by S D Smith
He saw that the pool he swam in was formed from an excess of water pouring into the cavern, with the water escaping through some unseen route deep below them. He thought he could hear the water pouring out somewhere, but he couldn’t tell where. “Heather!” he shouted, shivering. His voice shook.
He swam hard for the pebble shore, then heard the water stir behind him.
He turned to see his sister, struggling to stay above water. She was clutching the slumping form of Smalls, who appeared to be finished. “Help,” she whispered.
Energized by the sight of his sister alive and awakened—no doubt by the cold blast of water—he crossed to her in seconds.
“He’s …” she said, but she wasn’t able to finish.
“Come on,” he said. “I have to get you to the shore.”
“We can’t leave him,” she said, treading water with difficulty. “He’s alive.”
“But we have to,” Picket said. He couldn’t save them both. “Come on!” he screamed, trying to grab on to her.
“We can do it,” Heather said, teeth chattering. “Together. I can help you.”
They each took hold of Smalls under one arm. Heather winced as she strained, and they swam desperately for the shore. The whole time they swam toward the distant beach of pebbles, Picket wondered when they would all sink for good.
Somehow, they at last fell heavily onto the shore, freezing and out of breath. They lunged forward and together dragged Smalls out of the icy pool.
Picket collapsed beside Smalls, shivering and coughing. His mind blanked for a while, and he almost lost consciousness. Then he came tearing back to life with flashing images of their flight.
Picket crawled to Heather and wrapped her in a hug.
“I thought—” he began.
“Me too,” she said shakily.
They held each other for a little while longer, warming up a little and saying nothing.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I think I’ll be okay,” she said. “I was spent, for sure. I’m all right, besides being a little rattled and cold. My shoulder is hurting, but I don’t think it’s broken. I can use it.” She stood up and looked around wearily. “What happened to us? And who is that?” She indicated the slumped form of Smalls.
“His name is Smalls,” Picket said. “He helped Uncle Wilfred rescue us.”
“He was our uncle?” she said. “I thought he might have been Father. Where is he now, this uncle of ours?”
“He’s nearby, but we have to get out of here,” he said, crossing to the wall of rock. “We need to act fast. There are cruel things in this place. They’re after us.”
“Of course there are,” Heather said, shrugging and shaking her head. “Of course they are.”
“Uncle Wilfred’s out there somewhere. We need to find him and get as far away from Nick Hollow as we can.” He stumbled across stones, seeking in the shadows for any hint of a way out.
Heather crossed to the slumping form of Smalls. “I think he hit his head,” she said. She felt the bump on his head and frowned. She left him and went to the water’s edge. She plunged her hand into the water and retrieved a small stone.
“What are you doing?” Picket called.
“Helping,” she said. “I think.” She placed the icy stone on the bump and held it there, despite the numbing cold she was feeling. Picket looked away, scanning the rock wall and feeling for anything that might be a way out.
“Hey!” he shouted.
“What is it?” Heather called. But Picket’s answer was drowned out by loud screams from the caves above. It sounded like dozens of creatures were sliding down the tunnels overhead. “That sounds bad,” she whispered to Smalls’ unconscious form. “Will this never end?”
“Heather,” Picket called. “Come help me!”
A boat was leaning along the wall. A rusty chain trailed down to the ground, where a heavy anchor lay. “Let’s pull it down,” Picket said. There was an odd assortment of things all around the boat: ropes, oars, pans, all sorts of gear strewn out on a rotting table.
Behind them, they heard shrieks and an awful clamor as the cavern roof shot dark shapes into the air, then the cold pool below. They searched for a way to lower the boat as the cavern filled with loud, piercing wails, then silenced again in terrific splashes.
The rabbits heaved on the boat and pulled it down by the old anchor chain. It smashed to the ground as they clambered out of the way.
“What now?” Heather asked, her eyes on the pool and the desperate creatures splashing and flailing in it. “We have no time,” she said, trying not to let panic creep into her voice.
“I don’t know exactly,” Picket said, throwing the rope, oars, a net, and a few small items he couldn’t identify into the boat.
Into the silence the call of a whippoorwill echoed, faintly, in the cavern. Picket ran to the wall.
“What are you doing?” Heather asked as the bird call was repeated.
“Uncle Wilfred!” he called, running toward the sound, which seemed to come from one of the nearby shafts of light.
Beside the beach, the pooled water moved into a small channeled stream, which appeared to have an outlet somewhere deeper still beneath them. He couldn’t see how it worked, but he heard the release of water outside and below them. It must lead to the stream outside. How? He had no idea. The piled-up rocks of the wall, in which there were a few openings marked by shafts of light, served as a dam against the great store of water in the cavern. Picket considered swimming deep down and trying to escape that way, but he had no idea how they would get Smalls out.
He clambered up the part of the stone wall above the waterline and found a foothold that allowed him to see outside one of the light-filled openings. It was like a small rectangular window. He peered out.
There was his uncle, looking worriedly up at the stone wall from a spot near the stream. Uncle Wilfred was right outside the bottom of the seventh mound. Between his uncle and the three of them stood a high, firm wall of built-up rocks, forged together by art and age. It was like the entrance to the cave on the fifth mound, blocked intentionally, the wall apparently unmovable. The stream flowed steadily beside Uncle Wilfred.
“Uncle!” Picket shouted.
“Picket?” Uncle Wilfred said, moving with great speed to the small opening. “Is Smalls all right?”
“He’s injured, knocked out,” Picket said quickly. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“You have to protect him until I can get inside!” Uncle Wilfred shouted. “Don’t let anything—”
But Picket cut him off. “Uncle Wilfred, they’re coming! We have no time!”
Picket tore at the small opening, and Uncle Wilfred threw his shoulder into the wall with furious desperation. It was a crafted wall, and Picket thought it could be torn down, given enough time.
“Smalls!” Uncle Wilfred cried. The wall shook a little, and some small stones plopped into the pool. Uncle Wilfred was strong, but Picket knew it would take much more time than they had to do it that way.
“They’re almost here!” Heather shouted. Picket turned to see her dragging Smalls up the bank of the pebble shore, the sheath of his sword rattling against the cold stones. Picket glanced at the boat.
Then he shouted to Uncle Wilfred, “Save your strength! Wait here!” He ran to the water’s edge.
“Help me drag him, Picket!” Heather yelled.
But Picket did not help her. He knelt beside Smalls and drew his sword. Heather thought he had gone mad and was preparing to fight their attackers, but he ran away as soon as he had it. He crossed to the boat and swung the sword with a grunt. A metallic clink sounded. Again and again he swung the blade.
Finally, there was a sound of snapping chain, and Picket cast the sword into the boat. He gripped the chain and ran for the cave wall.
Jus
t before he reached the wall, the heavy anchor on the other side of the chain dug in, stopped him short of the wall. “Help!” he shouted. Heather, who had begun to drag Smalls toward the boat, ran to Picket, grabbed hold of the chain, and helped him drag it the last few feet. Picket climbed the rock wall again and fed the chain through the rectangle window. Uncle Wilfred looked puzzled, perplexed, as the piles of chain fell at his feet.
“Picket!” he shouted, “what is this?”
“It’s an anchor,” Picket puffed out. “Pull with all your strength!”
Realization dawned on Uncle Wilfred’s face. He didn’t hesitate a moment but sprinted away, twisting to wrap the chain around him as he ran. Picket climbed down and ran back to the shore.
The creatures were coming ashore. There were at least ten swimming rats, a few small bats who had spluttered and splashed into flight, and other creatures Picket couldn’t see well.
He didn’t care. He was exhausted and cold and had no time to watch. The attackers would need only a moment to recover before descending on them. They had only a few precious seconds now. Picket hoped it was all they needed.
Heather struggled to drag Smalls to the little boat. Picket joined her, and they quickly moved him nearer. As they breathlessly pulled him toward the old boat, they saw the chain tighten and the heavy anchor begin to drag. It skipped and clanged along the ground and then lifted into the air. The anchor struck the rock wall with a tremendous crash.
The wall held. He heard a sound of grinding stone, the rattle of rocks crumbling down the wall and disappearing in the water. Dust clouds filled the shafts of light, but the wall stood.
Picket looked back. The beach was filling with creeping creatures bearing down on them. The noise of their cursing threats and screeching cries filled the cavern. They would reach the boat in seconds.
The anchor slid down the dam wall, slumping into the water. Picket imagined Uncle Wilfred, the jarring he would have endured to pull the anchor so hard without result. Picket made ready to defend his sister for as long as he could. He grabbed the sword, which was chipped now, and held it up with trembling hands. He stood in front of the boat, hopeless and afraid. He watched Heather pull Smalls into the boat and turned to see their attackers only a few steps away.
“I’m sorry, Heather.”
Chapter Twelve
Water Issues
Hopeless and cold, Heather watched her brother raise the sword with trembling hands. It didn’t feel real; it couldn’t be real. They were just two ordinary rabbits, children really. This can’t be happening. The beasts swarmed toward them with a hatred on their faces she couldn’t comprehend. She closed her eyes.
All was noise now. The uneasy breathing of Smalls beside her, the anxious mutterings of Picket, the screeches of the attacking rats and bats, and she couldn’t tell what else. Then a rattling, chinking sound made her open her eyes.
The anchor chain jiggled and Heather gasped. The anchor moved again, now racing up the slope of the rock wall. Uncle Wilfred was trying again.
The anchor rose in a terrific arc and once more stabbed the piled stones of the dam wall.
This time, it smashed through! For a second, only an anchor-sized hole appeared. Then rock chunks broke apart, spraying mortar and gravel in a great tear that avalanched down from the breach to the bottom of the wall, gushing water into the brightness outside. The breach in the dam wall caused the rest to crumble and collapse outwards in a terrific noise of crashing, splashing stone. A blast of sunlight filled the cavern, blinding them and their attackers as the enormous pool of cavern water shifted in a moment.
“Picket!” Heather cried, reaching out for her brother. She clasped his hand just in time to pull him into the boat as the massive pool rose and rushed for the gaping hole in the wall of the seventh mound. Water overwhelmed the small pebble shore, surging up to meet them.
Picket made it into the boat with Heather and the still-unconscious Smalls just in time. The boat rose with the swell and raced forward on the crest of a wave that smashed into their attackers, scattering them in the swirling pool. A few of the bats escaped upwards, but they flew back quickly, unsure of what was happening. The rabbits held on as best they could while the boat sped forward with a roaring rush of water.
Outside the seventh mound, the once-humble stream that had been slowly fed by a small flow of water from under the rock now raged like a river, overflowing its banks.
Heather gaped as they issued through the cave wall, their eyes nearly blinded by the daytime sun. She saw Uncle Wilfred twist out of the chain, dodge flying debris, and dive for the rushing boat before the bank he stood on disappeared in the gushing flood. He snagged the boat’s edge with one hand, and Heather fought to pull him in. Picket dove to the side of the boat where she held fast to Uncle Wilfred’s wrist. The boat tilted wildly, and Heather believed for a moment it would tip over. But she leaned back, steadying the vessel, as she and Picket strained to hoist their uncle in amid the gathering rapids of the gushing stream.
At last he was in, soaking wet, wide-eyed, and smiling.
“Adventure!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bats fluttering near the cave and the spluttering rats who were trying to swim ashore all along the swollen bank. As they sped still farther down the teeming rapid, Redeye Garlackson and a squadron of wolves rounded the corner of the seventh mound. Heather saw how the mound was broken open and water issued as from a spewing mouth. Broken stone was sprayed all over the swollen banks, and trees stood waist-high in a sudden flood. The wolves appeared on peninsulas of land, pawing the earth and rushing back and forth in a frenzy. The scene was disappearing behind them with remarkable speed, shrinking in the spreading distance. Then the air was split by a long, bone-chilling howl. First one, then many. Heather looked away quickly.
They floated in silence for a few minutes, catching their breath. Heather closed her eyes and shook her head, as if she could wake up from what felt like a dream. But when she opened her eyes again, she saw the familiar sights of Nick Hollow sliding past her on the shore. She and Picket were passing the borders of the only place they’d ever known. The stream raced on, now passing long open fields dotted with small clumps of trees. Behind them the sky grew grey as rainclouds hovered ahead. But they sailed on into cloudless skies and sunshine.
“I think we’re safe, for now. We should be well clear of them in an hour,” Uncle Wilfred said, gasping for breath but grinning defiantly in the direction of the tiny shapes. Heather managed a weary smile. She had never been as glad to see anything disappearing behind her as she was those horrible creatures and their wicked captain, Redeye. They had caused terror and destruction and had done who-knew-what to her parents and baby brother, as well as her friends at Elric’s Farm. But they had been robbed of some of their plunder. They had fewer victims than they intended to get. Heather took grim satisfaction in that.
The boat steadied as the stream, which was still wide, grew calmer. They had a great burst of momentum and were sailing along at a good clip, but the water was more predictable here, and they began to relax. Ahead the stream joined with Whitmer River, which rolled away south for unknown miles.
“Garlackson,” Picket said. “Smalls called him ‘Redeye Garlackson.’”
“Yes,” Uncle Wilfred said through gritted teeth. “That’s his bloody name. Redeye Garlackson,” he said, spitting, “is as evil a creature as you’ll find in the world. As Morbin Blackhawk is among the Lords of Prey, so Redeye Garlackson is among the wolves. And Morbin has got him for an awful alliance.”
Heather’s mind, now that she really was relaxed for the first time in a long time, filled with questions. “Is it the same Garlacks who fought King Jupiter in the Red Valley War?”
Uncle Wilfred’s brows rose in some surprise. “Yes, that’s his son back there, dear. I’m impressed,” he said. “I wasn’t sure your father would be telling you those tales.”
&n
bsp; “He hadn’t really begun, until last night,” she said, tears starting in her eyes. She still hadn’t had time to cry over losing her parents and brother. It all began to weigh on her, and she turned her head away, sobbing softly.
Picket put his arm around her and said, “I’m not sure if it’ll be all right. But I’m glad we’re together.” She put her head on his shoulder and nodded.
Uncle Wilfred said, “It will be all right, I think. We’ll talk about a plan a bit later,” and he crawled up to care for Smalls, who still lay unconscious in the prow of the little boat. “Smalls has had quite a knock. Don’t worry; I know where we’re going, and we’ll be safe, at least for a little while. Please, try to rest.”
Heather let herself be held by her brother, and they both watched Uncle Wilfred care for Smalls. He lifted the white rabbit’s head gently and examined the knot there, nodded to himself, and searched in his satchel. He consulted a small book and made Smalls as comfortable as he could. Uncle Wilfred then sat beside him, holding his hand and looking at the young rabbit with the kind of concern their father showed when they were hurt. They looked so alike, Father and Uncle Wilfred.
“We didn’t know we had any cousins,” Heather said as their little boat slid from their swollen stream into the larger Whitmer, drifting quickly down the middle of the river.
Uncle Wilfred’s eyes widened, and he looked around, not meeting her gaze. Eventually he nodded, saying nothing for a long while. He worked to straighten the boat in the increasing current of the river, then returned to attending Smalls.
Finally, he spoke again. He wasn’t looking at them but from Smalls’ peaceful face to the wide lands on the shore and the sinking sun above. “Smalls is a fine rabbit. As fine as any I’ve known. And that’s saying a lot. I don’t think you saw it, Heather, but he saved you. Without him, I never could have stopped Garlackson and that other wolf.”
