Urchin and the Heartstone (10 page)
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Fingal.
“Won’t it be wrapped up in a box or something?” said Sepia.
“It might not,” said Needle, still kicking her heels at the jetty. “If anyone found a stone in a box, they’d know it was something special. Husk would need a box or a bag or something to carry it in, but he could tip it out. If he never wanted it to be found, he’d have to have thrown it on the beach, maybe, where nobody would notice it in all the other pebbles. Or drop it down somewhere nobody could ever find it.”
“Difficult, on this island,” said Fingal. “I should think he threw it out to sea, so it would get washed away.” He turned a somersault in the water. “But it would get washed back again.”
“Couldn’t it sink to the bottom?” said Sepia quietly, not wanting to disturb Scufflen.
“Or be swallowed by a water snake?” said Fingal cheerfully. “Shall I kill one for you and see if it’s eaten the Heartstone? Oh, but if it swallowed it, it couldn’t hold on to it, could it, so I suppose the poor old water snake would—”
“Oh, please, Fingal!” said Sepia.
“We should start by beachcombing,” said Needle, as they didn’t seem to be taking this seriously enough. “We’ll divide up the shore between us and whoever else will help. Crackle will. And all your musicky friends, Sepia, you can get them to help. Fingal, you’ll need to get some otters.”
“What, to kill water snakes?” he asked.
“No, for beachcombing,” said Needle with irritation, and stretched up to watch a young squirrel running from the tower. “There goes Gleaner!”
“Oh, get her to help, then,” said Fingal, splashing on his back in the water.
“Certainly not!” said Needle. “She can’t be trusted. She used to be Lady Aspen’s maid.”
“So?” said Fingal.
“She was devoted to Aspen, and Aspen was as bad as Husk,” said Needle. “And before that, she was always a mean little squirmyfur.”
“She’s not so bad now,” said Sepia. “She’s very grateful to Crispin because he didn’t send her into exile or shut her in a dungeon for years. We could invite her to help.”
“No, we couldn’t,” said Needle. “But I wish I knew where she’s off to. You can’t trust her. I’ll organize beach patrols and talk to Fir.”
“You do like organizing, don’t you?” said Fingal.
“I’ll look in my song cave,” said Sepia thoughtfully. “There are always pebbles there. Some are very pretty ones. It might be among them.”
“How would it get there?” asked Needle.
“Spat out by a water snake?” said Fingal.
“I wouldn’t need to know how it got there,” said Sepia gently. “I’d just have to find it.” She spoke dreamily as if to herself, rocking and patting the sleeping baby hedgehog in her arms. “It’s a good place for singing. You run down Falls Cliffs to get in around the side, where it’s driest, and there’s a small entrance to squeeze through, and you come out into a cave behind the waterfall. The waterfall makes a noise, but when you go farther, it opens into the loveliest high chamber with a place that lets light in, and it’s—oh, it’s like nowhere else. The walls glow and there’s a little rock pool and a spring and then…”
“Yes?” said Fingal.
“…and then you sing,” she finished simply.
“You mean,
you
sing,” said Needle.
“And it sounds so strong, because the echo brings it all back to you,” said Sepia earnestly. “It’s like—like somewhere holy, and the music is all around.…”
She stopped. It was too precious, too special, to tell them that she felt as if she rode in the night sky when she sang in her cave. It was just the sort of place where something as magical and wonderful as the Heartstone might turn up. The thought of her song chamber made her yearn to go there.
“Find some squirrels,” said Needle, bringing her back down to earth. “Fingal, you can—”
“Find a water snake and do it in?” he asked hopefully.
“Organize the otters,” she said. “I’m going to tell Fir what we’re doing.” She took Scufflen from Sepia’s paws and hurried away as he blinked sleepily over her shoulder.
Fingal shook his head. “Hasn’t anyone told her?” he said. “You can’t organize an otter.”
“Sh!” said Sepia. “Somebody’s calling.”
“Fingal! Fingal!” It was a cry from an old voice, a cry strained with anxiety and distress. Sepia sprang up and ran to meet the elderly squirrel hobbling toward them.
“Mistress Damson!” she called. “What’s the matter?”
“Have you seen Juniper?” demanded Damson quickly. “Fingal, have you seen Juniper? You two being friendly, I thought you might know where he is. Only he never came back last night, and I haven’t seen him all day, and neither has anyone! Have you seen him, Fingal? Have you seen him?” She clutched Sepia’s paw tightly and turned to her with a look of desperation. “Sepia, have you seen Juniper?”
ITH A GROWL OF GRAVEL, THE BOAT RAN
aground on the shores of Whitewings. Guards had already seen them, and armed hedgehogs and squirrels stood in rows on the shore, though it was still barely light. Nobody else was about except two swans bobbing on the water, watching their reflections. They wore something that looked like silver collars, but at such a distance Urchin couldn’t be sure.
Trail and Bronze heaved him to his hind paws. He stretched and rubbed at his wrists as Trail sliced through the bonds, but Bronze held him fast.
“Don’t even think about it,” snarled Bronze, but Urchin had already looked for chances of escape and seen none. There were archers among the guards, so he wouldn’t get far. Dragged through the shallows to the shore, he craned his neck to see farther.
Know your territory
, Padra would have said. And as Trail and Bronze left him in the care of three guards, two holding his arms and another holding a sword to his throat, he thought he may as well take a good look at the island.
The sands were dull gray, almost white. Ahead of him rose gray and white cliffs so steep that he had to tip back his head and narrow his eyes to look at them. Here and there a straggly bush clung to the cliffside. Some long, shiny twists ran down the cliffs, Urchin thought, and hoped they were freshwater streams until he saw that they were gleaming veins of silver. Here and there was a gaping rocky place that looked like the entrance to a cave—that might be worth remembering. He was trying to see a pathway through the cliffs when he heard a rhythmic clanking of metal that somehow reminded him of Lugg’s guards practicing their drill on Mistmantle, but this was no rehearsal. Soldiers were marching, louder and closer, and their tread was menacing with purpose. He could tell now where the cliff path must be from the sound, and the sunlight flashing from weapons.
“Shackle the prisoner’s paws,” ordered Trail. “The Lord Marshal is coming to escort him to the king.”
“But I’ve only just been untied!” protested Urchin, but nobody was listening to him. Iron shackles were clamped around his forepaws and fastened to the guards’ own wrists, and he was marched across the sands toward the foot of the cliffs. He was trying to keep a count of how many animals carried weapons—too many, in his opinion—but as yet another column appeared from another direction, he gave up trying. How many did it take to arrest one young squirrel? Who did they think he was?
Chained, unarmed, and surrounded by hostile animals, it astonished Urchin how little afraid he was. Everything was so strange, that it seemed to be happening to somebody else, and besides, there wasn’t time to be afraid. The animals marching toward him wore metal breastplates, and several had helmets, some rounded, some oblong, some plain, and some decorated. But the puzzling thing was that everything about these animals—fur, armor, weapons—looked dusty. A thin layer of something like ashes lay over them.
Urchin lifted his chin and marched across the sand with his paws tethered and his head up, determined that if Crispin and Padra could see him, they’d be proud of him. At the foot of the cliff path he was jerked so fiercely to a halt that he just managed to stay on his paws as the guards saluted.
“Stand to attention for the Lord Marshal!” barked a hedgehog.
Down the path marched a broad-shouldered, short-furred squirrel, his face hidden by an enormous metal helmet that made him look far taller than any squirrel should be. It’s only a helmet, thought Urchin, but with its grim slit of a mouthpiece and the jagged, clawlike spikes around its crown, it was meant to be terrifying. The large paw resting on the sword hilt looked hard and powerful. One hind paw, Urchin noticed, looked as if it had been damaged, but it was the only sign of weakness about him.
“Lord Marshal,” began Bronze, “I bring you the—”
“I can see who he is,” growled the Lord Marshal, and with a rough heave he pulled off the helmet.
Urchin’s stomach tightened. Against the sudden weakness in his legs, he forced himself to stand firm. He must not show the fear that gripped him as he looked up into a grinning face that he had hoped never to see again. This was the squirrel who had been at Husk’s right paw, a grim, surly bully with claws that gripped like iron.
“Good morning, Granite,” said Urchin. Heart help me, he thought.
In the early light over Mistmantle, Needle picked her way through wet shells and fronds of brown seaweed to the water’s edge. It was too much to hope that Urchin would be coming back, but she couldn’t help going to look, just in case, before speaking to Crispin about the planned visit to Sepia’s song cave. The boats on watch had not moved, and their lights still glowed. They had been given pennants to fly at any sign of Urchin’s return, but every single one remained furled.
Something at the tower caught her eye. A light glowed in a window, then vanished and presently appeared at the next, as if somebody were carrying a lamp along the corridor. It could be anybody’s light—but Tay’s chamber was on that landing, and the scholarly otter was not often about so early. Tay had supported Husk in the past, and Needle had never trusted her since.
A firm step squelched the wet seaweed behind her. Before she turned around she knew that it must be Gorsen, who always marched like that. Lumberen followed, slipped on a patch of wet weed, and landed heavily on his back.
“You’re out early, Needle!” said Gorsen. “Looking for Urchin?”
“He’s not here,” grunted Lumberen as he picked himself up. Lumberen never said anything clever, but Gorsen said he was very loyal, and certainly he was big and strong enough to be useful in a crisis. Needle’s father said Lumberen had fought heroically against Husk.
“Lumberen and I are guarding the Whitewings prisoners next,” said Gorsen. “Sluggen and Crammen are doing the night watch. Of course, Needle, they’re not really prisoners, they’re under house arrest in very comfortable tower rooms. It makes you wonder what King Brushen would have made of it.” He tilted back his head and took a deep breath of the cool, salt air. “D’you know, Needle—the other animals don’t understand this, but you’re a hedgehog, like me—the Throne Room is a place for quills, not red curly tails. Don’t misunderstand me, King Crispin’s an excellent king and I’m proud to serve him. We never had a better captain than Crispin. But a king? There’s aspects of kingship that only a hedgehog appreciates. He’s doing his best, but it takes spines to be a king.”
