Neversink

by Barry Wolverton

  “What would you call it?”

  “I’d call it folly,” said Egbert. “It wonderfully captures your naive heroism coupled with the complete hopelessness of the situation.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  From above came the disapproving click of a beak. They looked up to see Astra perched on a high rock, eavesdropping. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, I wouldn’t,” she said coolly. “Unless you want to end up caged in the Green-Golden Wood alongside your friend and leader.”

  Before either Egbert or Ruby could reply, Astra flew off.

  “The Green-Golden Wood?” said Ruby.

  “That’s where the Great Gray Owl lived,” said Egbert. “I would have thought they were taken to Rozbell’s owlery, in Slog’s Hollow. Unless…she’s giving us a clue.”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” said Ruby.

  “Then again,” mused Egbert, “a creature as intelligent as a snowy owl would be intelligent enough to know that I am more intelligent still, and so she might be telling us something she thinks we want to hear. Or thinks we think we want to hear.”

  Egbert rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then looked to Ruby for affirmation, but she had already gone.

  The afternoon following their stay of execution, Lockley and the Great Auk sat watching Feathertop exercise his beak by snapping bones in two. The sickening crunch was too much to bear, so Lockley shut his eyes and tried to focus on happier times, like those lazy afternoons he once enjoyed with Lucy, taking their tea and enjoying cranberry scones or fish smidgens. Smidgens. He never wanted to so much as smell another one again. That’s what had started this mess; the once pleasant memory was ruined.

  Snap. Crunch.

  It was no use. Lockley was left to wonder if Rozbell might at least agree to return his remains to Neversink, so that Lucy could bury him at sea.

  The sea, the sea!

  That’s what he wanted. The sea was where he belonged. Those funny shapes and awkward moving parts that made puffins so comical on land revealed their harmonious purpose underwater. Below the surface, their short, powerful wings and broad webbed feet propelled their torpedo-shaped bodies deep into the ocean’s twilight zone, and their oversized bills allowed them to capture dozens of fish per dive. Survival challenges that would cripple an eagle were elegantly and skillfully met by the humble puffin. If only we never had to return to land, Lockley often thought, our self-esteem would be much higher. There would have been no need for foolish dreams of soaring.

  Lockley opened his eyes in time to see Feathertop flying out of the grove. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” said the Great Auk. “Something startled him, but I didn’t see what.”

  “I bet I know what it was,” said Ruby, suddenly appearing in midair next to Lockley’s head.

  “Not now, Ruby,” said Lockley instinctively, and then: “Ruby! For the love of fish!” Lockley never thought he’d be so happy to see his pesky friend, and he would have hugged her, except that it’s physically impossible for a puffin and a hummingbird to embrace.

  “We don’t have much time until Featherbrain is back from his wild hummingbird chase,” said Ruby. And with surprising agility, she began unlashing the vine that locked the door to Lockley’s cage with her bill.

  “Hurry—the Great Auk,” said Lockley when he was free, but before Ruby could begin, the Great Auk said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “It will be hard enough for a bird as conspicuous as a puffin to escape from these woods,” said the Great Auk. “The addition of an elderly, injured bird my size would be fatal.”

  Lockley didn’t know what to say, but the Great Auk added, “Lockley, the end of the story…‘The Tricking of Sedna.’ The only way to appease her is with the spirit journey.”

  “The spirit journey,” repeated Lockley.

  “Yes, and it’s not for the faint of heart,” said the Great Auk. “Of course, her wrath is directed at Neversink. You could take Lucy elsewhere. Start over.”

  From beyond the trees came the loud kloo-ee, kloo-ee, kloo-ee of an enraged Feathertop.

  “Let’s go,” said Ruby, and after exchanging a brief look with the Great Auk, Lockley followed Ruby out of the grove.

  DOWN THE BADGER HOLE

  Lockley ran as fast as he could, afraid he wouldn’t be able to fly through the dense stand of trees. His wide, webbed feet managed to trample every twig, stick, and fallen branch, making it sound like a hundred seabirds were stampeding through the forest. Finally he collapsed by a tree, exhausted. “Ruby, it’s no use,” he panted. “Even if I didn’t stick out so much, birds of prey have exceptional hearing.”

  From high above a voice said, “A deaf bird could have heard you just now.”

  Lockley and Ruby looked up, but neither of them saw anything. That is, until Otus, the scops owl, stepped out onto the branch he was perched on. He had been perfectly camouflaged next to the tree trunk.

  “An owl!” blurted Ruby. “Run, Lockley, run!”

  Lockley struggled to his feet and tried to run again, but promptly tripped over a stick and fell on his face.

  “There’s not much point in running now that I’ve seen you,” said Otus as he dropped to the ground. “Besides, I’m here to help you, not capture you.”

  “Why would an owl want to help us?” said Lockley.

  “I know that whatever you did has at least temporarily stopped Rozbell from harvesting food from Neversink,” said Otus. “And seeing Rozbell fail is in the interest of some.”

  “But if the Sickness is real, aren’t you worried about starving?”

  “Some of us think Rozbell in power is worse.”

  “Hey, same here!” said Ruby.

  Lockley shook his head. “Both owls and auks may come to regret that position.”

  Otus hooted. “I can lead you back to your cage if you wish. Or I can help you escape.”

  “Escape!” said Ruby. “Pick escape!” She hovered next to Otus. “That camouflage thing you did up in the tree. I’ve seen insects do that in the jungle. What can we disguise Lockley as, Mr. Owl?”

  Otus hooted again. “Unless a parcel of penguins happens by, you’re out of luck.”

  “Indeed,” said Lockley, trying to hide his irritation.

  “No, I have a different sort of concealment in mind,” said Otus, and clicked his beak twice. A small mound of dirt appeared at their feet.

  “What’s this?” said Lockley, leaning in for a closer look. Out popped a tiny, furry face with pinhole eyes. “Ah! What the devil?”

  “I should wonder the same thing,” said the mole. “What’s a penguin doing on Tytonia?”

  “I am not a penguin! There are no penguins on Tytonia! I am a puffin!”

  “There aren’t any puffins on Tytonia either,” said the mole. “And yet, here you are.”

  “Touché,” said Ruby.

  “Good sir,” said the mole. “You mustn’t take offense. My eyesight’s quite poor, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, he gets that all the time,” said Ruby.

  “There’s only one sure way for you to leave the Midland Woods without detection,” said Otus.

  “And what would that be?” Lockley wondered. At which point the mole pointed at the hole he had just come from. “You can’t possibly expect me to squeeze myself into a mole hole?”

  “Oh dear me,” said the mole, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ve taken me too literally.”

  “Well, most animals are fairly literal,” said Lockley. “Apparently, it’s why we don’t yet have a large body of imaginative fiction.”

  Ruby just stared at him. “You’ve definitely been spending too much time with Egbert.”

  “As I was saying,” the mole continued, “I meant you should go underground in general. Below the Midland Woods are miles and miles of badger tunnels.”

  “I can already spot a flaw in that plan,” said Ruby.

  “What’s that?” said t
he mole.

  “Um—running into badgers?”

  The mole chuckled. “Oh no, these are ancient tunnels, abandoned after the old Weasel Wars. Crude compared to modern badger burrows, but big enough for a squidgy sea-bird like yourself.”

  “I know it sounds dangerous,” said Otus, “but so are Rozbell and Feathertop.”

  “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” said Lockley, “but do you mind if Ruby and I discuss this?”

  Otus bowed slightly. “I wouldn’t waste too much time deciding, though.”

  Lockley took Ruby aside, but she was impatient with his hesitation. “Lockley, I don’t like it any more than you, but if you could have seen Neversink when I left. Owls everywhere! And not just any owls. Owls wearing hats! Owls wearing hats who hate auks!”

  “Technically that’s redundant,” said Lockley. Ruby tweaked him between the eyes. “Ow!”

  “Do you know how easy you’ll be to spot aboveground?”

  “In other words,” said Lockley, “what choice do we have?”

  “Finally,” said Ruby, buzzing back to Otus and the mole.

  And so they thanked Otus for his help and followed the mole through the woods until they came to what looked like an ordinary blanket of dirt and leaves near some shrubs in the undergrowth. Looking closer, though, Lockley found it to be the covering of a hole—a hole large enough for a puffin and, he presumed, a badger.

  “Who’s first?” said the mole.

  “You’re still leading the way, aren’t you?” said Lockley. “After you.” And down the badger hole they went.

  What little light filtered from above quickly disappeared once they entered the tunnel. This was familiar territory for the mole, who was used to crawling underground, navigating with his nose. For Lockley and Ruby, it was downright spooky. Lockley, who lived in a burrow and hunted fish in the ocean’s twilight zone, had expected to have more use of his senses, but this was something else.

  “I think I just discovered that I’m afraid of the dark,” said Ruby.

  “Oh, dear me,” said the mole. “I forget you two aren’t diggers.” And he scampered back up out of the hole and was gone for several minutes, forcing Lockley to conclude that moles left something to be desired as guides. But eventually he did return, carrying with him a large wad of what appeared to be glow-in-the-dark moss.

  “It’s fox fire,” he explained. “It’s a bioluminescent fungus.”

  “Ewww, fungus,” said Ruby.

  “Brilliant!” said Lockley, and turning back down the tunnel, he admired the dim light created by the fox fire. “There are sea creatures like this in the twilight zone. Come on then.”

  The mole led them through a maze of winding passageways, and occasionally Lockley noticed recesses in the earthen walls, often stacked with bones. He held the fox fire torch up to one of the crypts, the amber glow illuminating a fierce skull baring its teeth.

  “Ancient remains,” said the mole, when Lockley jumped back. “Most from the Weasel Wars. The badgers didn’t have the luxury of burying their dead on the battlefields, as was their custom at the time. So they buried them in the walls of their secret tunnels. As the battles got bloodier, these tunnels became extensive underground tombs.”

  Lockley heard Ruby hovering closer to his head.

  “Don’t worry, Ruby. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Really?” said the mole. “Badgers sure do. They believe that if the bones are missing from any of these chambers, the spirit of the warrior has been disturbed and roams again.”

  “Probably just carried off by some other creature. Or decomposed,” said Lockley. Still, he felt a prickling sensation as he wandered through the badger catacombs. First the thick woods, now this. He was used to wide-open landscapes with a view for miles, and the fluid boundaries of the sea. Here he felt the tunnel walls closing on him, constricting him, as if he had been swallowed by a giant serpent.

  “Are you okay, Lockley?” Ruby wondered, noticing that Lockley seemed to be wobbling worse than usual.

  “Fine.”

  “Want to see something interesting?” said the mole. “A little off the track I was taking you, but what’s the difference, as long as you’re not up there with the owls?”

  Lockley didn’t like the sound of it, but his breath was coming in gulps and he couldn’t object before the mole steered them left, descending even lower into the earth. The lower they went, the narrower the tunnel felt to Lockley, who feared he would pass out. To his great relief, however, the tunnel soon opened up into an enormous underground cavern, and the cold, clammy air suddenly seemed fresher and more breathable.

  The cave was lit, but Lockley couldn’t tell how—either from a hole in the ground far above or with other bioluminescent organisms like the fox fire. He didn’t care—he had room to stretch his wings and fresh air to fill his lungs. He looked around the cave, where stalactites from the ceiling and stalagmites from the floor came together like teeth. And in the center was an enormous limestone statue of a badger, seated on a throne of roots and holding a gnarled scepter.

  “Is this a tomb also?” said Ruby.

  “A temple,” said the mole. “The statue is of the great badger king Theodorus. The one who led them to victory in the War of the Trees. They couldn’t actually bury him here, of course. The body would have been stolen. No one knows what happened to his bones. Pretty amazing, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Indeed, Lockley had never seen anything like it. He couldn’t imagine the Great Auk wanting them to carve an idol of him, let alone one ten times his actual size. Even the owls had never created such a thing. Lockley couldn’t decide whether to be awed or disgusted.

  “Well, I guess that’s enough sightseeing,” said the mole, which was an odd thing for a nearly blind animal to say. “I imagine you two are ready to get out of here.”

  Lockley started backing away from the statue, unable to completely look away, when he felt a pair of long claws grasp his shoulders from behind. “Ruby, did you suddenly grow large talons?”

  “I’m over here!”

  Lockley slowly turned around and found himself looking up into the small eyes of a large animal. The badger was squatting on his powerful hind legs, his massive back spread like the hood of a cobra. His trademark white stripes were there, but the surrounding fur had turned nearly as white. He twitched his short, whiskered snout at Lockley.

  “What’s going on?” called the mole. “I smell fear.”

  “B-badger ghost,” Lockley said, almost whispering. And then, much louder, “Badger ghost! Badger ghost!” He tried to run for one of the tunnels but forgot to duck and hit his head, falling backward. The badger jumped on top of him, baring a set of well-worn teeth in Lockley’s face.

  “I’m no ghost,” he growled, “but I’ll make one of you if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here! Did the weasels send you?”

  “What? Weasels? No!” Lockley sputtered.

  “We’re dodging owls,” said Ruby.

  “Owls!” spat the badger. “Weasels with wings!” He jumped off Lockley and scratched his ear with his hind leg. Lockley could see how worn his claws were. Even his teeth had lost some of their bite. In fact, he was not a ghost, but a very old badger, and possibly a senile one.

  “Are you here to see King Theodorus?” said the badger. “Never was there a fiercer fighter of weasels—winged or not!” He scratched his other ear with his other foot.

  Ruby buzzed toward the statue. “You do realize this is just a piece of rock?” To prove her point, she pecked at the limestone head with her bill, sending a tiny echo ringing off the cave walls.

  “That’s just to fool them!” the badger explained, running toward Ruby. “I wore my claws to the nub helping carve that.” He admired the statue while Ruby and Lockley looked to the mole for guidance.

  “Good sir,” said the mole gently, “the Weasel Wars have been over for decades. Theodorus is long dead—”

  “Wars never end!” snarled the badger. �
�It would be just like a weasel to lie in wait for years, lulling us into a false sense of security.”

  “Us?” the mole wondered. He didn’t smell anyone else around.

  “Yes,” the badger replied. “A small band of us still loyal to Theodorus. Unlike the others, who fled.”

  “Mr. Badger,” said Lockley, “we didn’t mean to intrude. May we just be on our way?”

  The badger scampered back to Lockley and sniffed him. “Hmm. I don’t smell weasel.” He pulled at Lockley’s feathers and wiggled his bill, as if to make sure he wasn’t a weasel in disguise. “What’s a penguin doing on Tytonia?”

  “I am not—” Lockley began to erupt, but looking into the elderly badger’s crazed eyes, he composed himself. “I am actually a puffin.”

  “Oh,” said the badger. “What’s a puffin doing on Tytonia?”

  “Well, that’s a rather long story,” Lockley began, but the badger interrupted.

  “Dodging owls, you said, right?”

  “We’re headed north, actually,” said the mole. “Away from the Midland Woods. I’m helping Mr. Puffin and his friend get home.”

  “North,” the badger repeated. And then he pointed to a tunnel behind them. “Take that one then. When you come to the split, follow the sound of the river. Else you’ll end up on the moors.”

  “Thank you,” said Lockley, and he grabbed the mole and nodded to Ruby, not wanting to linger. They hurried along the tunnel until they were sure the badger wasn’t following them. “What was that all about?”

  “Terribly sad, terribly sad,” said the mole. “Theodorus was a charismatic leader, so I’ve heard. I mean, they don’t make great big statues to honor shrinking violets, do they? Yes, anyway, after he won the War of the Trees, it was a golden age for the badgers. Theodorus had united all the clans, and they lived low and mighty for many years. Might have gone on forever, except of course, no one lives forever. Theodorus was followed by a series of weak kings, interested really in nothing except the trappings of royalty. No appreciation for how it had all come to be. Took their power for granted. Eventually the clans fragmented again…were no match for new enemies when the weasels joined forces with wolverines, skunks, ferrets, otters, and minks. Entire clans died out.”