Urchin and the Raven War (28 page)

In the kitchens, Crackle had tidied, polished, washed, and scrubbed. She felt better for that. It kept her mind from ravens and battles, and besides, she couldn’t bear a messy kitchen. If the ravens managed to break in and wreck it again, they’d have to kill her first. And if the king and queen, Heart love them, and Padra and the rest of them saved the island and sent those big noisy birds back to where they belonged, they would find the kitchen swept, cleaned, and ready for supper.

Urchin and the queen had come hurrying into the kitchen, but they’d only stopped to say “so far, so good,” and ask for water and bread to eat on their way to goodness only knew where. Crackle had stuffed walnut bread and raisins into a bag. Working in the kitchens, she knew what every animal liked. Then Needle had come down asking for bread, fish, and water she could take to the turret. Crackle had sent her back with seed bread, smoked trout, apricots, apple juice, and a bottle of wine she fetched from the cellar. (There were strange noises from beneath the cellar, which Crackle decided to ignore.) It was a pity, though, that Needle was in a hurry to get back to the turret. It was lonely in the big, quiet kitchen.

Now what? The floors were scrubbed, the depleted nut, berry, and grain stores had been locked away, the few jars and bottles that had not been smashed were in a gleaming row on their shelves. She needed something to concentrate on. She worked mostly as a pastry cook, but she had been well taught and could turn her paw to cooking anything. Even with the kitchen plundered, she could put some sort of meal together for whoever was left to eat it. Cooking would calm her down and give her something to do.

Under the floor, something scuttled. Crackle froze, listening. The scuffling was nearer, but she couldn’t be sure what sort of creature it was. Could there still be ravens in the tower? She took the poker in both paws and set her teeth. She was not going to be bullied by a big bird with dirty habits and no manners.

The scuffling stopped. Crackle relaxed her grip on the poker but kept it on the table beside her, just in case.

That special seaweed was still there, washed, dried, and ready to use. Kingsmantle, or Queen’s something-or-other. When Corr had first brought it she had asked around the kitchens about how to cook it. Everyone had a different idea. But in these last few days, when messages had been buzzing all over the island through the tunnels, Crackle had asked the departing tower animals to find a recipe for kingsmantle seaweed and send word of it to her. She had memorized a few and forgotten the rest. (One had been offered by a squirrel called Filbert who said it was the way his mother used to make it, but the quantity of black pepper and cloves had horrified Crackle.) Then a message had come from Longpaw and Sepia’s mum to say her friend used to make kingsmantle cake just the way Brother Fir liked it: soft and light on the inside and crisp on the outside, with nutmeg, cinnamon, cassia, and just a little lemon rind. Crackle had the spices, and a shriveled old lemon lay in the bottom of a basket. Making this cake would require skill and careful attention. Good. That would keep her mind from—

There was that sound again. She gathered all her ingredients, placed the poker within easy reach, and got to work.

In the Chamber of Candles, Sepia held Brother Fir’s right paw lightly in hers. He was more like himself today, though sometimes Sepia couldn’t tell whether he was talking to her or to someone who wasn’t there. Sometimes he got her name right, and sometimes he called her “Linnet.”

“They sent me to Watchtop Hill,” he was saying, and Sepia wasn’t sure whether he was looking at her or through her. “That was the year of those wasps, you remember, and we were to set honey traps for them. I didn’t want you to do it because I didn’t want you to get stung. I stood on the hill, and that was when I knew there would be riding stars. The way the air felt and smelled, the feeling of the sky, that told me. I knew they were ready to dance. And when I counted, I knew when to stop. Four. And I told you, didn’t I? I did, didn’t I, Linnet?”

“Yes,” said Sepia, “you did.”

“And the riding stars came, after four days,” said Fir. “And I told you, didn’t I, that I had known. And I asked why an ordinary guard squirrel should be able to tell when there would be riding stars, and you said, ‘What ordinary guard squirrel?’ Do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Sepia gently. “I remember it.”

He slept for a while, then woke again and was ready to sit up. He asked for a drink, this time remembering that she was Sepia, not Linnet. Hope poured the cup of warm wine and elderberry, and then lay on the floor with his ear against it. Myrtle looked up from the net she was making.

“That’s funny,” said Hope. “It’s not there.”

“What’s not where?” asked Sepia.

“Otter,” he said, and turned around a few times.

“Please, Master Hope,” whispered Myrtle shyly, “if the otter isn’t there, why are you trying to find it?”

Hope stopped turning around and looked in her direction. “It’s there somewhere,” he said. “I meant, it wasn’t
there,
where I was listening. Shh! It’s… there!” He ran to the door and pulled it open with both paws.

“Hello!” he said. “Are you a lost otter? You can come in with us if you like.”

Corr didn’t usually hug hedgehogs, but he was so relieved at the sound of a kind voice that he wanted to hug this one. But he didn’t want anyone to think he’d been at all lost, or a bit worried about it, so he just said, “Oh, thanks! I think I took a wrong turn. Aren’t you the hedgehog from Fingal’s cavern?”

“Yes, I’m Hope,” he said.

“Sepia’s here—”

“Sepia of the Songs?” gasped Corr.

“… Yes, and a hedgehog called Myrtle, and …” He ushered Corr into the chamber.

Corr stood astonished. Creamy white candles stood on the floor, on ledges, and in alcoves. Ribbons of wax trickled down their sides and settled around them as the flames flickered in the doorway’s draft. Soft light and stillness and something else—he didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was there—hallowed the air.

That sweet-faced squirrel beside the bed must be Sepia. She was singing very softly, turning to smile up at him in her song. The little hedgehog steadily wove her web. Propped on pillows on a small neat bed against the wall, with a blanket the color of oatmeal around his shoulders, his eyes closed, lay a very old squirrel.

The song had finished, but it seemed to hang in the air like incense. Nothing Corr had ever done seemed important anymore. He realized that Sepia was watching him, still smiling gently, knowing that the atmosphere of the chamber had entranced him, and it would take him a little time to become accustomed to it.

“It’s Brother Fir!” whispered Corr.

“Did you want to meet him?” whispered Sepia. “You’re very welcome to stay with us until he wakes up again. I think I’ve sung him to sleep.”

“My dear Sepia,” said Fir, without opening his eyes, “you have done nothing of the sort. Hm. I would not have missed a note of it.”

“There’s a young otter here to see you, Brother Fir,” said Sepia. “His name is…” She looked up at him.

“Corr,” he said.

Fir was already smiling before he opened his eyes and looked along the bed at Corr. He stretched out both paws and, without help, sat up straight as Corr stood warmed and transfixed by the depth, the love, and the sparkle in those immensely deep dark eyes.

“I knew you would come!” said Brother Fir. “Corr!” He chuckled softly. “Corr! I am so glad! Come and sit by me!”

Crackle hovered a paw over the kingsmantle cake. It was cool now. What a pity there was nobody here to admire it except for a couple of hedgehog cooks. It really was a very beautiful cake, with its crisp layers of seaweed, the gold fringe showing around the edges. But she hadn’t made it to be admired, she had made it for Brother Fir, and it wouldn’t do him any good sitting in all its glory on the kitchen table. Straight to the Chamber of Candles. She took a few false turns, but just as she wondered if she might be going in completely the wrong direction, Hope came out to meet her.

“I heard you coming,” he said. “Were you looking for us? We’re all here, come in.”

“Ooh!” said Crackle. She had never before been in the Chamber of Candles, and was wide-eyed at its beauty. Then she said “Ooh” again, because there was that otter, the one who had brought the seaweed in the first place, and she nearly said “Ooh” once more because Brother Fir looked so well, sitting up, bright-eyed and chatting eagerly to the otter—but she didn’t like to repeat herself, so she only curtsied, and said, “Kingsmantle cake for you, Brother Fir, and that’s the otter who brought the seaweed.”

“Kingsmantle cake!” cried Brother Fir, and joy danced in his eyes and in his lopsided smile. “How can all be so good? How many are we? Does anyone have a knife?” And then he laughed again, as if there were a joke that nobody else had understood. “Corr! Kingsmantle seaweed!”

“More nets!” shouted Urchin and Cedar as they ran from one tunnel to another. “More nets, ready for the next attack!” At a turning, Urchin nearly ran into Tipp and Todd.

“Steady on!” said Todd.

“What happened to your sword arm?” asked Tipp.

“It’ll mend,” said Urchin. “We need more nets.”

“More blooming knitting!” said Todd. “We’re running out of things to knit down here!”

“Where are we?” asked Cedar.

“Under the Tangletwigs, Your Majesty,” said Tipp with a deep bow.

“Plenty of stuff up there to knit with, but it shreds you to bits getting hold of it,” said Todd. “Gleaner’s got this blanket thing that’s pretty well shredded already, but she only uses it to keep that shrine safe.”

“Is she still guarding it?” asked Cedar.

“She’s taken blooming root, I should think, Your Majesty,” said Todd.

“Your Majesty,” said Tipp, “we have urged her to stay belowground. She won’t, but she can hide in the cover of the Tangletwigs when she needs to.”

“The cover’s good there,” said Cedar. “It may be a good place to fall back to, or defend from. Tipp, Todd, carry the message across the island. The nets are working, but we need more.”

“Your Majesty!” Tipp bowed and was soon heard shouting the order down a tunnel. He returned, bowing again, as the echo of mole voices, growing fainter, carried the message around the island.