The Song of the Winns

by Frances Watts

  If the others were surprised by his change of heart, no one said anything. Tibby handed Alistair his scarf, their rucksacks were hastily repacked and the fire quenched, all in silence.

  When they had shouldered their packs, Feast took a candle from the niche in the wall, lit it, and led the way down the dark passage, followed by Tibby, then Alistair with Slippers Pink bringing up the rear.

  As they retraced their steps, a journey that he had been expecting to make with his parents, Alistair realized that despite the crushing disappointment of returning without them he was lucky to be returning at all. Because of him, he and Slippers nearly hadn’t made it back.

  He slowed his pace a little so that he and Slippers Pink lagged a bit behind the others. “Slippers,” he said quietly over his shoulder to the shadowy figure behind him, “when we were back on the island—I’m sorry that I didn’t listen when you told me to wait.”

  “It’s okay, Alistair,” she said kindly. “I understand. You thought you were going to see your parents. You were thinking with your heart and not your head. That’s the hardest part about the kind of struggle we’re engaged in—learning when to think with your heart and when with your head. Sometimes I wonder if Tobias did the right thing sending you on this mission.”

  Alistair hung his head miserably. He didn’t blame Slippers for thinking that after he’d messed up so badly.

  But she continued, “Not because I think you’ve done anything wrong—just because it is so very difficult to think with your head and not your heart when loved ones are involved.” Then she said in a voice so soft Alistair thought she must be talking to herself, “Believe me, I know.”

  They walked on in silence until they reached the fork in the tunnel where Althea had left them. Tibby pointed to the patterns she and the older mouse had traced in the dirt floor with their feet.

  “I hope Althea made it home all right. It sounded like she had a long way to go.”

  As did they. Without anticipation to spur him on, the underground miles seemed endless to Alistair. For most of the time Tibby walked beside him, and though they didn’t speak much, her presence was comforting. His despair weighed on him like a heavy burden, one that never lifted and threatened occasionally to overwhelm him.

  “It’s like my parents have died all over again,” he confided to Tibby, his voice tight from the constriction in his chest.

  She said nothing, just put a small, warm hand on his shoulder until he was breathing easily again.

  For two days they walked underground, and the shadowy, subterranean path fitted Alistair’s dark, heavy mood. Eventually, small landmarks they had noted in their first hours in the tunnel, days before, told them they must be getting close to the cavern near the source: a sharp rock protruding knee-high in the center of the path; a patch of feathery tree roots growing through the roof of the tunnel to brush the tops of their heads. Slippers raised the question which had been at the back of Alistair’s mind, though he had feared to voice it.

  “I wonder if Oswald will be there?”

  For of course if Oswald didn’t appear at the rendezvous point, they had no certain way of getting back to Stetson—and none of them knew if Oswald had even survived the eagles’ attack.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Feast suggested.

  At long last they reached the cavern where the tunnel began and squeezed through the entrance one by one into the warm still air of early evening.

  Blinking in the unaccustomed light, Alistair’s heavy heart immediately felt lighter as he breathed in the scent of the Winns, so sweet compared to the dank mustiness underground. The tops of the trees on the opposite bank were rimmed with gold from the setting sun and the sky above was a clear cloudless blue. The broad river reflected the sky so that the sense of air and spaciousness seemed endless after the closeness of the tunnel.

  Gazing at the scene, Alistair had the strangest feeling that time had stood still while they’d been gone; that all of it—the tunnel, Althea and Billy Mac, the frightening swim, and the terrible events of Atticus Island—had been a bad dream. He turned to look at the ridge behind him, the last sliver of sun just skimming its top, and even as he watched he saw a gold sheen wash across the rock face, saw the bush appear to ignite in flame.

  As they retraced their steps north, toward the river’s source, everything looked much as they’d left it—the reeds still swayed, the cicadas hummed undisturbed, the old stone house slumbered on—until, finally, they reached the source of the Winns. Alistair rubbed the fur on his arms as he felt the chill emanating from the pool. The sun had disappeared behind the ridge and the sky was a deep violet, the pines etched in black against it.

  “Oswald?” Slippers Pink called softly. There was a rattle of leaves in the treetops as if in reply, but there was no answering hoot, no rush of wind as a large brown bird swooped from a branch.

  Slippers let out a heavy breath which sounded close to despair, but Feast said, “At least wait till the moon has risen before we give up on him, Slips. You know Oswald likes the companionship of the moon when he travels. Alistair, Tibby Rose, why don’t you fetch some firewood?”

  The two ginger mice headed into the trees at the northern edge of the clearing and began to collect kindling.

  “What do you think we’ll do if Oswald doesn’t come?” Tibby asked in an undertone.

  Alistair snapped a long stick in half and placed it in his friend’s outstretched arms. “I don’t know, Tib. I don’t even know if there is another way.” A twig became caught in the ends of his scarf; as he was untangling it he had a thought. “Unless—” He was about to suggest that there might be a secret path they could use. Hadn’t Althea said that she lived to the east of the Winns? Perhaps there were paths on the other side of the river, maybe even one that led to the border with Shetlock? But his thoughts were interrupted by a murmuring, and as Tibby said, “Unless what?” he put a hand on her shoulder and a finger to his lips to silence her. “Listen,” he breathed in her ear, and felt her stiffen in alarm.

  That murmuring—was it coming from the trickle of water that slipped down the hillside to the south of the clearing to become the river? No, it was coming from the other direction, from above them. As the murmur grew more distinct, Alistair felt a jab of fear between his shoulder blades. It was voices he could hear, and that could only mean one thing.

  On trembling legs he and Tibby Rose picked their way between the trees and undergrowth back to the clearing, careful not to step on any dry twigs, barely daring to exhale lest the rustle of leaves alert the Sourians to their presence.

  Together they tiptoed back into the clearing to alert Slippers Pink and Feast Thompson.

  With a few quick gestures, Feast signaled that they should take their rucksacks and hide in the bushes on the far side of the pool. By the time the voices reached the clearing, there was no trace of the FIG members.

  Through the leaves of the bush he was crouched behind, Alistair could make out the silhouettes of four mice.

  “Is this the place?” said a deep voice.

  “I think so,” came a gravelly reply. “The sarge reckoned he saw an owl coming and going.”

  “But how does he know it’s their owl?” a third voice squeaked.

  “Well, if it’s an owl, it has to be theirs, doesn’t it?” said Gravelly Voice.

  “All owls look alike to me,” yawned a fourth voice.

  “So what do we do now?” Deep Voice asked. “I don’t see any owl.”

  “We wait,” said Gravelly.

  And wait they did, while the four Queen’s Guards moaned about having been chosen for this task, talked about their teams’ chances in the Sourian Football League, and jumped at the sight of any winged creature, from blackbird to dragonfly.

  As the moon crept above the trees, bathing the clearing in a cool silver light, Alistair wished he could shift position to avoid the sharp branch scratching at his leg, but he didn’t dare make any movement that might draw the attenti
on of the guards to their hiding spot. Now that the first rush of fear had passed, he was feeling more impatient and uncomfortable than frightened. Something tickled his nose and he brushed at it in irritation; it floated to the ground. Curious, he picked it up. It was a feather. Where had that come from? There’d been no sign of birds in the trees surrounding them. He glanced up but couldn’t see anything in the shadows above.

  He handed the feather to Tibby, who was next to him. Her eyes widened, and she passed it to Slippers. Slippers looked around Tibby to Alistair, who shrugged and pointed into the treetops. Slippers tilted her head back and gazed searchingly but didn’t appear to find anything. As the voices of the guards droned on, though, she continued to hold the feather, stroking it absentmindedly and occasionally lifting her head to peer into the shadows above.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Gravelly said in a bored tone, “This is a waste of time, there’s nothing here.”

  “But the sarge said—” began Squeaky.

  “I don’t care what the sarge said. He was probably just trying to get rid of us so there’d be more cheesecake for him.”

  “Cheesecake?” Yawning Voice sounded alert now.

  “That’s what they were serving in the mess for dessert tonight,” said Gravelly casually.

  “Do you mean to tell me I’ve been sitting out here eating field rations while the sarge is eating my share of cheesecake?” Deep Voice demanded.

  “Of all the low, mean acts,” snarled Yawning Voice, standing up. “I’m going back to the mess to get my share of cheesecake.”

  “Me too,” said Deep Voice, springing to his feet

  Gravelly, who had egged them on, rose and stretched and said, “Well, if you really think so . . .”

  As they crashed through the trees and back up the hillside, Alistair could just hear Squeaky protesting, “But the sarge . . .” as the voices retreated.

  When the voices had been swallowed up by the night, the four mice in the bushes stood, stretching their limbs and brushing twigs from their fur, and walked into the center of the clearing.

  “Oswald?” Slippers called, and Alistair’s heart soared in symphony with the movement of the giant bird who swooped down to join them.

  The owl looked bedraggled, Alistair thought, his feathers ruffled and patchy, but his hooded eyes gleamed with something akin to pleasure as he regarded the four mice.

  “We haven’t got time to stand around talking,” he said gruffly. “Tobias needs you back. Glad to see you’re all here.”

  “We’re glad to see you, Os.” Slippers ran her hand briefly along the owl’s wing.

  “Let’s not risk anymore separations,” Oswald proposed. “It’ll mean a slower flight, but I will carry the four of you together.”

  “Are you sure, Os?” Feast asked, concerned. “That’s a heavy load.”

  The owl simply inclined his head.

  Tibby Rose moved over to stand close to Slippers Pink, who had her eyes closed and her face screwed up as if she was concentrating fiercely on something very important. It reminded Alistair of the expression Alex sometimes wore when Uncle Ebenezer asked him whether he’d prefer a chocolate and blue cheese brownie or a strawberry and Parmesan muffin in his school lunchbox—though he suspected Slippers was thinking of air sickness rather than cakes.

  Feast Thompson pulled Alistair into position so they were standing side by side, rucksacks securely over their shoulders. Alistair noticed that Feast had crossed his arms over his body so that each hand touched the opposite shoulder, and he did the same.

  Oswald lifted off the ground to hover above them, and carefully closed each talon around a pair of mice in a tight grip. Minutes later, they were airborne, the darkened landscape, moonlit, passing beneath them in a blur of black and white.

  He couldn’t have said how long their journey took, but Alistair noticed that the beat of the owl’s wings, which had once seemed so strong and sure, seemed tremulous, subject to every eddy and whim of the wind.

  At last, though, they began to descend, and as the school on the hilltop above Stetson came into view Alistair finally allowed himself to anticipate the joyous reunion with his family. For the first time since he entered the prison cell on Atticus Island and found that his parents were not in it, he felt happiness welling up inside him.

  When the owl had set his passengers on the ground and released his grip, Alistair asked, “Do you think they’ll be in the cafeteria, Tib, or back at the dormitory?”

  But before his friend could answer Flanagan appeared from the shadows.

  “I’m afraid your family will have to wait,” the dark gray mouse said. “Tobias wants to see you straight away. Oswald, you’re to wait here. You’re still needed.”

  Before any of them could protest, Flanagan was ushering them toward the school office. They passed several mice along the way, but there was no time to stop and talk as Flanagan hurried them up the steps, down the corridor and into the principal’s office, where Tobias, looking more weary than ever, was waiting.

  “Tobias, please,” Slippers began, as soon as the door closed behind them, “can’t the debrief wait till morning? Or at least let Alistair and Tibby Rose go find their family.” She glanced at Alistair and lowered her voice. “The mission to rescue Emmeline and Rebus did not go well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Tobias said gravely, and his expression was indeed sorrowful. “And yes, the debrief can wait—but this can’t: Alistair, Tibby Rose, I have another mission for you, and you need to leave immediately.”

  Alistair stared at the older mouse in disbelief. “Another mission? But we just got back! Can’t I at least see—”

  “There’s no time,” said the marmalade mouse harshly. “It’s urgent.”

  “Tobias, they’re exhausted, Alistair has had a terrible shock . . . and there’s the leak. We were almost caught in a Sourian trap: they knew exactly where we’d be and why. Surely no one should be sent on any missions until—”

  But Tobias cut her off too.

  “We have no choice, Slippers. Zanzibar himself has ordered it. Slippers, Feast, I need to speak to Alistair and Tibby alone, if you don’t mind.”

  But no sooner had Slippers Pink and Feast Thompson left the room and been swept away by Flanagan than Tobias was on his feet, urging Alistair and Tibby Rose out into the corridor.

  “I have here a letter for you to deliver,” he explained rapidly, handing Alistair an envelope as they strode outside and down toward the oval. “Oswald will tell you more when you get to your destination.”

  It was all happening so fast Alistair’s head was spinning. He and Tibby Rose had made it back to Stetson, only to be sent off on another mission immediately? By themselves? And on Zanzibar’s orders? He had a thousand questions, but as he watched Tobias whisper instructions to Oswald, he didn’t dare ask any of them. As the owl tilted his great head quizzically, Alistair turned to Tibby, who looked as mystified and apprehensive as he felt.

  Then Tobias turned to nod at them curtly, the owl enclosed them in his vicelike grip, and they were airborne once more.

  As they soared above the school, Alistair caught sight of Tobias. To his surprise, the marmalade mouse wasn’t walking back to his office. He appeared to be heading toward the road—at a run.

  22

  Songbird

  Grouch?! If Alice could have gasped without inhaling a mouthful of lace handkerchief she would have. Why on earth was Solomon Honker planning to take the balloon to the capital of Souris? His next words surprised her even more.

  “Sophia,” said Solomon Honker. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

  As Sophia stroked her whiskers vainly, Alice and Alex exchanged a wide-eyed look, then gaped at their teacher. The realization filled Alice with a dark, cold dread: Solomon Honker was Songbird.

  “Hello, Horace. Feeling chipper, are you?”

  The coal-black mouse regarded the rusty-orange and white one glumly. “Hello, Solomon. Couldn’t be better.”

/>   “So, four passengers then? I’ll crank up the inflator fan.” As the balloon began to fill, Sophia explained to her captives, “Solomon taught me everything I know about spycraft—which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is a lot.”

  “Now, Sophia, you’re being too modest, as usual,” chided Solomon Honker. “I dare say I learned one or two things from you. You always were my best pupil. And you’ve captured the brats, I see.”

  “Yes,” said Sophia, looking at Alice and Alex almost fondly. “I found them at the palace in Cornoliana. It was quite serendipitous meeting them the way we did. We had some unfinished business.”

  Alice had a sudden image of the flash of a knife blade and struggled against her bonds.

  His eye must have been caught by the movement, for Solomon said, “Wriggly, aren’t they? I’m going to secure them to the basket so they don’t get any ideas about throwing themselves overboard when we take off.”

  He hefted Alex over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, while Horace lifted Alice, and the two captives were soon tied to the inside of the basket.

  And then they were lifting off, the balloon almost brushing the tips of the cypress trees at the edge of the field. The last traces of red and orange to the west, the dying embers of a fiery sunset, told Alice that they were headed east—to Souris.

  For a while Sophia seemed content just to lean over the edge of the basket, watching the darkening landscape go by, while Horace, who didn’t like heights, huddled at the bottom of the basket looking queasy. When Sophia finally tired of the view, she turned to face her fellow passengers.

  “So what have you been up to lately, Solomon?” asked Sophia above the hiss of the burner.

  “Oh, this and that,” said Solomon vaguely.

  “I understand,” said Sophia. “Can’t tell, eh?”

  Solomon smiled. “You know how it is. What about you?”

  Sophia smiled mysteriously. “This and that,” she echoed. Then, with a small smirk of triumph, “Let’s just say we’ve got Zanzibar exactly where we want him.”