritan’s giant neck, feeling around for something to hold on to. But he had little time to think about where to put his hands—Raritan was already rising and springing away. It was so sudden and so fast, it was almost like flying. Norman lurched backwards and grasped at Raritan’s mane, his fingers clutching strands of hair. It was the only thing stopping him from hurtling to the ground. They turned and moved in a blur of motion away from the house, and as they did, Norman just caught sight of his sister at the back door. He might have imagined it, but he was sure that her mouth was open and her jaw dropped, as if seeing her brother riding
her
unicorn was a great and terrible outrage.

They were at the footbridge in a matter of seconds. Norman counted two footfalls on the wooden planks—
the-thunk, the-thunk
—and they were on the other side. Nothing could have prepared him for the speed. He wished he could see himself to get some idea of just how fast they were going. Wind whistled in his ears and stung his eyes as they hurtled across the meadow. At the first fence, he closed his eyes and nearly lost his stomach as Raritan leapt over it. It was like being on a four-legged roller coaster. Somehow, Norman had imagined that the rabbits would be close—he’d heard them by the bridge, after all—but Raritan kept
riding, across field after field. He covered more distance in a few minutes than Norman had covered in an hour.

Between the slits of his half-closed eyes, Norman caught a glimpse of the brick arches of the railway bridge. They ran alongside the railway embankment for a while, then plunged into the river gully. Norman inhaled deeply as the water loomed ahead. He heard himself gasp, “Oh no,” as Raritan dispensed with the bridge and galloped right at the river. The water hardly slowed him. The unicorn must have known exactly where to ford it. They were across it in a few splashes. Norman again closed his eyes as the water sprayed up around them. This was no longer a roller coaster but a flume ride.

Norman could not have said how long the ride lasted. He was breathless when Raritan finally slowed to a canter. After the river there had been more fields and some woods. Now they emerged onto the lawn of a great house. Who knew rabbits travelled so far?

The great house was boarded up now, but it had once been magnificent. Norman knew he recognized it from somewhere. It reminded him of Kelmsworth Hall, but this house—made entirely of pale grey stone and surrounded by a formal garden with a hedge maze and a tiny ruined church—was even grander. It was the church that brought it back to him. He had been here with his parents on one of their boring old house tours. He had stood with his mother on the balcony and stared out at this lawn, but now the balcony was boarded up and the house seemed long abandoned.

Just weeks ago Norman had lain down inside this little church, which was not even a real church but a rich person’s garden ornament. Now the grass around it had grown long and the hedge maze was tangled with vines. Norman loosened his grip on Raritan’s mane and patted the unicorn’s neck gratefully. There was something else about this church—something Norman had dismissed as a dream, but it was coming back to him now. He slipped off the unicorn’s back and approached the ruin. It reminded him of a church he’d seen in Undergrowth. That day on the tour, he’d slipped away from his parents for a closer look, crawled inside and
fallen asleep on the moss-covered slate floor. As he dozed there in the shade, he’d heard voices, tiny little English voices arguing about something, and when he’d opened his eyes, there had been a rabbit in a monk’s cloak and cowl. He’d only seen it for a moment. He’d blinked and it was gone.

“That was real,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Raritan couldn’t have known what he was talking about, but he seemed to nicker in agreement.

Norman turned to the unicorn. “When did you see them? How many? Did you talk to them?” He blurted out his questions without stopping to listen for an answer.

Raritan, by contrast, was not to be rushed. He glanced at the church as if he was reconsidering the wisdom of what he had done. Before he answered, he exhaled deeply and solemnly.

“You will not harm them.” Again it was an order, not a question.

Norman shook his head. It was unthinkable.

“They are timid creatures. I followed them from the bridge, but I did not speak to them.”

“So far?”

“They have a shorter route through the woods, too narrow for you or me, but yes, it is a long way to go for herbs.”

“They are here now? In the church?” Norman took a step towards it, but Raritan shook his head.

“In the grass. They are afraid. They are waiting for you to leave. If you approach them, they will scatter.”

Norman surveyed the long grass but stayed where he was. These rabbits had to be from Undergrowth. He’d heard them by the footbridge, singing about the Great Cities. Either the rabbits had escaped from their book or he was in Undergrowth now. Either way, they could lead him to Malcolm.

He knew that people could escape from their books. He had seen it happen with the wolves that hunted him into
Fortune’s Foal
and the thief from his mother’s crime novel who’d turned up at Kelmsworth. Raritan too had come from another book, though Norman didn’t dare ask him about it.

He took a deep breath and considered his words before he spoke. He knew quite a bit about the Great Cities. In fact, he probably knew more about their homeland than the rabbits themselves. Two Undergrowth books were set there, and Norman had read
Exiles of the Ultima Warren
twice. He knew the secrets of the displaced kings from Far Warren, who had founded the Great Cities. He knew about their long wars with the Sea Otter raiders and the longer truce that ended
The Rescue of Isla Wake
. He’d actually met someone who’d grown up in the Great Cities, Malcolm’s Uncle Cuilean.

He cleared his voice again and turned to address the long grass.

“Rabbits of the Great Cities,” he began—too loudly, he thought. He held his breath and waited to hear the sound of fleeing rabbits, but there was nothing but the whisper of the wind in the grass. “Rabbits of the Great Cities; citizens of Logarno, Cuaderno and Santander; people of the Book and the Tower—I hail you in the name of Cuilean of the Mustelids, fellow of the University of Santander, thrice champion of the Palio of Archers, proud bearer of the blue cloak and the banner of silver towers, lord protector of my liege, King Malcolm of Lochwarren.”

It was an impressive speech. At least Norman thought so as he stood back to assess its effectiveness. But though he stared long and hard, there was no movement in the grass, save for the blades themselves swaying back and forth in the breeze. The whispering sound built though the wind itself was dying down, until Norman finally realized that it was the lowered voices of the rabbits arguing in the grass.