The Heir of Mistmantle (14 page)

Something thick and gray-green floated on the top of the water, something that might have been mold, or decayed flesh, or rotting plants, or perhaps all of those, thick and spreading enough to obscure whatever might lie in the water beneath. From the pool, the water overflowed into the course of the stream. Crackle and Scatter pressed their paws over their mouths and noses, and Fingal pulled a face.

“Whatever died in that, it died a lot,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He retreated to the trees and scratched about in the undergrowth.

“Whatty lookyfor?” asked Scatter, through her paws.

“A stick,” called Fingal. “And more sticks. We need something long to prod in the water, find out what’s making the smell and the—whatever that scummy stuff is—and get it out. But before that, we need to get a fire going, because whatever it is, it should be burned.”

“That’s brilliant!” said Scatter.

“It won’t burn,” said Crackle. “It’ll be wet.”

“Then we’ll make it a really good fire,” said Fingal with confidence, dragging a branch clear of the woods, “and a long way from the trees. We’ve got enough trouble without setting the hillside alight.” He stopped, thought for a moment, and turned to Crackle.

“You’re quick, Crackle,” he said. “A lot quicker than I am. Get down to the shore. There are otters on watch all around the island. Get a message to the king, and everybody else, and let them know this stream is the bad one, and nobody’s to go near it. Fast as you can. Follow the path of the stream so you don’t get lost, but mind you don’t get a paw wet.”

Crackle nodded. It wasn’t quite the same as rescuing the baby, but it was doing something to save the island. And she’d get away from that awful stench at the same time. She turned and bolted down the hill.

“Scatter,” said Fingal, “go with her. She might get lost.”

Scatter hesitated. She didn’t want to get any nearer to that water than she absolutely had to. But she couldn’t leave Fingal to manage this on his own.

“She won’t get lost,” she said. “I’m staying with you.”

“Scatter,” said Fingal, suddenly sounding grown-up. “Go with her. I won’t catch anything. Squirrels aren’t immune, but otters are.”

“No, you’re not,” argued Scatter, scraping up an armful of twigs to add to Fingal’s heap of branches. “I think the otters don’t catch it because they don’t drink from places like this. If you get anywhere near that water—and whatever’s in it…”

“Bit of rotting fish, I think,” said Fingal.

“Whatever it is, it could make you ill,” said Scatter.

“Then it could do the same to you,” said Fingal, rather shortly, as he was dragging a heavy branch at the time.

“I’m from Whitewings,” said Scatter, building the sticks into a bonfire. “The queen thinks we may be immune to it, and she’s been out healing, and she hasn’t caught it, and anyway the queen should know, because she…”

“Just
go
, Scatter!” snapped Fingal, and turned his back on her to face the pool. Scatter didn’t say another word. He heard a scampering of paws running downhill.

That was better. He hadn’t liked sending Scatter away, and pretending to be cross with her had been very hard, but he couldn’t put her at risk. It was up to him now. One animal in danger, not two. It would be better that way.

He bunched together the kindling and struck dry sticks until a spark flew into the brittle leaves. Cupping his paws around the smoldering heap, he blew softly, coaxing the flame into life. The fire must become a powerful blaze before he could leave it long enough to retrieve the blockage from the pool. When the flames leaped and roared and the smoke blurred his eyes, he took the longest and sturdiest branch he had found and, warily, carrying it at arm’s length, approached the pool.

Cautiously, holding his breath, he used the branch to nudge the thick covering of decay onto the rocks. He could see something now, lodged against a stone, green and black and bloated. He couldn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know, but he guessed that it was an old and diseased fish. Standing as far back as he could, he poked at it with the branch until the corrupted body floated free. Lumps of rotting flesh dripped from it as he lifted it on the branch’s end from the water and dropped it into the heart of the fire, pushing it in as far as possible. It spat sparks and twisted. Acrid gray smoke curled from it.

“Done,” he said.

A sudden breeze caught the flames so that they flared, roared, and blew smoke into his eyes, but he leaned closer to push the foul thing deeper into the fire, making sparks shower up. The rotten fish spluttered as it burned, and Fingal pushed it in farther, narrowing his eyes as it blackened and crumpled, and he threw the branch in after it. The smoke was still blowing toward him, and his eyes stung. Admiring his bonfire, he walked around to the other side of it, careful to avoid the stream, pleased with his work, forgetting just for an instant to sniff the air, not noticing the change in the wind until a sudden gust sent hungry flames roaring toward him.

The bitter smell of singeing fur was in his nose and filled his mouth as he staggered backward, beating at his fur with paws and tail, grabbing at his whiskers—he couldn’t feel burning, but only a terrible stinging. With smoldering fur, he flung himself on the ground, rolling, thrashing, and beating furiously at himself to quench the fire. Then small, cool paws were beating out the sparks, dragging and rolling him farther from the fire. He tried to speak, but the smoke in his throat made him cough till his eyes streamed.

He sat up at last, rubbing sore eyes with sore paws, coughing and confused, wondering where the burning was coming from, and who was hitting him, and why. His eyes and his mind cleared slowly. It was Scatter, her face set and determined, as she beat on his fur. She stepped back, coughing hoarsely, and walked all around him, inspecting him for any more signs of smoke.

“You’re all right now,” she croaked. “It’s a good thing I stayed to look after you. Shall we go now?”

Fingal tried to answer, but his voice was rough in his throat. “We should stay till the fire"—he tried to take a breath, and coughed violently—"burns down. Can’t use that water to put it out. Wouldn’t be safe to leave it. You all right?”

Scatter looked down at her paws, noticing for the first time that they hurt. Of course, she couldn’t have put out Fingal’s fur without getting burns herself. She licked at her paws to take out the heat, but she felt proud of those burns.

“Of course I’m all right,” she said. “What about you? You were the one who was on fire.”

Now that the shock was over, Fingal’s burns were becoming painful. He grinned down at her.

“Nothing that I can’t put right with a soak in the sea,” he said. He put an arm around her, and they both winced. “I might have been as dead as a smoked herring, you know, if not for you.”

Scatter only smiled with happiness, though the hug hurt her. She took a deep breath of satisfaction. She hadn’t saved the baby. She hadn’t found the source of the bad water, either. Fingal could have done it all without her. But she’d done something. She’d saved Fingal. That felt so good.

When the fire was nothing but hot ash, they piled damp earth on it and left.

“All that fuss for a bit of bad fish,” said Fingal, and suddenly looked up. “It’s raining!”

“Clean water,
and
rain!” said Scatter in delight. They lifted their faces to it gladly as they began the long journey downhill in the fading light, catching raindrops on their tongues, holding out burned paws to the soothing coolness. Scatter longed to run ahead to her friends, but instead she slowed down. It was hard for Fingal to keep up when he was hurting so much, and he was trying not to limp.

CHAPTER NINE

AIN!”
P
ADRA AND
A
RRAN LAUGHED
and hugged each other, raising their heads to catch the rainfall on their faces.

“Rain!” cried Apple, as she ran for cover. “Oh, Heart be thanked!”

“Rain!” whispered Crispin on a hilltop, and closed his eyes. It felt as if a great weight was washing away from him.

Rain hammered on rocks and bounced from leaves, waking scents of wet grass, wet moors, wet trees, wet rock. It filled the rivers, churned the waterfall, and cleansed the streams as Fingal and Scatter stumbled down the hill. On a hillside, Urchin and Needle hugged each other and held out their paws to the rain. Juniper, on the rocks by the tower, threw back his head and gave thanks. Hobb the mole waddled, shivering, to the shelter of a burrow with a damp huddle of muttering hedgehogs and moles hurrying after him. He was coughing violently, but at last he found a voice.

“Haven’t we got enough?” he spat out bitterly. “The queen’s off her whiskers and can’t look after her own littl’ ‘un, we’re riddled with disease…”

“…queen’s fault,” put in someone.

“…said that, didn’t I?” he growled with a glare. “First the waters are poisoned, and now it’s blooming pouring. We’ll get floods now. And Husk’s about to strike. If he’s waiting to take his revenge, this is just the sort of opportunity he’ll take. Chaos. Chaos! There’s a lot of that under this king.”

“He made a lot of trouble coming back,” said Gleaner’s mother, shaking water from her ears. “A lot of trouble. He should have left Lord Husk alone.” She sighed dramatically. “At least that sweet Lady Aspen would still be alive.”

“Do you really think that Husk might still be here?” asked Quill. He couldn’t help glancing warily over his shoulder as if he feared Husk might be creeping along a tunnel as they spoke. When a squirrel leaped into the burrow, he had to stifle a squeal.

“Hello, our Gleaner!” said Gleaner’s mother, but Gleaner, wild-eyed and gasping for breath, ignored her.

“He’s back! He’s back!” she panted, and struggled to get her breath back. “The things I put on Lady Aspen’s grave have gone!”

“That doesn’t mean…” began a hedgehog, but Gleaner glared at him with fury.

“Who else would take them?” she demanded.

Hobb coughed noisily. Gleaner retreated a few steps, as did Quill. “Nobody ever saw him dead, did they?” He shivered, and hugged him self. “Can’t even get a decent warm burrow these days.”

“You’re not well,” said Quill, and took another step back. “I’ll get a healer.”

“Don’t you go anywhere,” wheezed Hobb. “If I’m ill, it’s the fault of the queen bringing her Whitewings pestilence here. Crispin should have turned her around and sent her back through the mists, not married her. Poor chap was mistaken in her. We should all help to rule this island by telling him how to do it.” He sounded less sure of himself and added, “Or something.”

“Excuse me!” said a hedgehog from farther back in the burrow. “How can you talk like that? Can you remember what life was like before Crispin was king.”

“But he wasn’t brought up to be a king,” insisted Hobb, and coughed harshly. “He needs sensible animals like us to tell him what—to advise him.” He coughed again, and animals began to retreat. “Where are you all going? I might be really ill. I might die. So it’s important that you hear what I’ve got to say. We need some new ideas about how this island is run.”

Gleaner and Quill hurried out of the burrow and scurried home against the rain. Quill reported to his parents that Master Hobb was coughing and shivering and perhaps they should find a healer, and by the way, Master Hobb said that Husk was back and he’d take over the island any time now, and we should all help the king rule the island by doing it for him, or something like that.