The Urchin of the Riding Stars

by M. I. McAllister

  “It’s better if it’s not done by a squirrel,” said Padra. “Shall I?”

  Husk shook his head. “It’s my fault and my responsibility,” he said. “I have to see it through.”

  He turned his back, folded his paws, and appeared to be praying. Padra tossed the leaves in the bag. Squirrels clutched each other’s paws. Feeling sick with anxiety, Urchin swallowed hard.

  Husk turned, thrust a paw deep into the bag, and drew out a leaf. Then he took a long, shuddering breath. The pause was terrible.

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “It has to be wrong.”

  Urchin found he was trembling. He couldn’t help it. Padra and Crispin stepped up to Husk to examine the leaf.

  “No!” said Padra quietly. “It’s a mistake.”

  “No,” said Crispin, shaking his head, his eyes widening. “No.”

  Husk’s paw shook. He held up the leaf, and a gasp of horror shuddered through the hall as he spun around to meet Crispin’s eyes. “Crispin! YOU!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  T COULDN’T BE. Urchin tried not to stare at Crispin, but he didn’t have to look at him to know it wasn’t true. It was as if he could feel something in the air, something not quite right, like a note of music out of tune; or going into a room and knowing that somebody is hiding. Something false. With all his heart, he knew Crispin was innocent.

  Crispin raised his voice. “I swear to you all,” he said, “on all that is precious, on all that is holy, on all that is ancient, I did not kill the prince. I never could!”

  “I would never have believed it,” said Husk.

  Padra stepped forward. “We did ask whether casting lots was the right thing to do,” he said firmly.

  Urchin swallowed hard. He might be able to help, even though he was only a page with no right to interrupt. As Crispin spoke up about where he had been and what he’d been doing the night before, Urchin edged toward Padra and stretched up to whisper in the otter’s ear.

  “Brother Fir doesn’t like casting lots, sir,” he said.

  “How do you know that?” Padra whispered back. He bent to listen, then stepped forward.

  “Husk, didn’t Brother Fir have doubts about casting lots?” he demanded. “When you and the page went to collect the prince’s body? Brother Fir should know.”

  “He did,” said Husk, looking thoughtfully at Padra, then at Urchin. “Yes, you’re quite right, he did; but the king gave his permission. Padra, you may have a point! Maybe the lots are wrong!”

  “They must be,” said a squirrel in the crowd. “Crispin wouldn’t do such a thing.” There were murmurs of agreement around him.

  “Let’s take another look at the evidence,” said Husk. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much.”

  “Call a council,” said Padra. “Crispin has the right to defend himself.”

  A council was called, chosen from animals of the Circle. Two hedgehogs, two squirrels, two otters, two moles, the king, and Brother Fir all took their seats around the platform. Urchin chewed his lip.

  “Keep your nerve, Urchin,” whispered Padra. “Everyone knows he didn’t do it.”

  The questioning began. Padra and Fir agreed that Crispin had stayed with them, watching the stars until nearly dawn. Then, Crispin said, he had looked in at the window of the royal chamber, seen the family asleep, jumped in at his own window to fetch a cloak, and gone on patrol around the south shore and the western woods. He had stopped at a stream for a drink and a wash, when he saw the flurry of animals running to the tower, and joined them.

  Many animals had seen him and talked to him, but none could be sure exactly when. He had been seen racing through the wood to the tower, but a dark, smooth mole called Gloss pointed out that everybody knew how quickly a squirrel could get from one place to another. He could have murdered Tumble, escaped to the woods, and doubled back when the uproar started. And the prince’s wound looked as if it had come from a sword or a dagger. How many animals carried swords?

  Crispin swished his sword from the sheath. It was shining clean. But as Gloss said, no animal would commit a secret murder, then leave the blood on his sword.

  A dark-whiskered otter called Tay stood up, pressing her paws on the table as she spoke. She had been an obvious choice for the council because of her great intelligence and her knowledge of the laws and customs of Mistmantle.

  “We must consider the succession,” she said. “King Brushen is the third hedgehog king of his line. Prince Tumble would have been the fourth. If the hedgehog line were to come to an end, the crown would pass to a captain. After hedgehogs come squirrels. To put it simply, without a hedgehog prince or princess, the next monarch would be a squirrel captain. Now. The question is, which squirrel is next in line? Crispin, or Husk?”

  She frowned so that her whiskers stood out in a line. Urchin, knowing that everyone was thinking the same thing, felt sick and desperate. He wanted to say something, do something, produce evidence, prove Crispin’s innocence beyond doubt, and be the rescuer of his captain. But he was only a page, and there wasn’t anything he could do.

  “Just so,” she said. “Crispin has been a captain for just a little longer than Husk. Personally, I have always found casting lots to be an excellent way of finding out a villain.” And she sat down.

  “Then it may be true,” said Husk. His voice shook.

  “Crispin had a weapon, he appears to have had the time, and he had a reason,” said Tay. “And he could move freely about the tower. Nobody would think anything of it if they saw him near the king’s chamber.”

  “But nobody did see him near the chamber!” argued Padra.

  “He’s just admitted how good he is at getting in and out of windows,” said Gloss.

  There was more argument. Fir stood up and demanded to know the whereabouts of all the captains that night. Padra had still been with him when the death was discovered. Husk had been on duty, and various guards had seen him.

  Urchin tried to catch Crispin’s eye. He wanted to give him a look that would say I believe you, even if every creature in the island turns against you. But Crispin’s eyes were on the council.

  “Crispin, I would rather not believe it,” said Husk, “but the prince trusted you. He loved you and looked up to you. If you hid behind a curtain and called him, of course he’d come.”

  “He loved everybody,” said Padra. “He’d go to anyone.”

  All the time the king had sat hunched over the table, his eyes down. Now he gave a low growl.

  “Crrispin,” he growled. “CRRISPIN!”

  The growl grew to a roar, and in a rage of claws and bristles, he hurled himself at Crispin. Without thinking, Urchin leaped forward to knock Crispin out of the way. He turned sharply to face the king—he couldn’t raise a paw against his king, but he could come between him and Crispin—but the king wasn’t there. Padra and other animals held him back. Armed guards rushed forward.

  “Treachery!” roared the king.

  “Your Majesty, this is madness!” shouted Padra as the guards seized Crispin.

  “Crispin,” snarled the king, “there was never such a foul traitor, never such an evil murderer on this island. Your presence is pollution. You are to die before the sun goes down.”

  Urchin heard the sharp gasp of horror all around him. Never, ever, had a death sentence been pronounced on Mistmantle. Padra and Fir pleaded with the king. Curling his paws tightly, Urchin watched Brother Fir lead the king away from the others to the window. The priest was speaking urgently, his eyes wise and troubled.

  Do something, Brother Fir, thought Urchin as Fir reasoned with the king. He won’t listen to anyone else. Oh, Heart that cares for Mistmantle, please, care for Crispin now.

  “So,” said the king at last, “his blood is too tainted to be shed on our island. Let him be exiled from Mistmantle, from this day on.”

  “He will leave the only way he can,” said Tay, “by water. We all know what that means. Because of the guarding of the mists, no creature who belongs here
can leave by water and return the same way. The mists will keep him out. And because there is no other way he could return, Crispin’s exile is for life. He can never return.”

  “Take him away!” growled the king. Urchin tried to get near Crispin, but the guards had pressed around him. He could only watch, helpless and furious, as the circlet was pulled roughly over Crispin’s ears, his sword unbuckled, and his robe dragged from his shoulders.

  The creatures were ushered from the Gathering Chamber quickly, because their mood was ugly. Some were raging at Crispin, spitting and growling and reaching for things to throw at him. Those who believed he was innocent were outraged and ready to fight.

  Urchin had been forgotten again. He picked up Crispin’s robe from the floor and folded it over his arm, with the sword, sword belt, and circlet underneath. If nobody noticed, he could get them back to Crispin.

  “That traitor’s robe must be burned,” called Tay. “And his weapon…”

  “I’ll take them,” said a mole from somewhere behind Urchin, and before he could argue, a tough little mole with the look of an old soldier had snatched Crispin’s possessions from him. For a moment it seemed that the mole winked at him, but there was no time to think about that. Crispin was being hustled out of sight, and Urchin had to stay close to his captain. He wriggled his way through the crowd to catch up, following as closely as he could as the guards dragged Crispin down a flight of stairs and flung him into a guard room. Urchin tried to slip in after him, but the door clanged shut in his face. Two surly hedgehog guards stood on either side of the door, not looking at him.

  “Let me in!” demanded Urchin. “I’m his page!”

  “Don’t care if you’re his mother, nobody’s going in there,” said one of the hedgehogs. “He’s on his own till we find a boat leaky enough for him.”

  “I have to stay with him,” said Urchin. He was trying to think of how to trick his way in when he heard paws padding quickly down the stairs behind him and the hedgehogs saluted.

  “Open the door!” snapped Padra.

  “Nobody’s allowed in!” said the hedgehogs together.

  “Straighten yourselves up and obey orders, you pair of arrogant mud-brained pincushions!” barked Padra, but they had rushed to unlock the door before he even finished. “Urchin,” he added gently, “this is not the place for you.”

  “But, please, I’m his page and I belong with him, Captain Padra, sir,” said Urchin.

  “You’ll see him before he goes, I promise,” said Padra. “If you want to help him now, send for Brother Fir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then find an otter called Arran. She may be near the Spring Gate of the tower; do you know where that is?”

  “I think it’s where the freshwater spring runs from the rocks to the sea, sir,” said Urchin.

  “Good lad. Tell her to get hold of the best boat she can find and prepare it for Crispin.”

  Urchin stood still. “I don’t want to help him go, sir,” he said.

  Padra sighed. “Neither do I, Urchin; neither does any creature in its right mind. But all we can do for him now is give him the best send-off we possibly can. Find Arran. If anybody argues with you—or with her—send them to me.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do to keep him here, sir?” asked Urchin.

  “Nothing, Urchin,” said Padra. And for Urchin, at that point, there was only one possible future. He waited long enough to see Padra push open the door and seize Crispin in a strong otter hug, then he raced up the stairs to find Fir, delivered his message, and dashed to the Spring Gate. His own words sounded in his head—I’m his page, and I belong with him. He’d promised to serve Crispin. He hadn’t promised to serve him only on Mistmantle.

  The tower’s main freshwater supply came from a spring bubbling up through the rocks. From a gate on the east side of the tower it overflowed into a stream running down to the sea, a favorite place for otters living at court. Urchin ran to the first otter he saw. She was pale-furred, like himself, with uneven spiky tufts around the top of her head. She looked miserable, dabbling her paws in the stream, and when he spoke to her she rubbed a paw across her eyes as if she’d been crying.

  “Arran?” she said. “That’s me. Who wants me?”

  Urchin delivered his message and had hardly finished before Arran was giving instructions to every otter in sight. Urchin ran beside her to the shore, where already the otters were lining up little boats for her inspection. She swam from one to another, her paws and whiskery face appearing over the side of each in turn.

  “That one’s too small,” she said, and, “that’s too heavy for a squirrel. That’s too shabby, I’m not having that. Don’t any of you answer me back, he’s still a Captain of Mistmantle. Any cheek out of anyone and you’ll answer to Captain Padra, or what’s worse, you’ll answer to me. Let’s see this one. Call this a boat? Oh, this is no good. Somebody get my own boat, it’s the best one on the island.”

  Arran’s own small rowboat was brought in. It was smartly painted, and the oars looked new and well cared for.

  “That’s the one,” she said. “Kitchens next. Provisions.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Urchin. Nobody in the kitchens seemed to care about a young squirrel helping himself to nuts, fruit, and bread. He heaped food into a basket. When it was full he packed more into his bag, filled leather bottles with wine and water, took it all to Arran, and went back for more. If she thought he had packed a lot for a single squirrel, she didn’t say so. They were loading the boat when he felt somebody watching him, looked up, and saw a mole standing on the shore.

  It was the old soldier mole who had taken Crispin’s belongings from him in the hall. This time, he definitely winked at Urchin as he waddled unevenly down the beach, almost staggering under the weight.

  “Morning, Miss Arran,” he said.

  “Morning, Lugg,” she said, and turned from the boat. “Those are Crispin’s! How did you get those?”

  “Nicked 'em,” said the mole, grinning, and jerked his head at Urchin. “Him and me. We nicked 'em.”

  “Well nicked!” said Arran. “We’ll stash them under the seats and behind the baskets, where nobody will see them.”

  “Please, Arran…” began Urchin.

  “What is it?”

  “You know Crispin didn’t do it, don’t you?” he said.

  “Of course he didn’t,” she said crossly. She gave the bundled-up robe a vicious kick to jam it under the seats. “I wish I wasn’t getting this boat ready. But ready it is, so you may as well tell Padra.”

  Padra must have ordered the hedgehogs to let Urchin in, because they opened the door for him without a word. Nobody looked at him. Padra, Crispin, and Fir were still talking—Padra leaned against the wall with his paws folded, Fir sat on a low stool, and Crispin stood with his back to them both, looking up through a grating. Urchin caught the words “Husk,” and “watch,” and “possible;” then they realized he was there and stopped talking.

  “Is the boat ready?” asked Padra. “Is Arran there?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Urchin, thinking of what he had to do next. Wistfully, he remembered Needle, Apple, and his friends in the wood.

  “Then we’ll get it over with,” said Crispin, and as he turned from the window, Urchin’s heart tightened. He had expected to see anger in Crispin’s face, but there was only compassion. Blood was drying from a cut on his ear.

  “You’re hurt, sir,” faltered Urchin.

  “Somebody hit me,” said Crispin. He shrugged, and held out his paws. “Urchin, I’m so sorry about this. I know you were looking forward to being at court.”

  “I’ll still have what I wanted, sir,” said Urchin. “I know you didn’t do it. I’ll still be with you.”

  Crispin gave a little shake of his ears. “What are you saying, Urchin?”

  “I’m coming with you, sir,” Urchin said. He knew he’d miss his old friends terribly, and he had no idea where he’d end up. But it couldn’t be help
ed. He was Captain Crispin’s page now.

  Crispin almost smiled. “I wish I could have your company, Urchin,” he said gently. “You’re a brave squirrel. You’re as loyal as a hedgehog, as determined as a mole, and as valiant as an otter. But I don’t even know where I’m going. I’ve never been beyond sight of the island. I could be taking you to death or danger, and I won’t do that.”

  “But I…”

  “Urchin,” said Crispin, “if you still regard me as your captain, obey my order. Stay here.”

  “But won’t I ever see you again, sir?” Urchin asked.

  “Almost certainly not, Urchin,” said Crispin gently.

  It was unthinkable. Urchin couldn’t imagine a world without Crispin. He struggled to hold his head up and keep the tears out of his voice. “Then, have you any other orders for me, sir?” he asked. “Because they will be all I’ll have of you.”

  “Hurry up!” shouted a hedgehog guard, and Padra silenced him with a glare. Crispin put both forepaws on Urchin’s shoulders.

  “Serve this island faithfully,” he said. “This island needs you more than I do. Look to Padra and Fir to guide you. If you think of me, pray the Heart’s blessing on me. And take care, Urchin of the Riding Stars.” His paws tightened on Urchin’s shoulders. “Take care!”

  “I’ll look out for him, Crispin,” said Padra.

  “Let’s get it over with,” said Crispin. For a moment he clasped Urchin in his arms, then Padra, then knelt before Fir for his blessing.

  “Ready,” he said at last, and Urchin thought he understood for the first time what was really great about Crispin. He was about to walk out with no bitterness and no hatred. He could even care about the future of a page squirrel straight from the wood.

  They set off for the shore with Crispin in the middle of a square of guards; Padra, Urchin, and Fir behind them. It seemed to Urchin like a lot of guarding for a single unarmed squirrel who wasn’t even trying to escape, but when they came out into the open, he was glad of it. The jeering and growling crowd took him by surprise—but at least the escort protected Crispin from the gravel, pebbles, and rotting fruit they were throwing. Some of it hit Urchin, who was too proud to duck, but Padra stood beside him to protect him from most of it. When they reached the boat, the guards stood back, and didn’t seem to know what to do next. Fir limped forward and spoke to Crispin. Padra helped him into the boat and gave him the oars. Then there was absolutely nothing Urchin could do but watch and watch until at last the boat had disappeared completely into the mist; and though he strained his ears, not even the splashing of oars could be heard.