Urchin and the Rage Tide (31 page)

Sepia’s mother had talked to Sepia about all the things she had done when she was little. Crackle had made bilberry cordial and spooned it into Sepia’s mouth. Occasionally, Sepia opened her eyes, just for a few seconds, and they thought that, perhaps, she recognized whoever was there. Once, she smiled. Urchin, looking into her face, was waiting for her to open her eyes again, and did not turn around when Juniper came in.

“She smiled once, Juniper,” he said. That was important. If she died, he would have that smile to remember.

Sepia began to shake. Her mother bent over her.

“Is that supposed to happen?” she asked, but Juniper was already running to the door.

“Your Majesty!” he shouted. “Queen Cedar!”

Urchin held Sepia as tightly as he could to control the shaking, but she still shuddered violently. Urchin had seen the earth tremble like this until it collapsed in on itself. Sepia’s eyes were open and staring, but she seemed to see nothing. Terrified, he pressed her head against his shoulder to stop her teeth from chattering. The queen ran into the room.

“How long has she been like this?” she demanded.

“Just started,” said Urchin, still struggling to keep Sepia still.

“Pray,” ordered the queen. Urchin, glancing up, saw her shake a phial. Then she became silent. Juniper put a claw to his lips, and Urchin could see that he was counting.

“Plague!” muttered the queen. Reaching past Sepia’s bed, she flung open the window and called to the animals beneath.

“Pray!” she shouted. “Now! Pray for Sepia!”

She seized one of Sepia’s paws. “You stay with us, Sepia,” she commanded. “Do you hear me? We got you back, and you’re staying.”

Painfully, Sepia gasped and wheezed. Every breath was a battle.

“Hold on,” said Urchin. “Hold on, Sepia. Don’t leave me.”

The shaking stopped. Sepia’s next breaths came in short gasps, as if she were snatching them out of the air. After each breath, there was a pause, and Urchin found he was holding his breath, too. The pauses were too long.

“Take the next breath, Sepia,” commanded the queen. “Do as you’re told.”

The pauses became longer still. Every next breath seemed impossible. Urchin, holding her tightly and watching her face, heard the shaking of the phial again. Juniper was counting.

One…two…

The count was too slow. Every pause tore through Urchin.

Three…

“She’s stopped breathing!” he cried. “Sepia!”

Four…

Her mother slapped her back as if she could shock the breath into her. Urchin whispered something in Sepia’s ear. Then the queen was raising her head, pressing the phial into her mouth, stroking her throat to make her swallow, forcing the antidote into her. Sepia gave a shuddering breath—but she
was
breathing. Her pulse was beating.

“Now, Sepia,” said the queen, taking her paws, “this is made from myself and from Almond of Whitewings and Ashfire. The poison has no power over us. Our love and the king’s love are given for you. Stay, child, stay.”

“Sepia of the Songs,” said Juniper, “love calls you back.”

Urchin’s eyes were still on her face. It was impossible that the medicine could take effect so quickly. Without warning, she fell limply in his arms.

He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away, and rested his face against the top of her head. He did not even notice the touch of the queen’s paw on his shoulder.

“Urchin,” she was saying, “that’s a good sign. She’ll be all right now. We’ll tidy her bed and let her sleep.”

He opened his eyes and lifted Sepia while Cedar shook the pillows into fresh softness. Her breathing was steady as he settled her down. Her eyes were closed. She was sleeping a normal, healthy sleep, sleeping herself better.

“We’ve done it,” said the queen. “She’s going to stay.”

Corr went on swimming, sometimes turning onto his back to let the tide carry him, but never for long, because he knew he must outswim the tide. If he had let Brother Juniper see how tired he was, the priest might have changed his mind about sending him, and Corr desperately wanted to do this. It was the last service he could do for his king, and the first for his new queen.

While Corr swam and Sepia slept, messengers ran and swam about Mistmantle, calling animals to come to the tower in the morning. With summer bonnets and baskets they gathered on the rocks outside the tower, chattering and whispering and wondering what was happening now, and why they had been summoned:
—Any news about Sepia? —No idea. Nobody’s saying anything yet. Oh, I do hope she comes through. Poor little thing. Urchin, Captain Urchin, we should say, he had her so wrapped up in that cloak nobody could see how she looked. —Prince Crown is on the island, too, and he’s hurt his wing. Has anyone seen Corr? —And what about the king? Has anyone seen him? —Yes, where is the king?

“Nice day for it, mind,” said Apple.

“Nice day for what, dear?” asked Needle’s mother, who was beside her.

“Whatever it is,” replied Apple. “Whatever it is that we’re here for, it’s a nice day for it.” She took off her hat and fanned herself with it. “Look at that sparkle on the sea, isn’t that a lovely sight? Did I tell you about our Urchin?”

A disgrunted squirrel called Yarrow whined and complained that it was most inconvenient to be called to the tower when he was so busy. Unfortunately, Needle’s mother overheard him and warned him not to let Captain Padra hear him start his moaning again. He kept quiet after that.

Tower animals moved among them offering drinks and little bundles of nuts and berries wrapped in leaves, and trays of fish for the otters. Those who preferred worms, slugs, and beetles helped themselves to whatever scuttled past them. But a quietness fell on all the animals as the tower doors opened.

Brother Juniper came first, then the four captains with their robes, swords, and circlets. Animals stretched on clawtips and peered past each other’s hats to see Captain Urchin in his green embroidered robe, with a fine jeweled sword at his side and the circlet of gold on his head. Princess Catkin came next, with Whittle beside her, and her mother and brother a pace behind her. Mother Huggen led Princess Almondflower by the paw. It was a solemn procession. If it had been a festival they would have waved and smiled, but today there was no spring in anyone’s step and all faces were grave. Even little Almondflower had sensed the gravity of the occasion, and seemed subdued. She was the only one who did not pause at the foot of the stairs to look out to sea.

They stood on the high rocks, a breath of wind fluttering cloaks and robes. Today Captain Padra had no smile, not even the usual brightness in his face that made him look as if he were about to laugh. Urchin of the Riding Stars had a focused look about him, and wore his circlet and sword as if he had been born to them.

“Animals of Mistmantle,” began Juniper, “may the Heart look with love and joy upon us all.” There was a murmur of agreement; then Juniper held up a paw for silence.

“Dear animals,” he called, “you who have known the great love of a great king, hear me. Last night, when Sepia of the Songs lay close to death beyond the mists, King Crispin took heed of words of prophecy. He chose to do what he had always known he would do. He gave everything for the island.”

There was a gasp from the islanders, followed by silence as taut as a bowstring.

“The king,” he said, “took leave of us and left instructions. Then he took his love for the Heart, his hopes, and his fatal wound—yes, for he had never overcome his injuries of the Raven War—he took all this with him as he traveled for the third time through the mists.”

“No!” cried voices in the crowd. “No!” But they faded into silence, because they knew that it was too late to say no, when the king had already said yes.

“He has left his last instructions for the island,” announced Juniper. “In accordance with our ancient rules, his eldest child, Catkin, the Heir of Mistmantle, becomes queen, with the guidance and help of Queen Cedar, her brother Prince Oakleaf, and the captains. He leaves to you Urchin of the Riding Stars to be your new captain, together with Spade the mole. Brother and sister animals, be glad that you have lived through the time of so great a king, and give your loyalty to his heir.”

He turned. “Now, Catkin?” he said.

“Not yet,” she said quietly. She was looking out to sea.

Urchin followed her gaze, and took the circlet from his head. Soon, everyone was watching. Hats and circlets were taken off. Above the reverent silence rang Catkin’s voice as she gave her first command.

“Brother Tide,” she called, “Swanfeather, Fingal of the Floods, go out to meet them. Bring him home.”

Corr had found what he sought. Crispin had fallen forward in the boat and Corr, feeling it would be disrespectful to move him, had left him as he lay, only smoothing the cloak around him. Then he took the oars and turned the boat for home. It seemed to him that this was the proudest moment of his life, and the saddest—but as he rowed through the mists, he felt only tired and lonely, and he was glad and grateful to see the otters swimming to meet him.

The animals stayed quiet and watchful, some dabbing at their eyes with cloaks and petals as the boat appeared through the mists. Those with restless children reluctantly left, but the rest stayed, making way for Catkin and her captains as they walked down to the shore.

Corr, Tide, Swanfeather, and Fingal brought in the boat. Padra laid aside his robe and his sword, and swam out to meet them. Urchin whispered to a guard, and presently a wooden board was brought down from the tower. Urchin spread his robe over it and watched as the boat was pulled onto the the soft sand.

“Padra, please,” said Catkin.

With gentleness and reverence Padra turned the still figure in the boat, and gasped. Cedar and Catkin bent to look, and tears sprang to their eyes. Juniper held up a paw in blessing.

“Urchin,” he said, “you need to see him.”

Urchin looked into the boat. On Crispin’s face was an expression of great joy and peace that none of them had ever seen before, or ever would again. Urchin placed his circlet between the king’s paws and turned to the young otter standing grave and almost tearful beside him, not knowing what to do next.

“Corr,” he said, “Voyager and true servant of Mistmantle, well done.” And Corr, bewildered, sorrowful, and unsure of himself, was held securely in his captain’s strong hug. “Well done, Corr.”

Catkin kissed her father’s dead face as Juniper took the Heartstone from its velvet bag. Her paw shook a little as Juniper placed the softly glowing stone in it. It lay still, as if stillness must be its gift to the new queen.

Padra took up his sword, offered the hilt toward her over his paw, and knelt. Urchin did the same, as he had done long ago, when, as a young page, he had knelt beside Padra to offer his fealty to Crispin. Around them, the senior animals knelt, and steadily, like ripples on a pond, all the crowd followed.

“Catkin, Queen of Mistmantle,” said Padra, “as I swore fealty to your father, I swear it to you.”

“And to this beautiful island and all its animals, I pledge myself,” said Catkin. “Faithful animals, rise. Please help me to reign as well as my father did. Carry him in, please.”

They lifted Crispin on Urchin’s cloak to the makeshift bier and carried him to the tower through the rows of kneeling, tearful animals, bearing him to the Gathering Chamber to lie in state. And so Crispin Swanrider, the noblest and dearest of all Mistmantle’s kings, came home for the last time.