The Urchin of the Riding Stars

by M. I. McAllister

  All Urchin’s efforts, all his life, had made him strong and resourceful. Now he knew he would need that strength. Mistmantle was his home. It was also an island where a ruthless murderer had crept through the tower; the king was broken with grief; justice had not been done; and there would never be Crispin again. He supposed he’d go back to the wood and join a work party, but he couldn’t bear to think about it.

  Padra put a paw on his shoulder as they trudged slowly across the sand together.

  “It’s unusual for an otter to take on a squirrel for a page,” he said, “and I’m a poor substitute for Crispin.”

  Urchin had been feeling that he would never be happy again. Now hope flared. “I can swim a bit, sir, if that helps,” he said eagerly.

  Padra managed a smile. “Then, Urchin, if you’d like to be my page, report to me in the morning. No—report to me tonight, and then you won’t have to go back to Anemone Wood with your tail down.”

  “Thank you very much, sir!” gasped Urchin.

  “We’ll eat in the lower chamber with the rest of the court tonight,” he said. They began climbing the rocks to the tower, and without a word about it, they both stopped to look into the mists. “And, Urchin,” Padra added quietly, “whatever those sharp squirrel ears pick up, be careful of repeating anything. Always think twice about what you say and who you say it to, you understand? I know Crispin was innocent, and so do you. I know you’re angry, and so am I. But there is danger in high places on this island. Whoever really killed the prince is still free. So, when you’re around the court, keep your young eyes and ears open. If you hear anything useful, tell me. And if you get the chance to serve the king, take it. Always be true to the king, Urchin.”

  That evening, Urchin moved himself and his bag of belongings into a small chamber near Padra’s, close to the Spring Gate. A comfortable bed had been prepared for him, but it was very unlike the treetop nest he was used to. Padra was needed to make arrangements for the prince’s funeral, so Urchin hardly saw him.

  The body of the murdered prince lay in state in a small coffin in the hall while animals trooped past with bowed heads, paying their respects. One of the guards was always there, standing sternly on duty. Padra took a turn himself. The king and queen stayed in their chamber, and either Fir or Captain Husk was always with them. The queen was said to be distraught with grief, weeping helplessly in Lady Aspen’s arms.

  Finally, not knowing what to do, his heart still aching for his missing hero, Urchin curled up in his new, strange chamber and knew he would not sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ATE THAT NIGHT, DARKNESS DEEPENED over Mistmantle in its grief. Captain Husk, still in his green-and-gold robe, held a glowing lamp as he stood on watch before the pitifully small coffin on the table. Lamplight glowed on the gold clasps of the coffin, on the fastenings of Husk’s robe, and on the fine embroidery of the cuffs. Still and silent, he stood on guard alone until a hedgehog marched solemnly down the hall to take the next watch.

  Leaving the hall with his lamp, he did not go straight to his own quarters. In the anteroom he took off the heavy robe and laid it in the chest, then crossed the hall with a solemn bow toward the coffin and walked with grave dignity down a flight of stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he would not be seen. He slipped noiselessly back up a neglected narrow stairway that led him to a little space, no more than a cupboard, next to the Gathering Chamber. An opening at the back, so well concealed that it could hardly be found, led down another set of stairs, darker and narrower. He was hurrying by now. A passageway came next, hardly more than a tunnel, and so small that he had to lower his head and draw in his shoulders. He turned right, left, right again, down another flight, through tunnels and chilly passageways, where his lamp gave only a feeble wisp of light and the air smelled of mold and damp. Unseen things ran and scrabbled in the darkness. Old cobwebs caught in his fur. These were ancient passageways, unknown even to the moles.

  Darkness, absolute darkness. It was around him, and deep within him. He breathed it in; it smelled of death. Death, decay, and worse. It was better not to see what might be in these tunnels. The cold was like a chilling where nothing can live. Keeping his nerve, not knowing what would come at him from the dark, Husk came to the door that waited for him.

  He laid down the lamp. This was not a place for light.

  Fear shivered him. He pushed with both front paws at the door, and as it creaked and moved, he felt sickening terror.

  Bang the door shut! Turn! Fly! But he always felt like that at the moment of pressing the door, knowing the horror of the place. It disgusted and fascinated him, but the fascination was stronger. He shut the door behind him and absorbed the sense of creeping evil.

  Rough, cold stone was clammy under his paws. The smell of decay filtered into him. He could taste the smell. In the thick, deep darkness he could see no more than a gleam of slime on the rough walls, and a patch of even deeper darkness. That was the pit. Dark as a nightmare, dark as drowning, the pit yawned like a hungry mouth from the center of the floor. It was as if by being here he could feed its evil, as it fed his. He closed his eyes and reached into the greed and ruthlessness in himself.

  He had first found this place when he wasn’t looking for it. He had been looking for the legendary Old Palace but had stumbled on this ancient dungeon instead.

  He wished he knew the story of this place. It must have a history. Its aura of horror told him that murder and despair had happened here.

  Evil breathed and echoed around him, exciting and satisfying him even as it appalled him. It spoke to him of power, fear, treachery. In here, he could think clearly of how worthless the other animals were, and how unfair it was that he had to serve the king, when he would be a far better king himself. He thought of the first murder he had ever committed. As he soaked himself in the atmosphere of the dungeon, its power seeped into him until it spoke to him. It spoke to him. Words formed themselves clearly, grimly, in his head and heart. They were words of prophecy.

  I will be all powerful. But the one that falls from the sky must be destroyed.

  The one that falls from the sky? What did that mean? He imagined something falling from the sky. In the smothering blackness behind his closed eyes, a picture was forming. A picture of something falling from the sky—something almost white—he ached to see what it was, but it was not clear. Was it falling, or was it flying? The picture in his head was clearer now, like a reflection in dark water. Something was moving in the sky…coming closer…words were rising from his heart as another message formed itself inside him.

  Fear nothing until squirrels fly through the skies.

  Squirrels in the sky! That was too ridiculous! It might as well be “until the ends of the earth”! He need fear nothing, ever! He sprang up, shut the door on the swallowing pit, and laughed wildly in the dark where no living thing heard him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  N THE DAYS AND WEEKS AFTER THE FUNERAL, Urchin learned more of his duties. As Crispin had promised, he learned to use a sword, as well as the less exciting things like when to bow and when not to. As a very new and young tower squirrel, he found it safest to bow to everyone. He carried messages. He learned how to serve at the table, and how to clean and polish a sword. He learned to cook fish, and didn’t mind that, so long as Padra didn’t expect him to eat it. He discovered that the water from the spring at the gate was by far the best water anywhere on the island, especially when it was freshly drawn. He learned to clean and care for Padra’s chamber, which always smelled faintly of smoked fish. When even the moss for the bedding began to smell smoky, he threw it out and replaced it. His own bed became more of a nest, but nobody minded. He was gathering pawfuls of moss one morning when he saw Gleaner scrambling about in the high branches of a rowan tree, collecting sprays of bright red berries—but she pretended not to see him.

  When the fresh moss had been piled onto the beds, Urchin was supposed to report to Padra. Padra being an otter, this was often
difficult, as he could have swum halfway to the mists. More often, he would be swimming near the shores on patrol, but that could mean a long journey around the island. (If Urchin saw Padra twirling about in the water with Arran, or loping along the shore with her, he thought it best to stay back and wait.) If Padra was nowhere to be found at all, Urchin had discovered that the best thing was to go up to Brother Fir’s tower and ask the priest’s permission to look out from there. He could be sure of a good view, a warm welcome, and a cup of hot berry cordial on a cold morning.

  As this was turning out to be one of those mornings, Urchin ran up the stairs to Fir’s tower. He reached the workroom landing in time to see a roll of canvas waddling toward him on its own paws, and collide with it.

  “Look where you’re going!” cried Needle from behind the canvas.

  “Sorry!” said Urchin. “What’s that for?”

  “Hold the other end and don’t ask stupid questions,” snapped Needle, and with a struggle they carried the canvas into a workroom and heaved it onto a long table. At last Urchin could see Needle’s face, and she looked tense and troubled.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “’Course I am!” said Needle. “The work’s really good. I sit next to a nice hedgehog called Thripple; she’s helping me to learn. She looks a bit odd, but she’s lovely. And Mum had the baby! A little boy! We call him Scufflen!”

  “Oh, good!” said Urchin. But the trace of anxiety in her eyes told him that it wasn’t exactly good.

  “He’ll be all right,” she went on quickly. “My mum’s been feeding him lots, so he’s putting on weight.”

  “Oh,” said Urchin, and his heart sank. He knew what could happen to undersize babies. “Is he very tiny?”

  “Who said he was tiny?” she snapped, and her spines bristled so that Urchin dodged. “There’s nothing at all the matter with him. And his paw…”

  “What’s wrong with his paw?” asked Urchin.

  “Didn’t say there was anything wrong, did I?” she said. Then she sat down on a bench and gave a little sigh. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not being very nice. And there isn’t anything the matter with his paw, not really. It’s just a teeny bit curled in. You’d hardly notice it if you didn’t know.”

  “Maybe he just hasn’t opened it out yet,” suggested Urchin, to be helpful. He didn’t know anything about babies, but it made sense to him.

  “Yes!” said Needle, brightening up. “Yes, that’ll be it! He just hasn’t wanted to uncurl his claws yet! He’ll be all right.”

  “I’d better go, then,” said Urchin. “I’m looking for Captain Padra.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” said Needle. “He just went up the stairs to Fir’s turret.”

  Padra had been in the turret for some time while Urchin was with Needle. He often went there when he needed to think out loud, though as a sea animal he disliked heights. Instead of looking down, he stared out at the wide, gray sea.

  “The work parties start earlier and earlier,” Padra said. “Winter’s coming, when everyone just wants to keep warm and get enough to eat. I know the work has to be done, but we managed for years up to now without animals being rounded up before dawn and heaving timber about all day.” He turned impatiently. “It’s far worse since Crispin went.”

  “Hm,” said Brother Fir. “And why is that, do you suppose?”

  “Either the king’s still angry and is taking it out on everyone else,” said Padra, “or he knows some reason why we need to do extra work and he hasn’t told the rest of us, or”—his tail swished in irritation—“the instructions aren’t from the king at all. I think this is all Husk’s idea, but he couldn’t get away with so much when Crispin was here.”

  “Hm,” said Fir.

  “Husk spends more time with the king than anyone else does,” said Padra. “I think he’s the one giving orders, but like everything else about Husk, it can’t be proved.”

  “You are still seething about the trial,” observed Fir, and was interrupted by a polite little tapping at the door. “That’s Urchin’s knock.”

  “Wait outside, Urchin,” called Padra.

  “Why should he?” said Fir, and bent stiffly to put a saucepan of cordial to warm by the fire. “Let the lad come in, have his drink, and hear what you think about Captain Husk.”

  “Of course not!” said Padra. “He’s only a young page; we can’t involve him!”

  “Ah, but he already is involved,” said Fir. “And too young to be left in danger, and he certainly will be in danger if he isn’t warned.” He turned a gaze of deep intensity on Padra. “We’re not talking about just any young squirrel lad, you know.”

  “He has a great future, I think,” said Padra.

  “Oh, please, Padra!” said Fir. “Do I have to do your thinking for you? Is it something to do with that otter-shaped head? Think, can’t you? After a night of riding stars, something important always happens. After the last one, the prince was killed and Crispin was exiled. But on the one all those years ago, before you and Crispin were captains, nothing dramatic happened at all. Unless you count the arrival of one lost, scrappy baby squirrel.” He raised his voice. “Urchin, come in!”

  Urchin hopped into the chamber, wondering why they’d kept him waiting. He bowed smartly to Fir, then to Padra.

  “Heart bless you, Urchin,” said Fir.

  “Heart bless you, too, Brother Fir, and reporting for duty, Captain Padra, sir,” gabbled Urchin.

  “Oh, report for a hot drink while you’re about it, what’s the hurry?” said Fir, filling a wooden cup from the saucepan. The aroma of hot, spiced fruit rose from the cup, and Urchin folded his paws gratefully around it.

  “Your captain has time to waste with a creaky old squirrel like me,” went on Fir. “But don’t get him angry, Urchin. He’s still cross about Crispin’s trial.”

  “If you can call it a trial.” Padra glanced at Fir, knelt to be nearer to Urchin’s level, and lowered his voice. “I think you’re too young to be told this, Urchin, but Fir thinks you should know, and he’s usually right. I don’t know how Husk fixed the casting of lots, but I suspect he did. And he was better placed to kill the prince than anyone else was. I don’t think any of those witnesses could be sure about when they saw him.”

  Urchin looked down into the cordial and shuffled his paws. He felt he ought to show surprise and horror, but he couldn’t. It was something he had to face. Husk carried a sword. He was often close to the royal apartments. And he had taken charge of the casting of lots that declared Crispin guilty. Urchin realized now that, in his heart, he’d always known Husk could be the murderer. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it made sense.

  “All he had to do next was to get Crispin blamed and exiled,” continued Padra. “With the prince and Crispin out of the way, he’s next in line to the throne.”

  “The queen could have another baby,” said Urchin.

  Padra shrugged. “They say her health is almost broken, and her spirit, too,” he said. “Hardly anybody every sees her, except Aspen and the maids, and Aspen may be paw-in-paw with Husk. Weevils, plague, pestilence, rot, thunder, and lice upon him, he’s getting the island in his paw.”

  “Hm,” said Fir. “And he’s clever enough to get away with it. The animals will never rise against the king. They might rise against Husk, eventually, but only if you have real evidence against him and if they realize that he isn’t obeying the king at all. But it will take a long time. You must wait for the right moment, Padra.”

  “Will there ever be a right moment?” said Padra.

  “There is a right moment for everything,” said Fir. “Like tides and fishing. At present, I think it is the right moment for you to give Urchin his orders. Let him finish his drink first.”

  “Urchin,” said Padra briskly. “I want you to go to the king.”

  Urchin spluttered on his cordial. “The king!” he gasped.

  “Every animal has the right to see the king; don’t be so flustered,” said Padra
. “He’ll be in the Throne Room. I need to know what plans he has for the winter, and whether the stores are full yet. Ask after the queen. Keep your eyes and ears sharp, and if Husk is there, watch him.”

  Urchin held the cup tightly. It was exciting, being entrusted with secrets like this, but something knotted in his stomach when he thought of Husk as a murderer. Still, he only had to watch him. He wouldn’t be alone with him.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “And, sir, my friend Needle has a new baby brother, Scufflen. I think they’re worried. He’s a bit small.” Over the rim of his cup, he saw a look pass between Fir and Padra.

  “Keep me informed,” said Padra. “And when I say ‘me,’ I mean exactly that. Me, not Husk. Finish your drink and run to the Throne Room.”

  Urchin scrambled out of the window, down the wall, in through another window—it was the quickest way—and ran through the corridors to the royal chambers. At the heavy oak door of the Throne Room, he was asking the guard moles if he could speak to the king when Captain Husk himself stepped briskly from the chamber. Urchin jumped back in alarm, then tried not to be frightened.

  “You’re Padra’s page, aren’t you?” said Husk. “Fetch wine from the cellar. Bring it straight here.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” said Urchin. “What kind, sir?”

  “Tell the otter in charge of the cellar it’s for the king,” said Husk. “He’ll know what to send. Quickly, now!”

  Glad to escape, Urchin ran down to the wide, airy cellar and collected the wine—“we seem to be going through a lot of this just now,” remarked the cellar otter as he handed over the bottle—and hurried back up again. Ahead of him, a squirrel who looked very much like Gleaner dashed across and jumped from a window, but so quickly that Urchin couldn’t be quite sure who it was. He arrived at the Throne Room door a little breathless, was let in by the moles, and waited by the door as Padra had taught him.