All eyes turned up to the hillside, where the silhouette of a tall robed rabbit could be seen, her arms raised high. Brigid! As they watched, a bank of rolling mist swept up behind her like a cresting wave, and then crashed on to the hillside, flowing up and over the camp walls and covering everything within.
Podkin and the others stood, transfixed, as the fog washed over them. It was cool and sweet, and Pod could smell fresh pine sap, spring leaves and summer dew, all mixed into one.
But the Gorm weren’t so keen. As soon as the mist touched them, they fell to the ground, choking, gasping and clutching at their throats. Their already terrified beasts toppled over, trampling and crushing them into the snow.
Podkin looked across to where the iron pillar stood, now lopsided after Mish and Mash’s blast of bang dust. He thought he saw it writhing and twisting. As the fog continued to wash over them, he might have seen the soil around the pillar burst open with bright green roots and brambles that reached up their thick hungry tendrils to wrap it and drag it down under the wet dark earth.
Whatever actually happened, when the mist cleared a little, the horrid thing had gone, leaving nothing but a scar on the ground.
And then Paz was shaking him, shouting in his face. ‘Podkin, you were amazing! Just like a real chieftain!’ She grabbed him in a quick, fierce hug, and then there was a blur of everything happening at once.
The prisoners were properly awake now, all running for the camp gates with Mish and Mash trying to herd them in the right direction. Crom had Podkin’s mother under one arm, his aunt under the other. At some point, Brigid and Pook had come down from the hill; there they were, holding hands with Mish and running along with everyone else.
Someone had brought over the wagon tethered to the mangy rat, and they were loading it with prisoners too sick to walk, and then they were all running and stumbling out of the camp and back in the direction of the forest.
Podkin looked back, still not sure whether he was dreaming. Scramashank had stopped moving, passed out cold. The body of his iron beast was nearby and, on the ground in front of Pod, his boot, complete with foot inside.
I should probably take that with me, Podkin thought, half in a daze. Might be lucky.
‘Did I really do that?’ he managed to say.
‘You did, little brother.’ Podkin looked up to see Paz gazing back at him proudly. It was the first time he could remember her looking at him like that. ‘Don’t let it go to your head, though,’ she added. ‘You’re still an annoying little weasel-brain.’
His mother safe. His father avenged. A new home waiting for them all in the forest … Podkin’s feet were as light as moonbeams and his grin as bright as starlight as he sheathed his magic dagger and ran south with his sister beside him, both of them faster than the wind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The End of the Beginning
The bard finishes speaking, and then places his hands together and bows – the sign that the story is done.
At first the little rabbits cheer, happy that Podkin has triumphed, and the adults around the room clap; but then the questions begin, tumbling out one over another as the rabbits rush to speak.
‘What happened next?’
‘Was Scramashank dead?’
‘Was Podkin’s mother all right?’
‘Was that the end of the Gorm?’
‘Did they all go back to Darkhollow?’
The bard lets the questions wash over him, before raising his hands. Gradually, the little rabbits stop chirping and sit in silence again.
‘Those are all good questions,’ he says. ‘But the stories that answer them are for another night. I believe it’s time for little ones to be abed, or the Midwinter Rabbit won’t be visiting this warren.’
‘Will you be here tomorrow night?’ one tired rabbit asks. The bard looks over at Chief Hubert, who claps his hands and nods his head, smiling broadly.
‘It appears I will,’ says the bard. ‘And perhaps a few nights longer. At least until the winter solstice is done.’
The little rabbits cheer, and one by one get up from the hearth and go to find their parents. In the end, just two are left: the inquisitive rabbit and the sensible one.
‘I still don’t get it,’ says the inquisitive rabbit. ‘All the stories about Podkin are about how brave and strong and powerful he was. In your one he was just a scared little rabbit. Just like one of us.’
‘That,’ says the bard, ‘is exactly what he was. Just like one of you. You don’t have to be brave or strong or powerful to do incredible things.’
‘And what’s the point,’ the little rabbit continues, ‘of just telling that bit of the story? I want to hear about Podkin’s ragtag army, and how he beats the Gorm for good, forever, and everything else.’
‘Stories have beginnings, they have middles and they have endings,’ says the bard. ‘That was just the end of the beginning.’
‘Well, I think it was a good story,’ says the sensible rabbit. The bard smiles his thanks. ‘A very good story.’
‘Kind of you to say so.’
‘It was realistic.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘It was very realistic. Almost too realistic …’
‘Are you getting to a point?’ the bard asks. ‘Only, I’d like a flagon or two of mead now, and perhaps some more soup.’
‘My point,’ says the sensible rabbit, ‘is that you know an awful lot of details about Podkin. More than anybody should know unless they were actually there.’
‘What are you saying?’ says the bard, a mischievous smile playing on his face.
The inquisitive rabbit’s eyes turn as wide as soup bowls. ‘What? Really? Do you think the bard is Podkin? Do you think Podkin’s become a wandering storyteller?’
The bard doesn’t say a word.
‘Well,’ says the sensible rabbit. ‘He hasn’t taken his hood off since he got here. Why else would he keep it on, unless he was hiding his missing ear?’
The bard gives a chuckle and reaches up for his hood. The two rabbits hold their breath as he pulls it back to reveal … two normal ears, tattooed in blue swirls like the rest of his dyed fur.
‘I’m flattered you think I could be Podkin,’ says the bard. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not he. The story was told to me, and my bard’s memory filled it with little things that made it real. Everyday details. Feelings and sensations. Nothing but a piece of storytelling magic.’
The sensible rabbit’s face falls and his friend punches him lightly on the arm for being so stupid. Despite their blushes, the two disappointed rabbits remember to say their goodnights and shuffle off to sleep in their burrows. The bard receives a hearty slap on the back from Hubert and a fresh flagon of mead, and then makes his way to the edge of the longburrow. The musicians have the fireside now, and it is time for the parents to dance the Bramble Reel and sing the old songs. No place for an aging storyteller.
He picks his way through the shadows until he finds a bench tucked away in an alcove. There is already another rabbit there. An old one: sitting, whittling a piece of wood by the light of a candle. The bard takes a seat next to him and raises his flagon in a toast.
‘Midwinter blessings.’
‘And to you,’ says the old rabbit. ‘Nice story.’
‘Thank you,’ says the bard.
‘You didn’t have to make me sound like such a brat, though.’
The bard looks at the aged, wrinkled rabbit with his greying fur and wispy beard. He takes in his watery eyes, trembling hands and the faint marks of old scars here and there. He looks like any ancient old warrior that could be found in the corner of any warren throughout the whole Five Realms.
Except he isn’t.
The bard laughs and pulls his older brother to him in a fierce hug, careful not to dislodge the false ear tied to the side of his head. ‘Your memory is fading, Pod. You were the biggest brat of all.’
‘I suppose I was. I’m glad to see you, Pook.’
‘I
’m glad to see you too. It’s been too many Midwinters.’
‘That it has.’
The two brothers sit together then, listening in silence as the music fills the longburrow and the singing and dancing run on into the night. They sit and hold hands and think about Midwinters past, the stories in between and how, on a night like this – once upon a time – everything changed forever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kieran has been passionate about stories and storytelling ever since reading The Hobbit at age six. He graduated from Southampton University with a degree in English Literature and works as a Reception teacher in a primary school. He lives on the Isle of Wight with his family, and between work, fatherhood and writing doesn’t get nearly enough sleep.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
David Wyatt lives in Devon. He has illustrated many novels but is also much admired for his concept and character work. He has illustrated tales by a number of high profile fantasy authors such as Diana Wynne Jones, Terry Pratchett, Philip Pullman, and J. R. R. Tolkien.
Copyright
First published in 2016
by Faber & Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2016
All rights reserved
Text © Kieran Larwood, 2016
Cover and internal illustrations © David Wyatt, 2016
The right of Kieran Larwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
978–0571–32827–7
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