The Heir of Mistmantle

by M. I. McAllister

  “You’ll be safe with me, little Catkin,” she said. “They can search all autumn and winter. They won’t find you.”

  In the Throne Room, the windows had been thrown open because of the unseasonable heat. Many of the Circle were out searching for Catkin, harvesting, or caring for the sick, but as many as possible had been summoned, including Arran. Urchin, Needle, and Juniper were there, to hear what Brother Fir had to say. There was no brightness in his eyes today.

  “I should have remembered,” said Fir sadly, “but so many babies were killed when Captain Husk was in power. Linty had a daughter, born small and before her time. She might have lived. But Captain Husk swooped, had the baby brought to the tower, and killed her himself. Nothing could be done to save her. Later, when Linty’s little boy was also born early and very small, we tried to save him.”

  “There were so many,” said Arran, frowning as she tried to remember. “But I remember dashing to collect a baby and take it to the secret nursery and finding I was too late. I couldn’t forgive myself for not getting there in time.”

  “Think of all the babies you did save, Arran,” said Fir. “Linty has never been the same since—of course she isn’t, how could she be? But none of us had realized how badly damaged she was. I fear her mind must have been breaking. The night of the Naming Ceremony she found herself in the tower with a baby squirrel.”

  “But her babies were taken to the tower to be…” cried Cedar.

  “Exactly,” said Fir. “All Linty could think of was that she had to rescue the baby from the tower.”

  Cedar covered her face with her paws.

  “I must speak the truth to you, Your Majesty,” said Fir. “Catkin is in the care of a squirrel who wants to guard and protect her, but whose mind is fragile.”

  Crispin’s voice suddenly sounded much older than it ever had before.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “We carry on,” said Fir firmly. “We search. We encourage the young to help with the search, because Linty will not be afraid of the young. She will be very afraid of captains. We pray, we search, we keep vigilant, we go on.”

  All the next day, and the next, the search went on, up hills, in caves, through woods. The queen’s eyes grew red with sleeplessness. She hardly ate, and her face became gaunt. When she did sleep she would cry out and wake suddenly, convinced that she had heard Catkin crying.

  Apart from a few brief showers, the hot weather continued, a heavy heat as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Every hollow tree was hunted through. Waterways were watched. On Queen Cedar’s orders, female animals were sent, two or three times each day and night, to stand in tunnels and caves, in woods and beside streams, to talk to Linty in case she was near enough to hear.

  “Talk to her gently,” she said, though her paws were curled tightly around the yellow-and-white catkin blanket. “Thank her for looking after my baby. Tell her no babies are…” she stopped suddenly, and listened. “Did you hear that?”

  “There’s nothing, Your Majesty,” said Thripple the hedgehog. “Just the sounds of the little ones playing outside. It’s just because you…”

  “Yes, I know,” said the queen. “Tell Linty it’s safe to bring her back. Tell her the baby needs me.”

  Silent and sympathetic, they went their different ways to search. Thripple, hunchbacked and lopsided, took the queen’s paw gently.

  “My little lad was taken for the cull,” she said, “and your husband and Captain Padra saved him, and took him to the secret nursery. But I missed him so much, I used to hear him crying even when he wasn’t there, just like you did, Your Majesty, just now. Do you hear her in your sleep, too?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied the queen, and it was as if she were about to say something else, but she only pressed Thripple’s paw and added, “Thripple, try and call me by my own name. Call me Cedar.”

  She needed friends who would use her own name. But even with Thripple, she would not talk of what she saw in her nightmares.

  Damson trudged up and down hills. Needle tried searching in a place where she had once been trapped by one of Husk’s moles. The ancient Mole Palace, a wide arched hall, dry and earthy under tree roots, was investigated by Padra and Urchin. The old routes to it had been blocked and new ones made, and few animals knew how find it, but Padra and Urchin had learned its secrets. They found it empty.

  Hot, airless days dragged on and on. Harvesters, sweating and aching with effort, took long drafts of water from the streams and sluiced themselves from the buckets that were kept filled for them. Hobb, Yarrow, and Quill were loading wheelbarrows with fat blackberries.

  “Not natural, this weather,” grumbled Hobb before plunging his head into a bucket. He emerged sleek, wet, and looking more polished than ever.

  “Maybe not,” said Russet of the Circle, who was nearby, “but it’s given us a good harvest.” (Russet and his brother Heath were very similar, but Russet was slightly taller, and the tip of his left ear was missing.)

  “Blooming berries,” said Hobb. “Can’t move for blooming berries. Juice gets everywhere. Except,” he muttered quietly to Quill, “the queen’s paws. Bet she doesn’t get berry juice on her precious paws.”

  “I expect she does,” said Quill, though he didn’t like to argue with Hobb, who seemed to know everything. “She’s a healer, so she must use all kinds of plants and things. They say since there’s been so much sickness about, she’s been making medicines herself.”

  “Then she can come and heal my knees,” grumbled Hobb. “Can’t hardly walk some mornings, let alone heave all these blooming berries about.”

  Yarrow grunted, and muttered something about how the queen’s foreign medicines might do more harm than good as far as anyone knew, and a good honest Mistmantle squirrel like our Tippy wouldn’t have minded getting berry juice on her paws. Quill was about to say that the queen didn’t mind either, then he remembered that Yarrow was older than he was and said nothing at all.

  “I hope the king remembers to give us a feast when the harvest’s all in,” grumbled Yarrow. “We always have a harvest feast. Fair enough, we might have to wait till the princess gets found.”

  “Two feasts, then, otherwise we’ve been had,” said Hobb. He folded his arms, squinting against the sun. “We should have two, one for harvest and one for when they find the littl’ ‘un. Mind you, I don’t feel much like a feast just now. We shouldn’t have to work in this heat, it’s making my head ache.”

  He waddled back to the water buckets. Yarrow, seeing his brother nearby, wheeled a wheelbarrow of berries toward him and jerked his head in a way that was meant to look significant. Nearby, a cluster of young animals, who had been having a wonderful time making blackberry-stained paw prints on a rock, began to play Find the Heir of Mistmantle, but before they had the chance to run and hide, their parents or grandparents seemed to appear from nowhere.

  “It’s not suitable, not now, playing that,” said one hedgehog mother.

  “And one little one missing is enough,” said her friend. “If the king’s own baby can vanish, it makes you wonder about the rest.”

  “It certainly does make you wonder,” said Yarrow, with what was meant to be an air of wisdom, “if they’re telling us everything about this baby. I reckon that lot at the tower know more than they’re saying.”

  Other animals stopped or slowed down to listen. Adults held the children’s paws tightly. Quill trundled over to join them. “Why?” said Yarrow’s brother. “What do you think?”

  “I think someone put Mistress Linty up to it,” said Yarrow knowingly. “She couldn’t have done this all by herself. Someone’s helping her.”

  “Oh, come on!” said a mole. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  Yarrow hadn’t thought of that, and it was difficult. Faced with a bunch of inquisitive animals waiting for him to say something, he tried to think of a suitable villain and was suddenly inspired.

  “We all know about Captain Husk, don’t we?” he said
mysteriously.

  “But he’s dead!” said someone.”

  “We’ve been told he’s dead,” said Yarrow, “but who saw him die? Not many, and they only said they saw him fall. Never found a body, did they?”

  Hobb surfaced from a bucket and folded his arms. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking,” he said. “It’s Captain Husk. He’s back, and they daren’t tell us.”

  Gleaner scurried to the tower. You could always find a length of muslin if you knew where to look. The kitchens used them for wrapping food and straining jam, and those fussy needle animals used swathes of it to protect their unfinished Threadings. She took a length of white muslin, folded it carefully, filled it with bits of the herbs that were supposed to keep sickness away, made it into a bundle, and hurried to the Tangletwigs.

  In a clearing, deep in the Tangletwigs, was a cairn of stones decorated with a polished bracelet and a few scattered wildflowers which were now faded. Gleaner, hot and uncomfortable on such a day, scratched by thorns and irritated by midges, trotted on sore paws to the cairn and pressed her face against the cool stones.

  Whatever they said about Lady Aspen, she wouldn’t believe it. She was my lady. She should never have died, not my lovely Lady Aspen. She crumpled the dead flowers and disposed of them in the bushes.

  “The flowers aren’t lasting these days, my lady,” she said. “It’s too hot. I’ve brought you some muslin to keep the sun off you. And there’s some nasty disease about, so I’ve brought the right herbs to keep it off, for I don’t want it coming anywhere near you.”

  Gleaner knew that Lady Aspen, in her grave, could not suffer from any sickness, but she couldn’t bear the thought of harm coming near her. So she spread the muslin and scattered the strewing herbs. It’s for my Lady Aspen. I can still do something to look after my lady.

  Urchin and Juniper trudged back to the tower after a long, hot day of failed searching. They had no heart to run up the walls and shook their heads at the guards as they climbed the stairs to the Throne Room.

  “I can’t help imagining the worst that could happen,” muttered Juniper.

  “Try not to even think of it in front of the queen,” said Urchin. “Juniper, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m just tired, the same as everybody else,” said Juniper, because he couldn’t tell Urchin what worried him.

  The words of prophecy he had received were nagging and prodding at him. He could not understand it and was afraid of what it might mean. The only person he could discuss it with was Brother Fir, and Fir was already worn out.

  “Go to bed, Juniper,” said Urchin. “I’ll report to the king for both of us.”

  By the morning, Urchin hardly felt he’d rested. He, Needle, and Juniper climbed to a hilltop where they scrabbled, scratched, dug, sniffed, and listened until their ears and noses were so confused that they couldn’t distinguish anything clearly, and they stopped for a rest. Urchin had soil dust in his eyes and ears, and a catching in his throat.

  “Are we far from the stream?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Sorry?” said Juniper, and when Urchin repeated it, he hopped away to find his satchel. “I brought flasks of Spring Gate water,” he said. “You see that row of trees on the skyline?”

  Urchin twisted around to look. “Do you think we should look there next?”

  “We should, if nobody else has,” said Needle. She had found a useful supply of earwigs and popped one into her mouth.

  “The thing about those trees,” said Juniper, “is that beyond and below them there’s a sheer drop to Tangle Bay. Damson found me near there.”

  Urchin turned to him with sudden interest. As Juniper had been in a world of his own all day, it was a relief to hear him talk about Damson.

  “Has Damson told you anything more?” he asked.

  “No,” said Juniper with a shrug, as if it weren’t important anymore. “She might not know much about who I am, but she knows more than she’s telling me.”

  Needle sprang up. “It’s her!” she called. Urchin and Juniper leaped up, scattering crumbs and gulping down chunks of apple.

  “Sorry,” said Needle, “I didn’t mean Linty, I meant Damson.” She waved with both paws. “Damson, we’re here!”

  Damson lumbered stiffly up the hill. “I’m getting too old for this,” she panted. She put down her basket, sat down beside Needle, and rubbed her hind paws. “But I reckon Linty’s got a place well down, all carved out, all in and out the tree roots, and well covered. I had places like that where I kept you, Juniper, before I found our home behind the waterfall. Excuse me asking, Needle, but where did you find those earwigs?”

  “Just here,” said Needle, clearing a space with her claws around the heather roots. She was about to add, “There’s plenty,” when she remembered that, of course, squirrels don’t eat earwigs. Didn’t know what they were missing.

  “That’ll do,” said Damson, and sprawled face down on the heather. Juniper and Urchin exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Mistress Linty,” she called gently, “no need to be alarmed, now, it’s only Damson. Are you still looking after little Catkin?”

  Juniper, Urchin, and Needle looked at each other and back at Damson. Had she really found Linty, or should they be worried about her?

  “I’m sure you’re taking good care of her,” Damson went on, “and King Crispin’s most grateful, but he and the queen are missing her very much and they want her back. It’s time she had a sleep in her own cradle. Brother Fir said he thought you might be afraid of Lord Husk. Well, Husk’s dead and gone, Mistress Linty. King Crispin and Queen Cedar are good animals and don’t have culling. So my dear, you bring little Catkin back to the tower. They’ll be happy to see you both.” She got up slowly, brushing dust from her fur.

  “Have you found her?” gasped Needle. “Is she really down there?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Damson. “I might just be a silly old squirrel talking into the ground. But where there’s a lot of creepy crawly things about, like earwigs, there are insect runs, and where the insects can get through, so can the sound. When I was in hiding, I heard a great deal of what was said aboveground. Linty might be able to hear voices. It wouldn’t hurt if you all tried talking into the ground for her, especially you, my dear.” She nodded at Needle. “She might be more willing to trust a girl.” She looked up at the hills above them. “I’ve come this far, I may as well go on.”

  “We’ll do the uphill bit,” said Juniper, “but you’re worn out, so I’ll take you home first.”

  “You will not!” said Damson. “You’ll go on searching for the princess as King Crispin told you to! Do as you’re told. I’m going downhill and you’re going up.”

  Juniper and Urchin leaped up the hill. Around them mothers took children back to their nests and burrows, holding their paws firmly, casting sharp, worried glances over their shoulders. Needle followed more slowly. She’d do anything to rescue Catkin. She would go through fire and water, place herself in any danger, and risk her life. But she hadn’t imagined having to sprawl across the heather, whispering kind words into tree roots. Danger was one thing, but looking ridiculous, really….

  She saw a gathering of wood lice, lay down, and began talking. She’d do anything for Catkin, even this. She’d better tell the queen about it, in case she wanted to try it herself.

  Dusk settled. Animals worked on, searching for Catkin and gathering the harvest, though heads ached and limbs were stiff with effort and heavy with tiredness. Only the otters, smoking and salting fish and drying seaweed, seemed to keep up the pace of the day’s work. Even squirrels trudged to their nests instead of running.

  “But the harvest’s almost in,” said Padra to Captain Lugg as they met on the shore. “It’ll all be under cover when the weather breaks.”

  “Can’t break soon enough,” said Lugg. “We need rain. Streams are running slow. Sluggish water isn’t good. No wonder animals are falling sick. How are Crispin and the queen?”

  “Keepi
ng very busy,” said Padra, “searching, organizing, and doing whatever they’re needed for. It’s the only thing that makes life bearable. I don’t know how they can stand it.” Nearby, two moles hurried home, their heads bowed and close together in conversation. When their children ran ahead, they were sharply called back.

  “What’s going on?” asked Padra. “Suddenly there’s a lot of whispering going on. And the children—ever since Catkin disappeared, the animals have been very watchful of their young, but now it seems they don’t want them to go out to play at all.”

  “Something’s up,” agreed Lugg. “Better ask a few questions, find out what it is. Missus might know. And that lot in Anemone Wood hear everything. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Underground, Linty rocked herself. She had heard paw steps above, up and down, coming, going, searching, not leaving her alone. But then she had heard a kind voice, speaking her name—Mistress Linty…they’re most grateful…they want her back…he’s gone…

  Linty remembered that voice. That was Damson. She had admired and envied Damson, who had managed to keep a young one safe through the bad times. If Damson said it was safe to take this baby to King Crispin, it was safe. Good King Crispin. She remembered Crispin. He was a nice young squirrel.

  A terrible thought struck her. What if that wasn’t really Damson? What if…she turned hot and sick with fear when she thought of this—what if it were a bad animal playing a trick, putting on Damson’s voice? Or what if Damson were wrong, or couldn’t be trusted? In these strange days, who could you trust? If she were lured into a trap, Catkin would be killed, and it would be her fault.

  She hugged herself and rocked. What was the best thing to do for the baby?

  Stay here, dig farther in, move to another refuge, and hope they don’t find us, or take the baby back. Just take her back to her own mother.

  She couldn’t hide forever. She could trust Damson. She’d take the baby back to King Crispin and the queen, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, she’d go to the tower. Or would she?