The Urchin of the Riding Stars (24 page)

Urchin woke to drizzling rain and a gray sky meeting a gray sea. No sign of land, and no way of knowing if he had drifted off course. Unlike the previous day, when he hadn’t felt like eating much, he was hungry, and by the time he had breakfasted on walnut bread, beech nuts and black-currant cordial, the sun was breaking through. A light breeze was in the air. Urchin sniffed at the wind and wondered which way was southeast. With a lot of struggling, he hoisted the sail and let the wind carry him. This felt good. He was Urchin of the Riding Stars, Urchin of Mistmantle, Urchin the Adventurer, following the quest for his hero alone with his sword at his hip. He only hoped he was going the right way.

When at last the sky began to darken, he thought at first that it was nightfall. But nightfall did not come in like this, with heavy clouds rolling low and growling in the sky. He pulled on a cloak as the wind teased and pushed at him, and the first big raindrops drove into his face. He pushed the stores farther under cover, crouched low in the boat, and waited for the storm to pass.

But it would not pass. The wind was a bully, slashing cruel rain in his face, tipping and pushing the boat, tossing waves to soak him. Arran had left a bowl in the boat for bailing out water, and against the buffeting storm he bailed furiously. A gust caught the sail, flung the boat about, tossed her, rocked her, punched her, and tore at the sail as he fought to bring it down; and a second gust flung him to the bottom of the boat. Struggling to stand, he was thrown off his paws again, and by clinging to the mast, saved himself from being hurled into the sea. Tucking in his head, he kept down, down, waiting for the fury to pass because it must pass; but whether he and his boat would survive it was more than he knew. With rain dashing into his face and the sodden cloak flapping about him, he tried to look for land, but through sheets of rain he could see nothing, and was helpless.

“Plague and pestilence!” yelled Urchin as he clutched the mast. The boat was completely beyond his control. She was the plaything of the wild wind that laughed as it tore at her. Icy water was in his fur, in his paws, in his eyes, slopping in the bottom of the boat. He had to bail it out, but his paws slipped, and he fell into the water he was bailing. He tried to think of all he’d ever learned about boats, but nothing Padra had said, nothing anybody had said, could prepare him for this wild sea that wanted to swallow him forever.

Nobody would know what had happened. Crispin and Padra would never have news of him; Apple…Falling in the sloshing water, his teeth chattering, Urchin knelt and tipped his head back against the rain.

“Heart!” he yelled. “Can’t you see me? Won’t you help me! Won’t you do something?”

He wouldn’t be beaten. He bailed with such strength and determination that he didn’t notice the wind easing. The rain became lighter. Slowly he realized that the fierce, wild rocking had stopped. He could raise his face without being blinded by rain, and the darkness around him was not storm, but night.

He staggered to his paws, dropped the cloak in the puddle at the bottom of the boat, and rummaged in the stores for another to dry himself on. Then he sat on the rowing bench, shivering, looking up at the sky. The clouds had cleared. He could see a few stars. He steered southeast and followed his course until he fell asleep. As he slept, two otters swam, ducked, and bobbed up again on either side of the boat.

“Nice craft, this,” said one. “I’ve seen one of these before.”

“On Swan Isle,” said the other. “Yes. Very like this one.” She reached up inquisitively to look into the boat. “Same sort of creature, too. One of those tree things.”

“Yes,” said her mate. “One of those. A what’s-its-whiskers.
Sorrel
or
Cirrel
or something. Funny color, what I can see of it. What’s it doing here?”

“Maybe this one’s going to Swan Isle, too,” said the she-otter. “But he’s a long way off it, and drifting off course.”

“Shall we give him a shove?” said the other. “That sorrel thing on Swan Isle’s a nice chappie; I got talking to him one morning when he was paddling about in his boat. He said his best friend was an otter.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, from Mistmantle, apparently. Asked me, if I ever got there, to take a message to a Captain Padra; but Mistmantle’s a hard place to get to.”

Urchin turned in his sleep. “Captain Padra, sir,” he muttered, and his eyes half opened and shut again. The otters looked at each other and nodded.

“Come around the stern, then,” said the he-otter, and together they propelled the boat steadily and smoothly through the night seas until, with a last gentle push, it ran aground on the shores of the island of swans. The otters smiled, nodded to each other, and swam away.

While it was still dark, Gloss left the boat. He swam to the island and began to search, far from the shore.

Dawn woke Urchin. He was stiff from sleep and aching with cold.

“Ouch,” he said, sitting up to rub life into his chilled limbs.

“Land!” he exclaimed, and with a lifting heart he whispered thanks into the sky. He surveyed the island, saw nobody about, then jumped into the shallow water and heaved the boat ashore. He reached in for the driest cloak he could find and wrapped it around himself, turning sharply as he heard a rustle behind him.

He stared, blinked hard, looked again, and shook his ears in case this was a dream. But it was real, and it was wonderful.

“Captain Crispin!” he cried.

Needle ordered herself not to be afraid. Frightened animals trembled, and if she trembled she would almost certainly fall off the ledge. She had to be small and still, and listen. The scuffling of paws had stopped, but now she heard weapons clanking, which was worse. She strained to hear Tay.

“Attend to me, moles,” announced Tay. “It is enough for you to know that I have discovered a site where a certain person—a certain person of high rank, who ought to know better—I might say, a certain otter—is carrying out highly illegal and unsuitable practices.”

Needle couldn’t quite hear her next words, only some muttering between two moles. One asked, “What’s she on about?” and “She means Captain Padra’s up to something,” answered the other. But her next words were clear, and chilled Needle to the bone.

“There are various ways to this place,” said Tay. “I will send you in the appropriate mole tunnels, while I take the otter route. Do not enter the place until you hear my signal. I will cough twice. Then we storm the site and arrest whatever we find there, however young, however innocent it looks. Arrest them all and bring them to the tower.”

No, no, thought Needle. She must mean the place where Scufflen’s hidden. No, no.

There was more clinking of arms; then the tramping of paws faded into the distance. Needle clenched her claws. She was in danger; the hiding place was in danger; and she could do nothing. When the moles had been silent for some time and she was about to take the chance of crying out, she heard a movement close by.

This time, there were young voices. Moles, mostly. One of them giggled.

“Come on,” said a kind voice. “You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

“He’s as determined as a mole,” said another; then, “I smell hedgehog!”

“That’s me,” said a very young hedgehog voice.

“No!” called Needle. “It’s me! I’m Needle, and I’m stuck!”

There was a pause, then some whispering among the young animals. She picked up her own name, and Urchin’s, and somebody said, “Scufflen’s sister.” Then a mole voice was raised, a pleasant female voice.

“Stay put. We’re digging through.” There was a lot of scraping and scratching, then, “Ouch!”

“Sorry,” said Needle. “My spines are stuck in the earth. They’re a bit sharp.”

Presently a paw appeared, digging a hole through the wall. Soon, the hole was just wide enough for Needle to squeeze through. Cautiously, with a lot of “Ouch!” from the moles and “Sorry!” from Needle, she shuffled from the ledge into the safety of a freshly dug tunnel, face-to-face with a small mole maid.

“I’m Moth,” said the mole maid, and nodded toward the two other moles with her. “And Jig and Fig: they’re sisters. And this is Hope.”

A very small hedgehog snuffled nearsightedly in Needle’s direction.

“A very good morning, Mistress Needle,” he said politely.

“It won’t be if we’re not quick,” said Needle, and in a rush she told them all she had heard.

Moth nodded to the other moles. “You two get Hope to a safe burrow,” she said. “If we go by a secret way, we can get to the nursery before Tay does. Needle, come with me.”

She vanished so that Needle lost sight of her and had to follow the sound of racing paws. Behind her, she heard the hedgehog explaining hopefully that his mummy worked in the tower and he could go to her, and the moles gently explaining that the tower really wasn’t a safe place for him just now. Then there was only the long gallop through the tunnels, Needle’s heart pounding harder and harder as she ran, her legs aching, her chest hurting, a stitch gripping her side. She followed Moth down the tunnels, scrabbling upward, gathering pace on the way down, twisting, following the darting mole in and out, squeezing through tiny entrances until she suddenly found herself in a well-lit room. After the dark tunnels, she had to blink and turn away until her eyes adjusted, but Moth was already gabbling out their story to Arran the otter, who stood up on her hind legs and clapped her paws.

“We’re about to be raided,” she announced briskly. “They mustn’t find us, and they mustn’t find any sign of us. We’ll go by the water route. No arguments, no tears. You’ll get your paws wet, that’s all. Pick up everything; burn what we don’t need. Sort out the babies. If it can walk, lead it; if it can’t, carry it. Look sharp!”

Everyone ran to obey. Mother Huggen bundled up blankets and food. Arran kicked nests into a jumble of moss. The fire was quenched.

“We can’t take the water jars,” said Arran with a frown.

“Excuse me,” said Needle, “but does it matter if they know Padra’s been here? There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be. It’s only hiding the babies that’s against the law.”

“Well thought of!” said Arran. “That means we don’t have to carry absolutely everything. Just don’t leave anything babyish. What’s your name?”

“Needle,” she said.

“Oh!” Arran nodded at a nest. “That one’s yours.”

Needle had been too caught up in the escape to think of her brother. But there he was, and he was awake! Bright-eyed, he peered from his nest, his nose twitching. Needle picked him up.

“And as we go to the tunnel, walk backward, sweeping the floor,” ordered Arran. “No pawprints.”

Standing on an upturned boat, Padra gazed out to sea. Urchin should not have gone alone and he blamed himself bitterly, but it was too late now. He slipped into the water and thought over his plans for the Spring Festival. Only two days to go. It was his chance to challenge Husk, and everything depended on whether the animals of Mistmantle would rally to his side. He had to convince them. With Lugg and Arran, a few very young animals, and a pawful of dead leaves, he had to save the whole island. The future of Mistmantle lay with him, and he felt intensely lonely.

He turned in the water, reluctant to go back to his own rooms. Without Urchin, they would feel as empty as hunger.