Bookweirdest (9 page)

They were tiny books. Norman opened one gingerly, afraid of ripping a page. The dim light made it difficult to read. Even squinting, Norman had trouble picking out the words. Timothy brought an oil lamp and held it over the boy’s shoulder, but Norman still struggled. He shook his head.

“It’s too small. I can’t read it.”

“I’d heard this. You humans don’t see well in the dark,” Timothy said. “Ambrose, you read it.”

The younger monk had hardly said a word all night. Now he stood back, some steps away from them, and shook his head slowly.

“Ambrose has heard too many campfire stories about two-leggers eating up little bunnies,” Esme teased. “Never mind, I’ll do it.”

It didn’t take them long to find the right passage. The Undergrowth rabbits were obsessed with the details of their arrival in
England. It was a huge mystery to them, and they’d been trying to puzzle it out for centuries. They went over the story again and again, trying to retrace their path and figure out where they went wrong.

Esme had a very sweet reading voice. She read like his mother with a bedtime story, with just the right pace and emphasis, as she related the first accounts of the Rabbit Legion’s march down the high road out of Logarno and through the plains to the Highland foothills. It almost put him to sleep right there, but he kept himself awake for just a little while longer. The legion followed the king’s road from the lowland stoat villages into the high country, where the wolves still held ground, then headed down a hunting track towards Tista Kirk. At one turn, the path emerged into a high meadow, from which the rabbits looked out across Lochwarren to the castle itself on the other side. Norman could imagine it well. It was Malcolm’s castle. In the rabbits’ chronicle, the wolf flag still flew over the towers. The Second Battle of Tista Kirk had not yet been fought and won, and Norman Strong Arm had not yet led the conquest of the castle.

“Can you copy this out for me?” he asked, looking from Esme to Ambrose, not sure if the little monk had overcome his fear of humans. “But take out everything about the wolves.”

He did not want to go back to quite this spot. He didn’t want to fight the Battle of Lochwarren Castle again. A lucky shot had felled the wolf captain, and Norman knew he could never make that shot again in a million years.

“Describe it with the red Mustelid ensign and”—he paused before adding reluctantly—“the flag of the long-tailed weasels.”

The rabbits gave him a peculiar look. “That’s not much in the way of directions,” Esme said.

“You’ll have to trust me,” Norman told her. “It’s mysterious for me too, but it works. Just please try to write it big enough for a poor giant like me to read.”

They didn’t question him any further. The quiet young monk dutifully picked up his quill and began copying. Esme looked over the scribe’s shoulder as he did so, frowning. He copied quickly,
throwing sand on the scroll when he was done to dry the ink and handing it to Esme, who handed it to Norman.

It was perfect. The writing was just big enough for Norman to read, but the whole thing fit on the tiny piece of paper. He took it and placed it in his back pocket. “Do you think you can make me another copy?” he asked. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra around for when he was in a tight spot.

“I still don’t see how that’s going to help us find our way back,” Esme said doubtfully. “How is a description of a mountain meadow going to help? Shouldn’t we be looking for a hidden passage? A crevice in a mountain or something?”

“It’s complicated,” Norman told her. “You’ll see tomorrow, when it’s light.”

He was starting to feel guilty about deceiving the rabbits. They had been so kind to him and he was going to desert them. He made a promise to himself to come back. It was one more thing on his list: find Malcolm, recover the treaty map the stoat king needed to defend his claim to the throne, save Jerome from the siege of San Savino … oh, and find his parents. Add to that saving the talking rabbits of England, and it was all beginning to feel insurmountable.

Esme must have sensed his discomfort, because she didn’t push the question further. Instead, she watched quietly as Ambrose scribbled away.

The sound of his quill scratching on paper seemed loud now. The village of Willowbraid was closing down for the night. A few lights flickered in the taverns along the main road, but there were no voices, just the sound of birds and Ambrose’s pen. Norman yawned.

“You ought to get some sleep now,” Timothy recommended. “Esme’s father has assembled an expedition party to accompany you in the morning—scouts and trackers mostly, but I’ll see if we can sneak in one or two of the brothers to document the journey.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Norman caught a glimpse of Esme’s reaction. He had been around talking animals enough to read their expressions, and hers was clearly a scowl. She thought
she should go. Norman didn’t disagree. He wished he could tell her that no rabbits were coming with him to Undergrowth this time, but that hardly would have helped.

“I think you should come too,” he told her finally. “You were the only one brave enough to come out of that meadow, after all.”

Esme didn’t answer him right away, just waited for Ambrose to finish his second copy. “Just so you don’t get any ideas,” she warned him as she handed it over, “there are archers stationed up in the high branches. So don’t think you can sneak off in the night.”

She said it with a smile, but Norman knew she wasn’t joking. He put the second page in the pocket of his backpack and nodded in thanks.

“I’ll sleep here, I guess?”

They left him there on the grass outside the scriptorium. Tired as he was, he didn’t drift off right away. First he had to eat the page that the rabbit monk had copied for him. As he chewed, he surveyed the dome above him. He couldn’t pick out any movement or glint of light between himself and the stars, but he didn’t doubt that the sentries were up there. What were they thinking as they watched him eat the piece of paper? To them, he was just a crazy two-footer. For all they knew, every human boy ate a page of paper before he went to bed each night. They couldn’t guess that he was escaping right before their eyes.

When he was done eating, he curled up on the grass to fall asleep. The night had grown cold, so he tugged George Kelmsworth’s school sweater from his backpack and pulled it over his head slowly, trying not to alarm the sentries with any sudden movement. The sweater helped, but it wasn’t enough. The only other cover was the canvas knapsack itself. If he slipped both arms into it backwards, it covered most of his chest and stomach, providing a little extra warmth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough that he could fall asleep.

W
hen you have slept in as many strange places as Norman had, waking up in a field of heather on a sunny summer morning is a kind of luxury. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that the bookweird had worked. There was something in the air that told him he was back in the Highlands of Undergrowth. It wasn’t just the smell of pine and highland flowers; you could get that on a camping trip. No, it was a special bright smell—more of an idea than a smell, maybe, like opening a new book that you know is going to be a favourite. Whatever it was, Norman filled his nostrils with it and sat up.

He didn’t even need to stand to see it. It was right there across the lake: the castle on the crag, overlooking the dark grey waters of the loch. From here, Norman could see the dock from which Malcolm’s father, Duncan, and Uncle Cuilean had escaped on the night the wolves overran the castle. He could also see the little chapel where Malcolm had been crowned. By all rights, the stoat ensign should be flying now on the highest tower, but the banner was the red Mustelid pennant, the flag flown by the weasels and the snow ermines.

So he’d arrived at the right time. The wolves had been defeated and the stoats and weasels still contested the throne. Norman wasn’t
worried. The wolves were gone, and that was the important thing. So what if the long-tailed weasels occupied the castle for now? They were distant relatives of the stoats. Their argument with Malcolm and Cuilean was a legal one, and it would all be settled when they brought back the treaty map from Jerome’s library.

Norman stood up and shook the grass from his clothes. The canvas knapsack was still firmly strapped to his stomach. He removed it and pulled off his sweater too. It was warm enough already for just a T-shirt. He stuffed the sweater back in his pack and reassured himself that Ambrose’s second copy was still there. If he’d been smart, he would have asked for some extra paper. Once you set off bookweirding, you could never have enough.

There were two ways around the lake. The high road was shorter, but it was tougher climbing. The low road went through the village of Lower Warren, which settled it. The British coins jingled in the pockets of Norman’s knapsack as he set off down the trail. How many lingonberry pies could you buy with a giant ten-pence piece? he wondered, and smiled to himself.

The path closed in quickly and became one of those narrow forest trails that were wide and high to animals but tricky for humans. Pine branches were arranged at about eye height. Roots stuck out at just the right level to catch his toes or his ankles. Norman stumbled a few times and took a few swipes from branches to the forehead, but it hardly bothered him. He was back in Undergrowth! It was better than being home, and soon he would be seeing Malcolm again. They’d be feasting in the great hall of Lochwarren tonight.

The moment he thought of it was the moment he took his eyes off the path. He only meant to see how far he’d come, to see if he could spy the lake through the trees, but he chose exactly the wrong time. His foot caught on another upraised root, pitching him forward suddenly. He reached out to grab a branch to steady himself but came up with nothing. It was all he could do to protect his face as he lurched towards the dirt. He landed with a thump that knocked the wind from his chest in a sort of growling gasp.

He wasn’t hurt—just a scrape on his arm—but it was a reminder that he wasn’t made for this place. It went much easier when Malcolm was there to act as his lookout and guide. Norman stayed on the ground to catch his breath before rising. A familiar voice stopped him.

“That was graceful,” the voice said. “I hope you weren’t planning on sneaking up on anybody.”

Norman looked up to see the creature that was waiting for him on the path.

“Esme! What are you doing here? How?”

The little rabbit cocked her head sideways to look at him. “I thought you were going to explain it. That’s some magic of yours. Were you ever going to tell us?”

Norman didn’t bother to get up off the ground. It was easier to talk to her from there anyway. “I didn’t know what to tell you. I didn’t think you would believe me, and I wasn’t sure that I could bring you with me. I had to try by myself first.”

The rabbit didn’t look pleased. “Why didn’t you just say that you could only bring whatever fit in your bag?”

“Is that how you did it? You snuck into my bag?” You’d think you would notice a rabbit crawling into a knapsack on your chest. She must have been very quiet. “That was clever.”

Esme’s expression softened a little bit. “I watched you eat the paper. You couldn’t see me in the dark, but I could see you. When you ate the paper, I knew it had to be something to do with magic.”

“I’m not very good at it,” Norman told her apologetically.

Esme just sniffed. She watched Norman for some time, then seemed to make a decision and took a package from her cloak. “I’ve brought breakfast.”

The package contained a half-dozen bread rolls and an apple. Norman sat down against a tree and tucked in.

“You were smart to bring these. I have some granola bars.” He unwrapped one and offered it to her, but the rabbit shook her head.

“I ate hours ago. And I didn’t bring these from Willowbraid. I bartered for them in the village below.”

Norman was impressed. “You were up early, then.”

“Humans sleep too long in the night and bustle about too much in the day,” she told him.

Norman decided not to be offended. His mother was always telling him to get up earlier too.

“How are things in the Highlands?” he asked. “What do you think of the stoats?”

“They laughed at my accent, but they paid a good price for English herbs.”

Norman paused long enough between bites of apple to watch Esme. She seemed very calm and collected for someone who had been transported through time and space in a knapsack. He didn’t know rabbits well—all his time in Undergrowth had been spent with the stoats—but he’d always imagined them as jumpy and nervous. The only thing that seemed to bother Esme, though, was that he’d slept in.

“Was there any news in town? Did you hear anything about Malcolm or his Uncle Cuilean?”

The rabbit frowned at the question. “Stoats aren’t a talkative lot, especially not with strangers, but their tongues loosen when they start to barter. Neither Cuilean nor Malcolm has been seen in weeks. They say that the regent Cuilean is sick and being looked after in the castle. No one knows where the young king has gone. The long-tails on patrol say that he’s run away, that he was too young to rule and has lost his head.”