The Heir of Mistmantle

by M. I. McAllister

  “Ooh!” This time they all said it at once. A storm of stars hurled themselves tumbling across the sky and whirled upward. They turned to watch them circle the tower like a flock of birds and sweep away into the night.

  “Doesn’t it mean something when the stars do that?” asked Crackle. “Do you know, Whittle?”

  “Um, sorry, what?” said Whittle. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was going over the Threadings Code again. Sorry.”

  “What’s the Threadings Code?” asked Scatter.

  “You know about the Threadings,” said Needle, who worked on those Threadings, the painted, woven, and stitched pictures of the island’s stories. “Well, the details in the Threadings all mean something. Flowers and things, they all stand for something.”

  “‘Angelica for holiness, wormwood for bitterness,’” said Whittle. “I’m up to that bit.”

  “Don’t worry, Scatter,” said Fingal. “Ordinary animals like us don’t have to know it all. So, does anybody know what it does mean when the stars do that thing—that once-around-the-tower thing that they did just now?”

  “My granny used to say that you have to look at them and think of all your hopes and dreams and ambitions,” said Needle. “You sort of keep looking at the stars and looking at your dreams as if the two go together. It’s because, when the stars go around the tower, they go out of sight and come back again, and that’s the way it can be with your hopes and dreams.”

  “Look at the riding stars, look at your dreams,” said Sepia, stretching her paws to the fire. “I remember now.”

  “All I dream of is having my own boat,” said Fingal. “Get looking and get dreaming, everyone!”

  They smiled, but their hearts were with the stars. Urchin and Needle thought of the new life before them as full members of the Circle with all its responsibilities and demands. Urchin thought, too, of the parents he had never known. He folded his paw over the squirrel hair bracelet that was all he had of them.

  Juniper gazed up steadily. There were two hopes and dreams for him. One was to serve the Heart and the island as the best priest he could be. The other was to find out who he really was.

  Like Urchin, he was a foundling. Damson the squirrel had found him as a baby and brought him up in secrecy in the days when any animal with a twisted paw, like his, was put to death. He was sure that Damson knew more about him and who he really was than she had ever told him.

  Brother Fir had called him “Juniper of the Journeyings,” and he knew it wasn’t just because of his journey to the Isle of Whitewings. On Whitewings, Urchin had discovered who his parents were. That was what Juniper wanted for himself, too.

  A star twirled down, so fast and bright that the flash of it made Juniper turn and squeeze his eyes shut. Suddenly he shuddered, swallowed hard, and pressed a paw against his stomach to keep himself from feeling sick.

  “Are you all right?” asked Urchin.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered.

  Behind his closed eyes, with the imprint of the star still before him, he had seen with intense clarity. For a split second he had seen claws: very white, outstretched claws. There had been something blue, something that he felt he should have recognized—then the silver flash of a knife.

  “I’m fine,” he said to Urchin. There was no claw anymore, no flash of blue, no knife. But he had seen them.

  Nobody noticed the gull that flew over the island that night with a fish in its beak. It meant to land and gobble it down; but the fish was diseased and foul-tasting, so the gull dropped it and flew on, beyond the mists, without anyone seeing it at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FTER DAYS OF SWEATING IN THE SUN, the animals were glad of a cool breeze on the morning of Catkin’s naming. It was really still too warm to wear cloaks and hats, but many of the animals—especially the older ones—felt that you shouldn’t go to a tower celebration without them, so there was a great flapping of cloaks and holding on of hats as squirrels, hedgehogs, moles, and otters struggled against the wind to Mistmantle Tower. Urchin’s foster mother, Apple, a well-rounded squirrel, lumbered to the doorway at the top of the tower stairs where she dusted a few stray leaves from her cloak, identified the ones that belonged on her hat, and shoved them back into place. Seeing her friend Damson, Juniper’s foster mother, puffing and plodding her way up the stairs, she waited.

  “Well, what a day!” exclaimed Apple as Damson reached her and paused for breath. “What a day for a naming, a right proper do and all, and there they’ll all be, all up at the front, your Juniper and my Urchin, up there beside the Circle and the captains and all, won’t we be proud!”

  “And Needle will be at the front, too!” squeaked a very small hedgehog from somewhere near her hind paws.

  “Oh!” said Apple, peering down. “It’s little Scufflen. Yes, Scufflen, your big sister Needle, she’ll be there too, mind you always did find those two in the same place, Urchin and Needle, where you found one, you found the other, ever since they were little. Now, little Scufflen, you make sure you get to the front row, you get a good view, if I were you, pet, I’d just stick them spines out, except you shouldn’t, 'cos it’s naughty….”

  But by now Scufflen had found his sister Needle and had moved out of earshot. Apple and Damson joined the throng of animals swarming to the Gathering Chamber.

  The bay window in the Gathering Chamber reached nearly to the floor and looked out onto a breezy sea of dancing white wave tips. Threadings made the walls bright with color. Sills and ledges were decorated with gold and yellow autumn leaves, late flowers in deep, dark red and orange, clustered seed heads, and shells and pebbles from the beach. The Circle was taking their places around the dais, where a scallop shell lay by a silver bowl of water. Whittle had placed leaves in an arc, each one scratched with the clawmark of a Circle animal, to make it clear who was to stand where. Rather nervously, he announced each one as they processed in.

  “Docken the hedgehog…Mother Huggen the hedgehog…Russet the squirrel…Heath the squirrel…” He mustn’t forget Captain Lugg’s youngest daughter, who was in the Circle now…and that other new Circle mole, whose name was something to do with digging…oh, yes…

  “Moth the mole…Spade the mole…” Just in time he remembered not to announce the captains yet, nor Mistress Tay and Brother Fir, who would arrive later. In the anteroom adjoining the chamber, the Captains of Mistmantle—Padra, Arran, and Lugg—were putting on their robes. Urchin had been helping Padra to robe ever since he first became his page, and lifted the turquoise-and-silver otter mantle from the sandalwood-smelling chest as he had so many times before.

  “You don’t still have to do all that,” said Padra. “In no time you’ll be a member of the Circle yourself, not a page anymore.”

  “But I want to do it, sir,” said Urchin. “And this will probably be the last time.”

  “You could even stop calling me sir,” said Padra.

  “I don’t think I can, sir,” said Urchin, lifting the heavy robe onto Padra’s shoulders. When he himself became a member of the Circle, a whole stage of his life would be behind him. A pity, in a way.

  “Don’t look like that, Urchin,” said Arran, adjusting her circlet. “You won’t have to be all dignified all of a sudden. Even the king still runs up the tower walls if he feels like it. Hello, Needle!”

  Needle, having found good seats for her parents and Scufflen, had a message to deliver to the anteroom. She usually wore a blue hat in autumn, but had replaced it with an elegant gold cap for this occasion.

  “The royal party is ready,” she said. “We can begin as soon as they’re all in. The queen says the baby’s in a lovely mood, so we need to get on with things before she gets hungry or falls asleep.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Captain Arran firmly, as Padra adjusted her circlet for her. “We’re all ready. Tell the squirrel trumpeters to play the fanfare.”

  “Tail tip, Urchin,” advised Padra quietly, and Urchin smoothed down his tail tip. A high and commanding ca
ll of silver trumpets silenced the chattering of the excited animals crammed into the Gathering Chamber. They stretched their necks, the animals at the back standing on clawtips to see over the heads of the others.

  “Off you go, then,” whispered Padra to Urchin and Needle. Side by side, heads high, they stepped through the Gathering Chamber, not looking from side to side as heads turned to watch them, and took their places at either side of the main door.

  Mistress Tay the otter came first, the island’s lawyer and historian, her dark whiskers set in a grim straight line. It was said that nobody had ever seen her laugh. She looked, thought Urchin, as if she’d trample down any animal who got under her paws. Whittle followed her in the procession, looking solemn, as he was concentrating so hard on getting everything absolutely right that he even counted his steps. He wouldn’t dare to annoy Mistress Tay.

  Brother Fir came next, and the very sight of the priest lifted Urchin’s heart, but Fir’s limp seemed worse this morning. As always, his dark eyes had a depth of joy that Urchin had never seen in anyone else, but there was a furrow on his brow as if he might be in pain, and the gap between Fir and Whittle seemed to widen, as if Fir couldn’t quite keep up.

  Then Juniper, slight and dark in his priest’s tunic, stepped to Fir’s side and slipped the priest’s paw through his arm, and Urchin smiled. Through the dangers they had faced together, he and Juniper had become like brothers. Steadily, patiently, Juniper helped Brother Fir to his seat.

  Padra, Arran, and Lugg had taken their places behind the two high-backed carved chairs on the dais, but nobody was watching them. Ears and whiskers twitched, eyes were bright, parents held up their children to see, and little gasps of admiration rose from the crowd as King Crispin and Queen Cedar in their gold-and-green court robes appeared in the doorway. There were cheers, there was applause, and some of the very young ones jumped up and down in excitement and had to be calmed down as the tide of joy surged through the chamber.

  Crispin and Cedar took their places on the dais. A real king and queen to be proud of, thought Urchin. Then, as the king and queen looked toward the door and their faces lit up with happiness, everyone turned to watch the entrance of Princess Catkin in the arms of Thripple the squirrel.

  Thripple had a hunched back and a strangely squashed, lopsided look that should have been ugly, but the kindness in her eyes made her beautiful. Holding the baby very carefully against her shoulder, because it wouldn’t do to prickle the princess, she walked to the dais.

  Princess Catkin was, as the queen had said, in a lovely mood. Watching wide-eyed over Thripple’s shoulder, she seemed fascinated by all those faces—or perhaps, thought Urchin, it was the hats. Thripple placed the baby in the queen’s arms, the singing began, and Catkin giggled. Prayers of praise and thanks were offered to the Heart. Autumn garlands, trailing with deep scarlet leaves and berries, were carried to the king and queen. Otters brought nets of pebbles and seashells to lay before the princess, and from the workrooms came two hedgehogs and two squirrels carrying, spread out between them, the baby’s naming shawl.

  The workmanship of the shawl was so intricate and so beautiful that a long, low whisper of “oooh!” rose from the chamber. Star-shaped and as fine as a spiderweb, it was threaded through with gold, blue, purple, and green, and shimmered with color as they wrapped it around the princess. Touching all four paws and her face with water from the silver bowl, Fir pronounced the blessing over her in a voice that sounded just a little thin and croaky.

  “Child of Crispin, child of Cedar,

  May your heart beat as one with the Heart that made you.

  May you walk and dance

  pray and speak

  laugh and weep

  with the beating of the Heart.

  May the love of the Heart and of all creatures fill you.

  May you find love in all seasons,

  all places,

  all creatures.

  Grow strong, grow kind.

  Be a star in darkness,

  Be warmth in winter,

  Be the sea breeze in summer,

  Be the breath of spring,

  Be Catkin of Mistmantle.”

  Sepia of the Songs, the sweetest voice on the island, sang. The choir joined her, their voices blending so skillfully that it seemed they couldn’t be animal voices at all, but something entrancing from far beyond or above the mists. Then Urchin noticed a nod of the head from a Circle squirrel toward the gallery, where a mole pulled on a cord.

  Autumn leaves and rose petals tumbled from the ceiling, twirling softly, landing on hats, on ears, on cloaks, on shoulders as animals looked up and laughed with delight. Petals fell on Mistress Tay’s whiskers, and she twitched them away in irritation. Oak leaves settled gently on the king’s shoulders. A rose petal landed on Catkin’s nose and made her laugh. They drifted onto her soft fur. At last, to applause and more music, the royal family left the chamber and made its way through the corridors of Threadings to their own apartments with Urchin and Needle attending them. Needle was so intent on making the baby laugh that she tripped on a step, and if Urchin hadn’t caught her she would have disappeared from sight. She had recovered her dignity by the time they entered the royal chambers.

  “Excuse me, Your Majesties,” said Needle, removing a rose petal which had impaled itself on her spines, “when we have the party tonight, it’s a shame if the nursery maids miss it. I don’t mind taking a turn at looking after Catkin.”

  “And I’ll keep her company,” said Urchin.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Cedar, “but we have a rotation of nursemaids on duty this evening, so they all have a chance to go to the party. Jig and Fig the mole maids are first, then Moth and Mother Huggen, of course, and there are two squirrels…” but at that moment, Moth the mole maid, a little out of breath, hurried toward them and curtsied. She held Tipp and Todd by the paws. Todd, who, like his grandfather Captain Lugg, was a solid, down-to-earth mole, marched steadily beside her. Tipp waved an imaginary sword and pulled on her paw as he lunged at invisible enemies.

  “Please, Your Majesties,” said Moth, “there’s a message from the two squirrels who were on the rotation. They’re neither of them feeling well, and they want to go home. They didn’t want to look after the princess in case they’ve got something catching.”

  “Quite right,” said Crispin. “I’ll send two of the guards to escort them home.”

  “Give them our love, and we hope they feel better soon,” said Cedar.

  “Take care what you’re doing with that sword, Tipp,” said Crispin, “you nearly took Urchin’s head off.” Tipp looked down at his paw in astonishment. Crispin took a little time to talk to the young moles, and to ask Moth about her engagement to Twigg, and Lugg’s health, while Cedar turned to Urchin and Needle.

  “I’ll take up your offer to babysit Catkin,” she said. “And there’s another squirrel we can ask. Catkin should sleep right through.”

  “I hope she doesn’t,” said Needle.

  The Gathering Chamber that evening was bright with lights and alive with music. Animals danced, watched entertainments, sang, and feasted. On hilltops and shores, beacons were lit to celebrate the princess’s naming. Princess Catkin herself, in the little room adjoining Crispin and Cedar’s bedchamber, slept soundly in her cradle. Needle and Urchin took their turn and were disappointed that she lay contentedly wrapped in a white blanket embroidered with catkins, her eyes tightly shut and her thumb in her mouth, a cream-colored blanket beneath her, and didn’t wake up once. The rose petals from the naming ceremony had been spread about her so that she lay in a nest of them. Needle rocked the cradle while singing the lullaby that all babies in Mistmantle heard, from their earliest days.

  “Waves of the seas

  Wind in the trees

  Spring scented breeze

  For your sleeping, sleeping

  Sleep while I pray

  Peace for your day

  Heart hold your way

  In its
keeping, keeping…”

  She was still singing when the queen tiptoed in.

  “We’ve had word of another squirrel being taken ill, and a hedgehog,” she said quietly. “Feverish and aching, being sick. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  By the next evening, more animals were reported to be ill, and the first two squirrels were worse. The queen, a wise and skilled healer, gave instructions about care of patients and supervised the making of medicines herself, but Crispin and Fir urged her not to visit the sufferers. Urchin stood on duty by the door.

  “You can’t risk bringing infection back to Catkin,” said Crispin. “And she mustn’t be attended by anyone who’s been in contact with the illness.”

  “His Majesty is right,” said Fir. “Dear Queen Cedar, simply train the island’s healers, make the medicines, and leave the rest to us. If, while you do so, this crisis has left you without enough baby-minders, I’m sure plenty of animals will rush to your aid. Urchin and Needle, perhaps?”

  “Yes, Brother Fir!” said Urchin.

  “Thank you, Urchin,” said Crispin. “You and Needle can take the second watch with Catkin tonight.”

  Another squirrel came to the tower to join the nursery team that evening, a squirrel widow called Linty. Urchin met her at the main door and carried her bag as he escorted her to the royal chambers. Dimly he recalled seeing her somewhere before—it must have been at some event in the Gathering Chamber—but she didn’t come from his own colony in Anemone Wood. There was a sort of faded prettiness in her pointed face and large, dark eyes, and she had a nervous, wary way of glancing around her as if she expected something frightening to leap from behind the Threadings. She said little, and her voice was soft and shy, but already she was humming the Mistmantle lullaby under her breath. Urchin left Linty, giving her instructions—Here’s her cup, here’s her porridge if she wants it, and she likes being sung to—and went back to his chambers at the Spring Gate where Padra and Fingal greeted him. Tide and Swanfeather were rolling over each other on the floor, and sawdust clung to Fingal’s fur.