The Toymaker's Apprentice (20 page)

STEFAN FOLLOWED SAMIR
across a wide, flat grassland, like a tundra in summertime, but the rain was coming down, hard, wet, and cold. As far as he could tell, they were lost. They had passed no towns or villages for almost a fortnight.

By evening, the rain had lightened into a mist. There was no wood to make a fire, but Stefan doubted it would have stayed lit anyway. Samir helped him drape waxed canvas over the horses—standing still in the rain caused more damage to the clockworks than when they were in motion.

Stefan patted his pockets. He could feel the casket containing the nut, his notebook, parts of a new wooden dove, and Clara's handkerchief deep inside. They were all he had left in the world. He crawled under the belly of his mechanical horse. The canvas formed a tent that made things almost comfortable. At least he was out of the weather. He quickly fell asleep.

• • •

HE WAS HOME AGAIN,
in his own soft bed in the loft above the shop on Kleinestrasse. Shadows played in the eaves above his head. He could hear them. Breathing.

Stefan threw back the covers. The shadows lunged. He screamed. Darkness reached out and grabbed him, tugging at his sleeve.

Stefan tugged back. There it was again—tug, tug. Annoyed, he yanked his arm across his chest and rolled over.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” someone said.

Stefan sat up so fast, he hit his head on the bottom of his horse. Something was standing next to him.
Mice
!

Stefan shrieked and scooted out of his makeshift tent, backpedaling with the heels of his boots and hands.

The sun had not yet risen, but there was light enough to see by.

“What's happened?” Samir crawled out from under his own horse-tent, turban half wrapped, eyes wide.

“Mouse
!
Mouse
!
” Stefan pointed wildly at his horse. It had been tugging at his sleeve
!
He patted his arm, but he was unbitten. What if it had gone through his pockets?

The canvas brushed aside and a small reddish squirrel with giant tufted ears emerged from beneath the horse. Stefan froze, his heart thudding madly.

The squirrel looked at him, then Samir. It raised its delicate black nose to sniff the air, then turned toward Stefan. And charged.

Stefan screamed, an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal as he fell backward, struggling to get away from the attacking ball of fur.

“He's looking for the nut
!
” Samir cried.

Stefan batted at the squirrel on his chest, terrified of those long, sharp teeth. Equally afraid the little beast would burrow into his pockets and find the
krakatook
.

“Stop
!
” Samir thundered. He stood up and barked three sharp, high yelps.

He's been bitten,
Stefan thought. Samir had gone rabid.

But the squirrel stopped. It chittered at Samir. Samir chittered back, no longer yelling.

The squirrel looked at Stefan, who hesitated unsteadily on his palms and heels like an awkward crab. Abashedly, the squirrel straightened Stefan's collar before climbing off him.

Samir let out an explosive sigh.

“Stefan. This is—” he made a
snicking
sound around the side of his tongue. “He apologizes for the attack. It appears the scent of the
krakatook
drew him here.”

“That's impossible,” Stefan said. “It's sealed in its box.” He patted his pockets and pulled out the silver casket. The latch had slipped, probably from sleeping on top of it. The
krakatook
had rolled out of the case and into his rain-damp pocket.

“Oh, no.”

The squirrel's eyes bulged at the sight of the nut.

“Stefan, put it away
!
” Samir thundered.

Stefan shoved the nut back into its case. The squirrel quivered, but relaxed.

Stefan eyed him dubiously. “You speak his language?”

“I've been a guest of the squirrels more than once over the years. I'm hardly fluent, though. It's a branch of High Rodentia,” he explained. “The way French and Italian share Latin roots. Come.” He helped Stefan to his feet. “He will escort us the rest of the way.”

Stefan began to dust himself off, only to realize that the dust had turned to mud in the rain. “Maybe I was wrong about the squirrels, Samir. How can we trust him? Did you see those teeth
!
”

“I did,” Samir said. “And I tried to warn you this might not be a good idea. But I've invoked the name of the Pater. We have safe passage for the time being. Let's not try our luck.”

Stefan went through the saddlebags until he found the stick of sealing wax Christian used to seal his letters. Striking a flint to a fairly dry piece of tinder, he was finally able to melt the end of the wax stick and use it to seal the nut's casket shut. He hoped it would be enough to keep other rodents away.

They broke their meager camp and mounted the horses. The squirrel opted to stay on foot. He disappeared over the grassland, rising up every once in a while to look back and wait for them to catch up.

“We're not far now,” Samir said confidently. “Just remember what Christian told you. ‘Keep your eyes opened and your mouth closed.' As you've seen, our hosts will be rather skittish. We must be respectful.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Stefan struggled to remember the argument he had constructed, the clever way he would induce the squirrels to help them. But all he could see were those sharp yellow teeth and bright black eyes. As if the dreams he'd been having weren't bad enough.

The gray day turned into a dim evening. At last, their guide mounted the top of a rise, chittered in an authoritative way, and scampered off over the hill.

A small forest rose above the plain. The squirrel led them into the woods, which grew deeper and taller with each passing moment.

When they finally stopped, they were confronted with a ring of trees. Stefan glimpsed a clearing up ahead. The squirrel scampered up to Samir's horse, chittering rapidly.

“We'll leave the horses here,” the astrologer announced. He
unrolled the waxed canvas again, and covered the steed from the worst of the rain.

Bewildered, Stefan dismounted and draped his horse, too.

Following the squirrel into the clearing, it felt like they were entering a town, or a small city. But it was neither.

“The Pagoda Tree,” Samir said with satisfaction.

It was a giant tree, shaped by the wind into a towering Asiatic palace, as if an entire city had grown upward instead of out. Little lights shone in the hollows of the tree, and every gnarled branch was planed smooth by a wide avenue of activity, sheltered by broad leaves, and teeming with life. With squirrels.

“The Pater is waiting,” Samir said.

Ignoring the astrologer's advice, Stefan entered the squirrel city with both his eyes and his mouth wide open. He resisted the urge to feel for the silver box inside his coat. The wax seal seemed to have helped. At least no other squirrels had attacked him. Yet.

Stefan was surprised to find that he didn't need to bend down to pass through the main door, which was nearly twice his height, and cleverly concealed within the rough bark of the tree. The passageway inside was almost as high.

“They have a variety of guests here,” Samir explained. “This tree was once merely an outpost for trade with the squirrels of Asia. But, as you can see, it has grown into a renowned center of knowledge for scholars worldwide.”

Stefan doubted anyone at the University of Nuremberg knew about this place. He turned the corner, and was met with a wall
of tapestries—four woven portraits of the Pagoda Tree hung from branches grafted high along the inner walls.

“The four seasons,” Samir explained. “A gift from the King of Dates.”

Stefan balked. “He's a talking fruit?”

“Not at all,” Samir laughed. “He is as human as you or me. His kingdom is in Persia, between the Tigris and Euphrates.”

“Ah, I see,” Stefan said, hiding his embarrassment. There was so much he didn't know about the world. When this was all over, he would buy himself a map.

They followed the curved wall, Stefan craning his neck to admire each panel. The summer weaving was a fury of greens against a bright blue sky, the tree in full leaf, like a colorful cloud. The autumn hanging shone beside it, the tree deep green against a forest of copper and gold. The winter tapestry was done in silver, brown, and white, as snow gilded every leaf and branch.

“Does it never lose its leaves?” Stefan asked.

“Ah, you've noticed. It does, but never without another one taking its place. The new shoots literally push the old ones off the branch. Eternal youth, and yet”—he tapped the strong brown trunk in the last tapestry—“the wisdom of the ages.”

The final hanging, spring, showed the clearing around the tree awash in yellow and red tulips like great strokes of a paintbrush.

Stefan's heart twinged at the sight. “My mother would have loved this,” he said, brushing his fingers along the flowers. They were so vibrant, he half expected to smell their green, growing scent. “Clara, too,” he said without thinking.

“Clara?” Samir asked.

Stefan shook his head. “Just a girl I met back home.” What would she make of the industrious squirrels and the smooth yellow walls of living wood? He decided to draw a sketch of each wall hanging to share with her when he returned.

Little torches lined the corridor, lighting the inside of the main hall with a buttery glow. On closer inspection, Stefan realized they were not candles, as they had first appeared, but fireflies, darting among the tender leafy shoots growing out of the walls.

The Pagoda Tree was alive in every sense of the word. The hall was flooded with traffic, squirrels carrying nuts and rolls of dried-leaf parchment, barely giving the humans a second glance as they scurried by. Stefan imagined it was like a human government office, with couriers and clerks racing back and forth. Doorways of varying sizes branched off from the main hallway, which Stefan now realized was curving upward. At each new level appeared several passageways so low that Stefan had to stoop to look down them. These tunnels led out into the open air—the limbs of the tree held the treetop highways Stefan had seen from outside.

“The human quarters are down here, in the larger trunk of the tree.” Samir pointed to man-sized doors as they passed.

“Humans live here?” Stefan was amazed.

“Certainly,” Samir replied. “They come to study, or to trade. The squirrels do a healthy business with nuts. The commerce gives them the tools they need to deal with the outside world.”

Stefan's head spun. “But, who would do business with
squirrels?” He imagined a young squirrel coming to buy nutcrackers from his father's shop.

“The man who can get us in to see the Pater, among others,” Samir replied. “Almande. The King of Almonds.”

“First a king of dates, and now an almond king?” Stefan said wryly.

“Not
an
almond king,
the
Almond King,” Samir corrected him. “From the country of Morocco, on the northern coast of Africa. I've known him for many years. Our guide tells me Almande is here on his annual trade route. By the season, I'd say we've just missed Al'a Palmir, the King of Dates. I have a nephew who lives in his court,” Samir said proudly. “Lovely country, plenty of shade. Without Almande's help, we would have to wait weeks or longer to see the Pater, who is very busy and does not interrupt his studies often.”

“And the Pater can tell us how—”

Samir waved him to silence. “Squirrels have very good ears,” the astrologer whispered.

Their guide squirrel had led them to a great set of double doors and was watching them curiously. Stefan remembered his cousin's request—mouth closed, eyes open—and complied.

The squirrel turned to Samir and chattered hurriedly. “Ah,” Samir said, “we're in luck. The king's entertainment is about to begin in the audience chamber.”

As if on cue, the doors swung open onto a hollow in the heart of the tree.

Stefan caught his breath. The room before him was as large as a barn, and shaped like a giant round bowl of honey-colored
wood. Glowworm lights hung in clusters from vines dangling from the ceiling, like natural chandeliers. A bole in the tree—a natural hole in the wood—had been shellacked over in amber tree sap to form a giant window. Starlight gently illuminated the rest of the room. Along the floor, the wood rose in ridges, forming benches. On each tier sat rows of squirrels, resting their fretful elbows on the wood.

Their guide led them to empty seating toward the middle of the hall, where the wooden resting ledges had been coaxed to human height. Pressing his paws together, the red squirrel gave a little bow, and departed.

Following Samir's lead, Stefan lowered himself, cross-legged, to the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly a drum sounded, like a great thunderclap. In the center of the room stood a large, broad-chested man. His skin was darker than Samir's, from sun or from birth, Stefan couldn't tell. This must be a true Moor.