Urchin and the Heartstone (34 page)

Hope set off in the wrong direction, heard Thripple’s voice, and turned toward her, bumping his paw on something. He stopped to examine it.

“Have I found the Heartstone?” he said hopefully.

Needle dawdled over to look. It was hard to go on being enthusiastic about the Heartstone now.

“No, it’s a pink shell, but never mind,” she said. “It’s a nice one to give to your mum. We’ll light the bonfire soon. Crackle says they’re making hot soup and spice cake.” Crackle, who had been working in the kitchens, came down to join them.

“Urchin’s lights will be coming on soon,” said Thripple.

“I sort of don’t like it when Urchin’s lights come on,” said Crackle. “They come on every night and he still doesn’t come.”

Urchin and Juniper stamped their paws for warmth and watched the mists.

“We’re getting closer,” said Juniper. Lugg was gazing into the mists with such intensity that he had forgotten to feel seasick. Cedar leaned over the bow as if she wanted to reach out beyond the mists.

“We’re moving very slowly,” said Urchin.

“But we’re moving,” said Juniper. “What will happen if we can’t get through? Will we just stay here?”

“I’ve heard about ships from Whitewings that didn’t get through,” said Cedar. “The ship slows down and down, and then stops. It won’t go forward, even if there’s a gale blowing and you row with all your might. It’ll only turn around and go back.”

“If that happens,” said Urchin, “we’ll lower the ship’s boat with you in it, and pray that you get through.”

“Yes,” said Juniper. “Pray.”

“What in all the island do you think I’m already doing?” said Lugg.

“Pray for something wonderful to happen,” said Juniper. “You never know. We might all just sail through. There must be more in the Heart’s way of doing things than we can understand.”

“You sound like Brother Fir,” said Urchin.

They prayed. They watched. They ran up and down the mast to keep warm and to see if the view was any better. They brewed cordials and ate food that still had the metallic taste of Whitewings. Daylight faded. They hung lanterns fore and aft, and in the crow’s nest.

“Wouldn’t it help if we were up there, too?” said Juniper. “I still think that if we’re not so much on the water, we might get through.”

“If we stop dead and absolutely can’t move,” said Lugg, “then I’ll join you up there, to see if it works. But only if I have to. Plague and lice,” he muttered, “the things I do for Mistmantle. And speaking of lice, you still smell.”

The ship slowed. Urchin and Juniper climbed the mast and settled in the crow’s nest. They looked down on Cedar as she stood like a figurehead, with wreaths of mist whirling like veils around her.

“We’re still moving,” said Juniper, “and still forward.”

The mist made tiny beads on fur and whiskers. Whiteness folded Cedar and Lugg until Urchin could hardly see them. The lamps glowed softly through layers of white. Urchin pressed his frozen paws to his mouth to warm them. A snowflake landed on his nose.

Were the mists thinner? He might be imagining it, and soon it was hard to tell. The snow grew heavier, falling faster in thick, tumbling flakes that twirled to the deck. In the crow’s nest, they stretched out their paws to it.

“It’s like flying!” whispered Juniper. “I wanted to fly on a swan, but this is magical!”

Urchin laughed up at the sky. Then he gasped.

“What was that?” he said

“There was something in the snow!” Cedar called up.

Urchin watched. Beyond the mist, he could see deep-violet sky where the snowflakes danced and silver swished among them. Awed and wide-eyed, he could barely breathe the word.

“Star,” he whispered.

“Riding stars!” cried Juniper, and the swans rose in the air for joy. “Urchin, it’s riding stars! They’re taking us home!”

From Cedar came something like a sob and a cry of joy. Urchin leaped down the mast, ran balancing along the bowsprit, and stood in the light of the ship’s lantern, clinging with his hind claws, his face and forepaws lifted to the pouring sky.

Snow over Mistmantle settled steadily on treetops, casting a white hush on Anemone Wood. On Watchtop Hill and on the rocks above the waterfall, animals warmed their paws at bonfires and turned their faces to the sky. On the shore, young animals staying up late to see the stars forgot all about them, and were content to watch the snow drift silently down and melt into the sea or vanish in the halo of the bonfire. Padra, his daughter wrapped in a shawl in his arms, watched the small squirrels and hedgehogs hopping across the rocks trying to gather the snow before it melted, tipping their heads back to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Damson stood a little apart from the others, her cloak wrapped about her, Sepia holding her paw.

“Are you cold, Mistress Damson?” asked Padra. “Won’t you come nearer the fire?”

“Thank you, Captain Padra, but the smoke hurts my eyes,” she said. “Miss Sepia’s keeping me company.”

Brother Fir hobbled over the rocks. “Mistress Damson, will you come to my tower and drink cordial with me?” he offered, holding out his paw. “Best place on the island for stars, and a great deal more civilized than the sea’s edge in a snowstorm. And young Sepia can come if she likes, though I daresay she’d rather be with her friends.”

Sepia looked up at the tower. Urchin had told her that the stars looked wonderful from Brother Fir’s turret. They would be breathtakingly close.

“I’ll go the quick way, shall I?” she said in a husky whisper. “I can light the lamps for you.”

Sepia dashed up the wall, having to stop on a window ledge now and again to get her breath back before she scrambled over a snowy window box into Fir’s turret. By the time she had set the lamps flaring, she could hear his step on the stairs, and knew from the voices behind him that Thripple and Hope had joined him. While Damson warmed herself, Sepia stood at the window holding Hope’s paw and watching the stars. They were large and bright as they danced across the night sky and the dark sea, and from Hope’s gasps of delight, she knew he could see them. Then a shower of stars hurtled at the tower at a rush, like laughing children, so wild and fast that she wanted to duck; but she didn’t. If the stars had swept the top from the tower and carried her along with them, she could have danced across the sky. But they passed in a rush and all was still.

“That’s all for now, sweetheart,” she whispered. Hope said something and pointed, but Thripple was asking her how her throat was, and she turned to say that it was much better, thank you, but she had to rest it and she still couldn’t sing at all.

“There’s a star,” said Hope.

“I don’t think so, dear,” said Sepia, looking out.

“But there was one,” said Hope.

“Let’s watch, then,” she said, and settled down beside him. “Oh!”

Something was moving in the mists, a pale, gleaming light. It vanished again as soon as she saw it, but as she watched, it came again, glowing with something like muffled firelight. There was another one, lower. Then they vanished, and came back into view again.

Fir was watching, too. And Thripple. And Damson.

On Watchtop Hill, animals turned their heads to follow the light. On the beach, chatter stopped. Animals moved forward to the shoreline. Crispin and Padra stood side by side. Padra passed Swanfeather to Apple. Arran put Tide into Moth’s paws, and slipped to join Crispin and Padra.

“A ship,” whispered Padra. “Lights fore and aft, and on the mast.”

“What have the riding stars brought us?” said Crispin.

“Should we get the young and the old into the tower,” said Padra, “in case of danger? But it doesn’t feel like danger.”

“No,” said Crispin, “it doesn’t. Stand fast, Padra. Arran, have Docken and Huggen ready in case we do need to get anyone into the tower. Bring Russet and Heath.”

“Star!” cried a young squirrel. One, two, three great stars seared across the sky, and for a second the night was radiantly bright. But nobody could be quite sure what they had seen.

“Something pale, like moonlight?” said Padra.

“Some animal’s fur,” said Arran, “like firelight.”

“There was someone on the mast,” said Crispin. “And look!”

It was nearer. Dimly lit, barely seen shapes were taking form before their eyes. A ship carried forward with her lanterns shining through the thinning shroud of mist, stars dancing about her, guarding her, bringing her to shore. She sailed nearer, tall and beautiful, leaving the mists, sailing through snow and stars to Mistmantle. Was that a dark squirrel in the crow’s nest? On the bowsprit, paws outstretched, balanced a figure as pale as moonlight. On the deck something flamed like fire, but it could have been the flame-red fur of a squirrel. They were level now with the small boats that parted to let them through.

All over the island, bright eyes watched. Animals found their voices.

“Urchin!” said Crispin.

In Fir’s tower, Damson rubbed her eyes. “Juniper!”

“Urchin! Juniper!” cried Sepia, and sprang down from the window.

“Urchin, Urchin, Urchin!” squeaked Hope.

“My dad!” said Moth, hugging Tide.

“Grandad!” yelled two young moles, and pelted toward the shore with yelps of joy.

“It’s my Urchin,” said Apple to Swanfeather, and wiped her eyes on a corner of her shawl.

Urchin! Juniper! Lugg!
The cries ran through the island. In the tower, with shining eyes, Fir repeated his prophecy and fell on his knees to give thanks. Then he hobbled down the stairs after Thripple, Hope, and Damson.

The ship sailed on among the lights of the little boats, all shining again in the water. Animals ran to the jetty. Needle hugged her mother, her little brother, Crackle, everyone. Sepia dashed about, gathering her choir, herding them onto the the highest rock she could find. And still, snow, stars, and swans swirled around the masthead, where Juniper stretched out his paws for joy; and around the prow, where Lugg waved furiously and wiped his eyes; and Urchin turned somersaults for joy before running back along the bowsprit for the rope, and Cedar gazed and gazed.

Padra found Arran beside him, caught her look, and grinned.

“Ready for this?” he said.

“It’ll be freezing,” she said. They threw down their cloaks and hurled themselves into the water as Urchin threw the rope.

“We’ll need more warm cloaks,” said Mother Huggen. “And one for that tangle-brained Fingal, too, for he’s sure to follow them.”

“I’m coming!” yelled Fingal as he splashed into the sea.

Padra’s head appeared in the water, his whiskers dripping, his eyes laughing. Bursting with joy, Urchin hugged Cedar, hugged Lugg, and ran up the mast to hug Juniper.

“We can almost touch the stars!” he cried.

“We
are
touching the stars!” said Juniper.

Then the singing reached them: Sepia’s choir, their voices high and sweet, blending into the icy air so that Cedar gasped to hear them and lifted her ears. They were near the jetty now, and Urchin sprang down from spar to spar. Crispin flung his cloak to the jetty, leaped onto the taut rope, and dashed along it, twisting his tail as it swayed under him, scrambling over the side to seize Urchin in a strong, warm, hug, and finally looking past him at Cedar.

“This is Cedar,” said Urchin, “and she’s wonderful. We owe everything to her. Our lives. Everything.”

Crispin dropped to one knee before Cedar and kissed her paw.

“My lady,” he said, “you are welcome to Mistmantle and every honor it can offer you.”

“And excuse me, but there’s a hedgehog rebellion and a small mole invasion on the way, Your Majesty,” said Lugg. “I’ll get it sorted, soon as I’m off this boat.”