‘We won’t be able to make too many more,’ said Sorrel. ‘Not without losing Surestrike. How many do you want?’
Podkin’s instincts gave him the answer. ‘Three,’ he said. ‘Three seems right.’
‘The Goddess’s number,’ said Brigid, squeezing his shoulder.
*
Sorrel made the arrows in the days that followed. Dandelion, the wife of the farmer they had rescued, turned out to be an expert fletcher, and she fitted them to shafts of hazel wood, with goose-feather flights. Gormkillers, the rabbits called them, and took turns holding them and staring at the deadly points, imagining them punching through that spiked and twisted armour, putting an end to Scramashank for good.
‘All we need now is a bow to fire them with,’ Podkin said to Paz one evening, as they sat together in the longburrow. Brigid gave him a knowing look, as if she was about to tell him something about the future, but then smiled and shook her head and went back to mixing her potions.
They had moved the sick rabbits back into the warren and laid them in beds near the fire. Zarza responded well to Brigid’s care, and was soon sitting up in her bed, drinking all sorts of broth and concoctions to build up her strength. Even though she was safe in the warren and wrapped in bandages, she still refused to take off her mask – something that made all the other rabbits wary of her.
Podkin checked his mother regularly for signs of consciousness, but was always disappointed. Pook still slept next to her, but he spent the day with Yarrow, learning songs which he would sing over and over to their mother as he drifted off to sleep.
The little rabbits had begun to think Brigid was wrong about her waking soon. Until, that is, one morning when it was still dark. Paz came bursting into Podkin’s room and shook him awake.
‘What? What is it? Is it the Gorm? Are we under attack?’
‘No, you rat-brained lump!’ Paz shouted. ‘Get up quick! Follow me!’
They dashed into the longburrow – and saw their mother raised up on a pillow, cradling Pook in her arms. She looked up at the pair of them and gave them a weak smile before they jumped on her and covered her with kisses.
‘Easy now!’ Brigid scolded. ‘She’s still weak. Give her some space!’
‘Hello, my darlings,’ she managed to say, but fell asleep soon after. A proper sleep this time, not the death-like trances she had been in before.
After that, she grew a little stronger each day. She was able to listen as Podkin and Paz told her of their adventures, and clap and laugh when Pook sang her his songs. Not long after she had woken, the other sick rabbits began to stir as well. Auntie Olwyn, Dab from Munbury … soon all of Brigid’s patients were fully awake and healing.
Everything would have been blissful in the warren if it weren’t for the threat of the Gorm. They were all aware of how weak they still were, and that Scramashank would be hunting them harder than ever, if he had managed to escape the island. Scouts at the forest edge saw more and more Gorm patrols, but they never seemed to enter the forest. Perhaps Zarza had been right about the protection of Hern.
Still, Podkin couldn’t help worrying about what they should do next, and how they should use the arrows they had made. He tried to put it aside as a problem for another day, but it never really left his mind, and his nights were full of uneasy sleep.
Spring rolled on, and the larders filled with a variety of foods. Wild garlic, mushrooms, berries, leaves and blossoms. Clary, the guard from Munbury, also turned out to be an expert chef and mealtimes started to become a treat once more. The rabbits began to put on weight, and Clary took on kitchen assistants: Thistle and Moppet, the farmer’s children and – surprisingly – Vetch.
Once Crom had calmed down, and the bad feelings over Vetch’s words to the council had been forgotten, he turned out to be very keen to help, and didn’t mind getting his well-groomed paws dirty. He even caught up with Podkin and Paz one mealtime to apologise.
‘I really am most awfully, awfully sorry,’ he kept saying, bobbing his head and blinking at them with darting eyes. Paz shrugged it off, and Podkin wasn’t sure whether he meant leaving them at the farm, or suggesting to the others that they were dead. Either way, rabbits did strange things when they were scared, he supposed, and they had all been terrified.
‘Don’t worry about it, Vetch,’ he said, giving the nervous rabbit a smile. Vetch returned it, in his twitchy way, and nodded his head some more. Paz and Podkin carried on to their burrow, not noticing how Vetch’s eyes lingered on them, flicking from Podkin’s knife to Paz’s sickle and back again.
Finally, almost a month after they had returned, Zarza announced that she was leaving. She had to head back to her temple to report on her mission, and to see if she had pleased the goddess Nixha enough to become an adept bonedancer.
To bid her farewell, they gathered outside the warren on a cool, clear evening and lit a huge bonfire. Yarrow sang songs, Mish and Mash shared out the mead they had been brewing, and they ate their fill of roasted dandelion roots, mallow leaf stew and cow parsley dumplings. Orange firelight tinged everything, fresh woodsmoke filled the air, and the stars twinkled in their constellations above.
Podkin and Paz sat either side of their mother, with their Auntie Olwyn nearby. Crom shared a log with them, and Podkin was amazed to hear him quietly humming along to the bard’s songs. He pretended he hadn’t noticed.
When the moon was high in the sky, Zarza stood, waiting for silence and her chance to speak. As the last of the conversation died down and all eyes were on her, she cleared her throat and began.
‘I am a bonedancer. A servant of the goddess of death. We believe there is a time for all rabbits to die. Only Nixha herself knows when, and nobody can stop it.
‘So, this means no mortal rabbit can “save our lives” like you field and forest creatures believe. But they can, if they wish, serve our goddess by doing her will and stopping someone from dying at the wrong time.’
Isn’t that the same thing? Podkin thought, remembering to keep his mouth firmly closed for once.
‘Brigid, your healer, did this for me. So did Podkin and Paz, when they saved us all from the Gorm. I owe these rabbits an honour debt, which is a great thing. I shall return to my temple tomorrow, and I shall tell them of the Dark Hollow warren and their fight against the Gorm. I shall tell them about the bravery of Podkin One-Ear and Paz Thorn-Singer. If there is any way we sisters can help you in your fight, we will.’
It was the most Podkin had ever heard the masked rabbit say. It was met with cheers and whoops from everyone around the fire, and Podkin felt their eyes all turn to him and Paz. It made him blush underneath his fur.
When the applause had finished, and Zarza had bowed before them, he expected the singing and feasting to continue. Instead, Crom stood up and raised his arms for silence.
‘Rabbits,’ he said. ‘I have something to say. You all know by now the story of Dark Hollow, and how it was once my home. I should even have been the chieftain here, except I gave up that right of my own free will.
‘Since we have been here, we have had a council of leaders to guide us. I think that – until we find ourselves safe and secure enough to choose a proper chieftain – this should carry on. But the council needs brave new members, who can think quickly and clearly in times of danger. There are two young rabbits here who have proven they have that skill more than once in the past few days.
‘Rabbits of Dark Hollow, I propose that we recognise Podkin and Paz, son and daughter of Lopkin of Munbury to the war council. What do you say?’
Podkin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked around the fire at his family, friends and comrades and expected them to laugh at Crom’s words – to shout and argue about who would make better leaders.
Instead they began to cheer. Mish and Mash at first, then Yarrow, Sorrel, then suddenly everyone – chanting their names, clapping their paws and stamping their feet.
He felt his mother squeeze his arm and looked round to see proud t
ears in her eyes. Paz was looking at him too, with a huge grin on her face, as happy as he had ever seen her.
‘Poddy! Paz!’ Pook was shouting, and then a deep, booming voice rang out, making everyone else fall silent.
‘Well, councillors?’ It was Sorrel, standing by the fire and holding the Gormkiller arrows in one fist. ‘What’s your first command? Is it going to be to use these?’
The Dark Hollow rabbits cheered, and then, as one, stared at Podkin and Paz again. Podkin realised they were waiting for them to speak. The silence stretched on and on, the crackling of the bonfire the only sound. Even the darkness between the trees seemed to be holding its breath, listening in.
What would be their first command? Did they even have one?
There had been a tiny germ of an idea in Podkin’s mind for a while now. More of a hunch than anything, and it had come from his memory of Boneroot and how all the lost and fleeing rabbits of Enderby and Gotland had gathered there together, forgetting their differences and building some kind of home. Dark Hollow was already becoming something like that, but it could be more.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think … I think we can’t do much just on our own. There are too many Gorm, and we are too small, even with the Gifts and the arrows.
‘But there must be other rabbits like us out there. Running and hiding, scared and lonely, like we are. The lost, the injured, the scattered. If we could send word to them … if they knew to come here and join us … we could build an army. An army of runaways to fight the Gorm.’
Silence.
The rabbits all looked at each other. They looked at him. For a horrible moment, Podkin thought he was going to be the shortest-reigning councillor in the whole of rabbit history.
And then the cheers started again. Louder and fiercer than before. Crom picked him up and sat him on his shoulders, and the others went on cheering: ‘Podkin! Podkin! Podkin!’ It seemed to never end.
Their shouts rose up, out of the forest and up to the cold white face of the moon, which looked down on all of them, filling the night with a wild silver glow. Podkin looked back up at it, feeling Moonfyre tingling on his jerkin and Starclaw twitching at his side.
He looked for the face of Lupen, the first rabbit, in the moon and saw instead – or imagined he did – his father’s.
He looked very proud.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The High Bard
Rue falls asleep just as the bard speaks the final words of the story. He starts snoring immediately, his little fingers still clasped tight around his new wooden flute.
The bard watches Rue for a few moments, then pulls the blankets up around him and tucks him in. The little mite is tired enough to sleep for a week, so he shouldn’t wake while the bard pops out on his errand.
Although, now the time has come, he finds himself oddly reluctant to go. Could Rue not stay with him after all? Could he not be the little rabbit’s master himself?
But … no. It wouldn’t be safe, or fair.
The old rabbit sighs, pulls his hood down over his eyes again, and then steps out of the tent.
It is fully dark now, the tent city lit with lanterns and torches, but there is no sign of anyone going to bed. Music can be heard from every direction, tunes clashing and blending into one another. Groups of bards dance and laugh and shout from one side of the festival to the other.
The bard slips through it all, head down, making for a grand enclosure at the centre of the whole thing, near the main stage.
He comes to a wall of fabric and flagpoles, with a gap for an entrance. Two guards are blocking it, both wearing leather armour dyed in rainbow colours, and holding spears covered in ribbons. They look like extras from a play about fairies, but their spears are sharp and their faces fierce. The bard has no doubt they could skewer him in several places, probably while reciting a few stanzas about daffodils.
‘No entry,’ says one, as the bard approaches. ‘The mead tent is the other way.’
‘I wish to see the High Bard,’ says the bard.
‘So do half of the drunkards here,’ says the second guard. ‘Hop along, before we have to spoil your festival with some flesh wounds.’
‘He will want to see me,’ says the bard. From a pouch at his belt he produces a bone token, carved in the shape of a harp. He hands it to the first guard, who raises an eyebrow, then turns and walks into the enclosure. In a moment he is back, waving the bard through.
‘Sorry about that, sir,’ says the guard. ‘You wouldn’t believe the amount of drunken minstrels that try and get in here every night …’
‘Oh, I probably would believe it,’ says the bard. He nods to the guards and steps through.
The enclosure is a big one, with several small tents and a campfire around the edge. The rest of the High Bard’s personal guard is here, playing Foxpaw by the fire, or strumming at their harps and lyres. They are made up of minstrels and performers, the bard remembers, albeit ones who could cripple anyone who gave them a bad review.
In the centre of the enclosure is a round tent made of patchwork material in every shade of colour imaginable. Another guard is on the door there, and he waves the bard through.
Inside sits a robed rabbit with a box of potions and concoctions – a healer of some kind – and, lying on a bed of cushions and silken blankets, is the High Bard himself. The bard is taken aback for a moment by how old and fragile he looks. Even older than he appeared onstage earlier. His fur hangs from his bones, his eyes are glazed with cataracts, and the skin of his ears is paper-thin. The ornate silver discs in them look as though they will tear through at any moment.
The bard goes to his bedside and kneels down, taking one of his trembling paws in his own.
‘Master,’ he whispers. ‘Yarrow. It’s me.’
The High Bard turns his head and smiles, revealing one solitary tooth left in his gums. ‘Pook,’ he says, his voice weak and cracked. ‘Or should I call you Wulf the Wanderer?’
‘Pook to you, master,’ says the bard. ‘Always Pook.’
‘Have you come to say goodbye to me, dearest? I regret to say I’m terribly ill. For real this time, not just one of my theatricals. Such a Goddess-darned nuisance.’
‘Not goodbye,’ says the bard. ‘Just hello. And sorry too – for leaving it so long.’
‘Ah,’ says Yarrow, the High Bard. ‘But you have good reason for that. A little wren tells me that you’re a wanted rabbit. Been telling the wrong stories to the wrong people, so I hear.’
‘It’s true,’ says the bard, wondering just who the ‘little wren’ might be. ‘I am in a little bit of bother. I’m trying to keep my ears low.’
‘By coming to the Festival of Clarion? Hardly cloak and dagger, my dear. Who is it that hunts you? Crowskin bloodseekers? One of the Shadow Clans of Hulstland?’
‘Worse than that,’ says the bard, the blood draining from his ears as he thinks about it.
‘Worse? Are you serious? Not … not bonedancers then?’
The bard nods.
‘Clarion’s castanets!’ There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Yarrow pats the bard’s hand. ‘Well, I’m sure if any rabbit can outwit them, it’s you. You have the luck of the Goddess, after all. And they should owe you a favour or two, after everything your family has done for them.’
‘We shall see,’ says the bard. He doesn’t like to think about it too much, let alone discuss it. And there is the business of Rue to be taken care of, besides.
‘Master, I have a favour to ask you,’ he says.
‘Anything,’ Yarrow replies.
‘I have a young rabbit with me. He is gifted. He needs a teacher.’
‘A teacher? Why, he’s already got one, hasn’t he? I’ve always said you should have taken on an apprentice. You should have done it years ago! What will happen to your stories if you don’t?’
‘But it can’t be me,’ the bard protests. ‘I’m in terrible danger! What would happen to Rue if … if …’
‘Hush, little
one,’ says Yarrow, forgetting that the bard is now an old whitefur, and he even older than that. ‘Like I said: you have the luck of the Goddess. I’ve seen it myself. Do you really think she will have forgotten you? Your apprentice will be fine, and you will make the perfect master. Pass your stories on. Don’t forget – they are my stories too. I don’t want them lost like my body soon will be.’
The bard bows his head. This isn’t (and yet is) what he wants to hear, but he can’t argue with the word of the High Bard. Even less with the word of his old master, the rabbit who was like a father to him.
‘There’s a good chap,’ says Yarrow, patting him on the head. ‘Now, I have a favour to ask of you.’
‘Anything,’ murmurs the bard, wishing he had come here moons and moons ago, that the years hadn’t slipped away so fast.
‘I have an urge to play my harp one last time. To sing one more little ditty.’ Over in the corner, the healer shakes her head violently, but Yarrow ignores her, reaching amongst the bedclothes for a small Thriantan harp. ‘Will you be my audience? Like in the old days?’
‘Gladly,’ says the bard. ‘But I’m sure you’ll sing many songs yet.’
‘Oh no I won’t,’ says Yarrow, and for a moment the bard sees a familiar twinkle in his clouded eyes. ‘It’s time for the final curtain, my child. I can feel it.’
The bard doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tell Yarrow to put the harp down, to rest or take some medicine. Anything to keep him here a while longer.
‘Don’t worry, Pook.’ Yarrow takes a hand from his harp strings to cup the bard’s cheek for a moment. ‘This is how I always wanted to go out. Singing away, like I’ve always done. And with you by my side. I do love you, you know.’
‘I love you too,’ whispers the bard, tears in his eyes.
Yarrow smiles at his pupil and clears his throat. Then, with Pook sitting at his feet, just as he did in that woodland clearing all those many years ago, the High Bard begins to sing his last song.
The Gift of Dark Hollow Page 16
