The bard folds his arms and gives the little rabbits his best glare. Eventually their squeaking subsides, and they sit frowning up at him in silence.
‘Roasted radishes, you are a noisy bunch! I don’t really care what you’ve heard about how Podkin became the One-Eared,’ he says. ‘This is my story. It belongs to me. And in my story, he had to cut it off to escape the Gorm.’
‘That’s daft,’ says the inquisitive rabbit. ‘How can anyone own a story? It isn’t a real thing. It’s just words.’
‘Stories belong to the teller,’ says the bard. ‘At least half of them do. The other part belongs to the listeners. When a good story is told to a good listener, the pair of them own it together.’
‘So the story is ours now?’ asks another rabbit.
‘It will be,’ says the bard, ‘if I ever get to finish the blooming thing.’
‘I think it makes sense,’ says a quiet piebald rabbit at the front. ‘There’s no such thing as vampire rabbits anyway. I always thought he lost his ear in a battle, but this version sounds like something that would have happened.’
‘Thank you,’ says the bard. ‘You’re obviously a very sensible little rabbit. The chieftain’s son, also, might I guess?’
Behind him, Chief Hubert swells with pride (or he would do, if he wasn’t already as swollen as any rabbit could get without exploding all over the longburrow). The inquisitive rabbit makes the most of the interruption to pipe up once more.
‘But how do you know what happened? If you weren’t really there, I mean.’
The bard sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘I’m a storyteller. I tell stories. That’s my job.’
‘So this is just made up then.’ The inquisitive rabbit doesn’t look very impressed. ‘Well, if you’re going to make up a story anyway, you might as well put vampire rabbits in. Vampire rabbits are exciting.’
‘By the Goddess’s sacred celery …’ The bard puts his head in his hands and makes a quiet sobbing sound.
The sensible rabbit digs his friend in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Vampire rabbits aren’t real,’ he says. ‘If the story has things in it that don’t seem real, then we won’t want to believe it. If we don’t want to believe it, the story falls apart. Then there really is no point in listening to it.’
The bard peeps out between his fingers and gives the sensible rabbit a wink.
‘There is a god,’ he says, ‘of bards and storytellers. His name is Clarion, and he has been known to whisper the art of stories into the ears of a chosen few rabbits while they sleep. I believe he must have paid you a visit or two, my wise little friend.’
It is the sensible rabbit’s turn to puff up with pride, making him look like a tiny replica of his father. A hint of what will he become when it is his turn to become chieftain.
‘Very well.’ The bard clears his throat and gives his audience another glare. ‘If you’ve quite finished interrupting, might I be allowed to continue the story?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Witch in the Woods
It was very hard for the little rabbits to go back out into the winter forest. What little warmth they had gained from Redwater warren soon vanished, and this time they had no idea where to run. As far as they knew, the whole world was against them and nowhere was safe.
They knew they didn’t have much of a head start, either. The Gorm would be arriving at Redwater soon, and in five short minutes they would discover Podkin’s severed ear. After that, they simply had to stroll along the trail of footprints in the snow, and then it would all be over in the flash of a twisted iron blade.
Podkin wasn’t too worried by it all. He had lost quite a lot of blood, which tended to make you dizzy and dozy. He was currently dreaming that he was walking on top of a fluffy white cloud. His sister was there, carrying a talking carrot that looked a lot like his brother, Pook; and for some reason, his ear was very sore. He thought he’d probably wake up soon, then go out and see if he could find a nice spot by the river for a snooze.
Paz dragged him along by the arm, casting worried glances at his missing ear. The wound was still oozing blood, and the fur on his head was thickly matted with it. She needed to stop and bind it, but there wasn’t time.
Pook had also started shivering again. He was making quiet, miserable little whines, and she wasn’t sure how much more of the cold he could take. She was trying her hardest to move quickly, not to leave such obvious tracks, to keep to the deeper parts of the wood …
All in all, she had begun to think it might be better if the Gorm did get them. At least it would all be over quickly.
Which is why she wasn’t too surprised when they stepped into a clearing and saw a hunched, twisted crow sitting on a tree stump and staring at them with blank red eyes.
‘Oh no,’ she moaned. ‘Oh no.’
The crow blinked and tilted its spiked metal head. Its beak opened slightly, dripping some oily, coppery fluid. Its feathers rattled and scraped against each other, giving off a cloud of powdery orange rust. Paz tried to think of some way to stop it before it flew off and betrayed their whereabouts. Throw the dagger at it? Jump on top of the thing and squash it? There was really nothing she could do.
‘Caaa!’ it squawked, and began to spread its wings for take-off, when suddenly it exploded with a clang and a puff of iron feathers. Paz shrieked and stared at the drifting cloud of jagged plumage. The crow itself had been knocked to the floor, stone dead.
‘I hate those pesky birds,’ said someone on the other side of the clearing. Paz raised the dagger, ready to defend herself, as a stooped old she-rabbit in a patched cloak crunched towards them through the snow. Her hand clutched a leather sling, empty now of its pebble bullet. ‘They should learn to mind their own beeswax.’
‘Um … hello?’ said Paz.
‘Is it morning yet, Mummy?’ said Podkin.
‘Soop?’ said Pook.
‘It’s about time you three showed up,’ the she-rabbit said. ‘I’ve been waiting about in the snow for ages. Blooming cold, my poor feet are.’
‘You’ve … you’ve been expecting us?’ Now Paz wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Or was this another agent of the Gorm? She didn’t have any metal shards poking out of her face, but still …
‘Expecting you, dear? I should say so. Saw it in the bones, years ago. And now we’d better hurry and see to that ear. We’ll lose him if we don’t, and then we’ll lose everything else.’
Paz looked at her poor suffering brother and then stared at the old rabbit, trying to work out whether to trust her or not. She was clearly mad, but was she a safer bet than trying to escape the Gorm on their own? The she-rabbit stared back, with piercing blue eyes that looked much younger than her face. Her nose wrinkled and twitched as she waited for Paz to make her decision. Finally, she nodded.
‘All right. We’ll come with you.’ But if you try to trick us … Paz had Starclaw clutched in one hand. It would cut through the rabbit’s flesh just like it had Podkin’s ear.
The she-rabbit nodded, as if satisfied that things were going to plan. ‘Good, good. Just what you’re supposed to say, dear.’ She walked to the edge of the clearing, and then paused to draw a bronze sickle from her belt. Bending down, she started cutting a slender pine sapling with it. While she was busy, a thousand thoughts raced through Paz’s mind. What if she’s a traitor like Lady Russet? What if she’s a witch? Don’t you remember what happens to little rabbits that go off with witches in the forest?
The she-rabbit finished cutting off the sapling and used it like a broom to swish away their footprints in the snow. When she had finished, she looked up, an impatient frown on her face.
‘Well? Are you coming or not?’ she said. ‘Hop along, my little bunnies.’
Then she turned and vanished into the undergrowth.
*
Witch or not, there wasn’t much else Paz could do but follow. They wound their way through the bushes and trees, Podkin moaning softly and stopping every now and then for the she-rabbit to hide
their tracks, until they came to the biggest oak tree that Paz had ever seen. It had a cascade of gnarled, squirming roots that spilled down from a sloped bank of earth. The towering trunk was thick enough to be four or five centuries old, and its branches – weighed down with snow – dipped to the forest floor, making a kind of latticework cave. A cage of wood and snow that, in a happier time, would have made an amazing play den.
However, it wouldn’t be much good at keeping out the Gorm. Paz watched as the she-rabbit ducked through the branches, hoping she had a better plan than just hiding amongst the tangles of roots.
Instead, she pushed at a spot on the packed earth of the bank. It looked like a bare patch of mud, covered in moss, lichen and dead leaves but – to Paz’s surprise – it swung open to reveal a hidden door. She hurried inside, helping the bleary Podkin along. As soon as they were in, the old rabbit shut the door and bolted it.
This is it, thought Paz. This is when the witch makes us into a pie, or maybe some kind of casserole.
But no such thing happened. Instead, the she-rabbit hung up her cloak and busied herself by stoking the fire inside a little clay stove. She put a pot on top and poured in water from a clay pitcher, before taking Podkin’s hand and leading him to sit on a little stool by the hearth.
Paz couldn’t help worrying that the warming stove might be intended for them but, seeing as they weren’t being eaten just yet, she took the chance to look around. They were in a tidy little house, burrowed beneath the huge roots of the oak. The earth between them had been whitewashed, and reed mats covered the floor. Pots, pans and utensils hung from the ceiling, and there was a small fireplace, complete with mantelpiece, where the stove nestled.
Shelves had been carved into the earth of the walls, and more had been added, made from old warped planks of wood. Every inch of these were packed with a strange collection of items, too many for Paz to really take in.
She saw lots of clay pots and jars, all labelled with neat Ogham writing, some overflowing with dried herbs and bulbs: wild garlic, rosemary, foxglove, rosehip and lots of mushrooms, like ink cap, blusher, penny bun, brittlegill and angel’s bonnet.
Paz saw many other, stranger things that she could only wonder about. A glass jar filled with bird skulls; a painted wooden mask with fangs and huge eyes; a clay model of a peaceful rabbit, sitting cross-legged, from whose head a spiral of scented smoke slowly uncurled.
So this is what a witch has in her house, she thought. But there were other, more homely things too: a bed in the corner, a spinning wheel, loom and some cupboards. There was even a leaded-glass window, framed by tree roots. Paz went over and peered outside. What she saw made her clap her hands over her mouth to stop her from screaming.
A pack of Gorm riders were a few metres away, grinding their way through the snow. Their hunched iron beasts were ploughing up the ground, spattering it with black oil, while their riders sat atop, slowly turning their heads this way and that. Their jagged, serrated swords twitched, hungry for rabbit flesh. She could hear the screeching and grating of metal; she could smell the hot oil and burnt-blood stink. Any moment now, they would spot the secret door in the bank and come crashing through …
‘Don’t you worry about them,’ said the she-rabbit, as she took the water from the stove and set it down beside Podkin. ‘They won’t find us here. There’s enough glamours and ’chantments about this place that Hern himself couldn’t find it, if I didn’t want him to.’
And true enough, now the Gorm were turning their mounts and seemed to be heading off towards the far end of the bank and away.
Proper magic. A little voice in Paz’s head said. Not only a witch, but a good one. She smiled to herself and went over to where Podkin was sitting.
‘This is nasty,’ said the she-rabbit. ‘Going to need stitches.’ She had a blunt, matter-of-fact way about her that Paz found reassuring somehow. She clearly knew what she was doing.
‘Will he be all right?’ Paz asked.
‘As right as a one-eared rabbit can be. Still, it’ll do him a favour in the long run. Nobody’d be as interested in telling stories about a normal rabbit.’
Stories? The long run? What was she talking about?
As Paz watched, the old rabbit gave Podkin something to drink that sent him to sleep. They moved him over to the bed, and then cleaned the wound with warm water. The she-rabbit stitched it with a bone needle and thread, before putting on a poultice and binding it tight. She spoke as she worked, and Paz discovered her name was Brigid, and that she lived in the woods alone, foraging for food, herbs and anything else she needed. She didn’t say, but Paz guessed she had been living under the oak tree for a long time. Long enough to lose the knack of talking to others. Social skills were very important for warren rabbits, but Paz guessed you didn’t need them when the only person you had to worry about pleasing was yourself.
As soon as Podkin was quietly sleeping, Brigid made some stinging-nettle broth, which Pook gulped down. They sat by the fire, listening to the sounds of the crackling wood. It felt wonderful to be warm, fed and safe, even though their enemies were still not so very far away.
Paz found herself drifting off to sleep. Pook was already snoring on the hearthrug, and at some point Paz joined him, dimly aware of Brigid covering them both with a patchwork blanket. She tried to say ‘thank you’, or to ask one of the many questions that were whizzing about her head, but the sleepiness was too strong. She let herself fall into it.
*
When she awoke, she saw Brigid sitting on a chair by the stove, holding the magic dagger Starclaw in her hands. She was turning it over, thoughtfully, pausing every now and then to peer at the copper face on the hilt.
Paz watched her, wondering what to say. She didn’t want to appear rude, but seeing Brigid with the dagger made her uneasy: partly because she didn’t think she should be touching it, and also because there was a good chance it might slice off her fingers.
The old rabbit didn’t even look at Paz, but somehow still knew she was awake. ‘Powerful magic in this here dagger,’ she said. ‘One of the Twelve Gifts of the Goddess, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘How …’ Paz began, not knowing whether to admit what Starclaw was. ‘How d’you know that?’
‘Got one myself.’ Brigid smiled and pulled the little copper sickle from her belt. When she brought it near the dagger, it flashed blue for an instant. Paz thought she saw Starclaw give an answering twinkle.
‘How did you get one?’ Paz asked. ‘I thought they were only given to chieftains of the twelve tribes?’
‘They were.’ Brigid tucked the sickle away again and looked into the flickering flames of the stove. ‘I was a princess once. Not that you’d know it now, of course. I reckon you must be too. My father was the chief of Redwater warren, a long time back now. One of his Guard double-crossed him and forced him out. All our family had to leave, cast out of our home like wandering tinkers. I knew about the sickle and decided that lot didn’t deserve to have it, so I took it with me. It glows red whenever it’s near poison. Blue when it’s near something good. Taught me all I know about herb-craft and healing, it did.’
Paz found it hard to imagine the bent old she-rabbit as a princess, sitting at the head table in the longburrow, or dressed in her finest for the Carrotmas feast at harvest time. ‘Was it Chief Russet who did that to your family? He always seemed such a friendly rabbit …’
‘Not him, but his father before, the evil two-faced son of a weasel. He was the captain of the Honour Guard as well. Always too trusting, my old father. And look where it got him. My folks moved on afterwards, but I stayed here in the woods. I watched them turn the warren inside out, looking for my sickle. And it was here with me the whole time.’ She gave a dry chuckle that sounded like a pile of leaves rustling. When she laughed, Paz could see the little girl still inside her, and she found herself smiling too.
*
The three little rabbits stayed with Brigid for more than two weeks. Podkin slowly began to build
up strength while his ear healed. He was very bad-tempered about the whole thing (he used to secretly think his ears were his best feature), but when Brigid told him he had to get as much rest as possible, he was quite pleased. It was the first time in his life that anyone had actually ordered him to have lots of snoozes.
Pook enjoyed rolling around on Brigid’s floor, playing with the rattling bones and pebbles she used for scrying the future. He just used to toss them about the hearth, making patterns and piles, but Brigid said he had a gift for soothsaying, all the same. Every now and then, she would walk over and examine the bones he had thrown and mumble some comments like ‘yes, he will come in handy’ and ‘must stock up on that sleep potion then’. Pook would look up at her with big, loving eyes and nod in agreement.
Paz went out foraging with the old rabbit several times, and was beginning to learn a fair bit of forest lore. She learnt which mushrooms were good to eat, and which would make you cough up your innards; how to find a squirrel’s stash of winter nuts and which trees had bark that you could chew to stop a fever. She learnt the names of plants like Candlewick, Maypops and Love-in-idleness, and how to prepare and use them as medicine.
Podkin watched all this, and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. After all, he was the one with the magic dagger, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he be the one learning about spells and poisons? It all sounded quite exciting, even if it did involve having to listen and remember things.
One day he built up enough courage to ask Brigid if she could tell him about magic. ‘What kind?’ was all the old rabbit said. Paz looked up from where she was crushing dried seeds with a mortar and pestle and pricked her ears with interest.
‘There are different kinds?’
‘The good kind. And the bad.’
‘What’s the bad kind?’
‘You’ve seen that, well enough.’
Podkin knew she was talking about the Gorm. To confirm it, Brigid took down one of the strange tapestries from her wall and handed it to him. It showed a circle made up of two snakes, each one eating the body of the other. One was a scaled sea monster with fins and spines: brutal but impressive. The other was a twisted metal thing, all jagged and sharp.
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