Urchin and the Rage Tide (11 page)

“So? You did the right thing. And if I have to make the big decisions, I’m making one now.” He poured elderflower cordial into two cups and gave one to Padra. “I am not going to let you resign. We have enough trouble on this island without you standing down. Put your circlet back where it belongs.”

“If you insist, Crispin,” said Padra, replacing his circlet.

“And Corr—yes, he’s young, but the young can do great things. I admire his courage, he has the spirit of a true Voyager, and, as you say, he’s Sepia’s only hope. Does Urchin know that he’s gone?”

“I haven’t told him, yet, for the same reason I didn’t tell you,” said Padra. “I believe he wants Sepia back more than any of us do, and for that very reason he wouldn’t want to put his page in danger for her. It would be a terrible dilemma for him. By your leave, I’ll tell him now.”

“Does Juniper know?”

Padra managed a twitch of a smile. “I don’t have to tell anyone what I’ve discussed with the priest,” he said. “Not even you. And neither does the priest.”

“Fair enough,” said Crispin. “And how’s Arran?”

“Growling curses against the rage tide,” said Padra, “and a falling tree seems to have cracked a bone in her shoulder, so she’s out of action.”

“Pass on my regards to her. Urchin needs to know about Corr—leave it to me, Padra, I’ll talk to him. He helped me in my grief, long ago.”

Much later in the day Needle and Prince Oakleaf scrambled up to the cave where the Threadings had been stored. Needle, who had been there before, had brought lanterns, and bustled about lighting them and propping them against the cave wall.

“The thing about Myrtle,” she said, “is that she puts things in her Threadings that she doesn’t understand. She barely knows her Threadings Code at all. But she’ll sit at her workbench sewing a symbol into her work without any idea what she’s done. But then it happens—whatever symbol she’s put in her Threading, it means something. When the king went to Swan Isle to fight the ravens, she stitched a sword pointing upward.”

“That means victory,” said Prince Oakleaf.

“Exactly,” said Needle, “but Myrtle didn’t know that. And she was right, we won. Then, when the ravens attacked, she drew the sign for the death of royalty and terrified me, but it turned out to be raven royalty that died, not ours. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing, but she’s never been wrong. So, in her latest Threading, she might have stitched something useful—I mean, something that gives us a clue about where we might find them, or even about Sepia!” She stopped, irritated. “Are you listening?”

Oakleaf was turning slowly around, his mouth open.

“It’s amazing!” he said. “Why have I never been here?”

He was watching the flickering of lantern light on the cave. Semiprecious stones blinked at them from the walls. Water gurgled from a spring. Needle, remembering how she had felt when she first saw the song cave, decided there was no point in trying to tell Oakleaf anything much just yet. She pulled out two rolled-up Threadings from the stack against a wall, and spread them on the floor.

“It’s so wonderful!” exclaimed Prince Oakleaf. “It’s beautiful!” His voice echoed from the high, arching roof. “Singing in here must sound amazing!”

Needle ignored him. She went on unrolling Threadings—
not that one—not that—not that
—finally, after studying one with great care, she dragged it to the lantern.

“Oakleaf,” she said, “do you know
all
the Threadings Code?”

“Don’t you?” he said in surprise.

“Of course
I
do,” said Needle, annoyed that he should ask. “I wanted to find out if you do.”

“My mother used to teach it to us like a bedtime story,” said Oakleaf. He examined it with his head tipped to one side.

“That looks like a circle,” he said, “and a boat.…Can we take them outside and look at them in the light? But let’s stay here for a minute. This place is so…so singable!”

With a clear, tuneful voice, he began to sing. In spite of his excellent voice, Needle covered her ears. She wanted to tell him to stop, but she hadn’t the heart to. Sepia had sung here, when they came to search for the Heartstone. This was where she had brought the young choristers to rehearse. Suddenly and powerfully, pictures of her filled Needle’s head and heart—Sepia was everywhere, Sepia singing, Sepia surrounded by excited little animals, Sepia cradling a baby princess in her arms, Sepia struggling to the workrooms with her arms full of yellow gold velvet, Sepia loved by the whole island, Sepia swept away and lost.

“Needle!” said Oakleaf. “You’re crying!”

Urchin’s mind and heart were so full of Sepia that it was hard to concentrate on anything for long. Finally he noticed that he hadn’t seen Corr for a while, and supposed that he must be doing some task for Padra or the king. Urchin didn’t mind. He didn’t want company just now.

The tree he had loved as a young squirrel was still standing, and he ran to the top to gaze over the island. Tide and Juniper were on the shore, their paws raised as if in blessing. Twirl was being escorted from the hilltop burrows by Urchin’s friend, Pitter the squirrel. Twirl looked no worse for her ordeal in the sea. Cedar and Catkin were climbing the stairs to the tower’s main door. Where would they all be without Sepia? The thought of her, alone, afraid, and perhaps injured, in a boat with no provisions, was appalling.

His eyes stung.
I couldn’t hold on to her.
He revisited that scene, time after time, always wishing it could be different, just a tiny bit different, so that he could hold Sepia and Twirl and haul them both from the water. But it didn’t make any difference.
I let her down.

The tree rustled, and he looked down to see King Crispin leaping through the branches toward him. His first thought was that he wanted to be left alone, but at once he felt ashamed of that. He wasn’t the only animal hurt by the rage tide, and there was work to be done.

“Do you have orders for me, sir?” he asked.

“Have you seen your page lately?” Crispin asked.

“No, Your Majesty,” confessed Urchin, and felt ashamed again. Corr was his responsibility.

Crispin put a paw on his shoulder. “He’s gone to find her, Urchin,” he said. “Our Voyager has taken to the sea. His first quest.”

“Heart speed him!” cried Urchin.

“And, Urchin,” said Crispin, “you won’t find her by gazing at the mists. There are two young hedgehogs missing. Needle and Oakleaf are on the search, and I want you to join them. You’ll feel better when you have a job to do.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

ORR HAD SWUM UNDER THE MISTS
many times, but he had never realized that he was doing so. Deliberately rowing through them, with the soft white swirl leaving a film of shimmering drops on his fur, was very different.
I am a Voyager
, he told himself. The oars creaked and splashed steadily, as rhythmic as breathing.
I am a Voyager—or at least, that’s what they’ve told me. I hope they’re right
. He reminded himself that Urchin had needed to escape from the island once, and he had found a way to bring Crispin home—and it must have been harder for Urchin, who wasn’t a Voyager. Well, he would find a way to bring Sepia home. But it seemed as if he’d never get out of these mists, let alone back through them.

He rowed until his arms ached and his paws were so stiff he could hardly uncurl his claws. It was hard to keep his sense of direction here, where the scents on the air were confusing, and there was nobody to ask for advice.

In the safety of the hilltop chambers, small children chased each other in and out of Mother Huggen’s lines of washing. Moth told a story to those who would sit still and listen, but as three or four small boy squirrels were always trying to run up and down one wall, over the floor, up the opposite side, and across the ceiling without falling off, there were far too many distractions. A female hedgehog called Ruffle was supposed to help them but did nothing but huddle by the fire, and Mother Huggen would rather not have had her at all. Her cry of “can’t we go home yet?” was becoming irritating.

“No, we can’t,” said Mother Huggen, and even she sounded grumpy as she folded washing and smoothed it away in baskets. “The otters say there might be another wave, so we have to stay here. Animals who live on high ground can go away, but Longpaw—Heart love him, he’s Sepia’s big brother—he says nobody can leave without permission from a member of the Circle. And you won’t get it from me.”

“Nor me!” said Spade the mole, who was sitting beside her. “Pitter says she’ll take some of the little ones out to play, but they have to stay on this—” He stopped, his head on one side as he listened. Then he slid to the floor and lay there, his ear pressed to the ground.

“Sh!” said Mother Huggen to the children. Presently, Spade got up.

“It’s just the sound of the ground settling after the floods,” he said. “There’ll be a lot of that to come. Blooming floods. I thought it might be those young’uns we’re supposed to be looking for. Carry on, Mother Huggen.”

“Whatever have they done with that Mossberry?” asked Mother Huggen. Ruffle the hedgehog, curled by the fire, looked up. “Last I knew he was in a burrow just along south of this one, and I didn’t feel happy having him so close.”