Bookweirdest Page 5

  Outside the gate, Raritan stopped, halting Norman in his tracks. Had the fickle unicorn changed his mind again? But Raritan hadn’t changed his mind. In a one strange, majestic movement he lowered his head and bent his front legs so he was kneeling. Norman watched dumbfounded, unsure what to do.

  Raritan made up his mind for him. “Get on before I change my mind,” he commanded.

  Norman shook himself out of his reverie and climbed onto the kneeling unicorn’s back. He had never actually ridden a horse before. That was Dora’s thing, and he had a whole new appreciation for it as he wobbled on Raritan’s giant neck, feeling around for something to hold on to. But he had little time to think about where to put his hands—Raritan was already rising and springing away. It was so sudden and so fast, it was almost like flying. Norman lurched backwards and grasped at Raritan’s mane, his fingers clutching strands of hair. It was the only thing stopping him from hurtling to the ground. They turned and moved in a blur of motion away from the house, and as they did, Norman just caught sight of his sister at the back door. He might have imagined it, but he was sure that her mouth was open and her jaw dropped, as if seeing her brother riding her unicorn was a great and terrible outrage.

  They were at the footbridge in a matter of seconds. Norman counted two footfalls on the wooden planks—the-thunk, the-thunk—and they were on the other side. Nothing could have prepared him for the speed. He wished he could see himself to get some idea of just how fast they were going. Wind whistled in his ears and stung his eyes as they hurtled across the meadow. At the first fence, he closed his eyes and nearly lost his stomach as Raritan leapt over it. It was like being on a four-legged roller coaster. Somehow, Norman had imagined that the rabbits would be close—he’d heard them by the bridge, after all—but Raritan kept riding, across field after field. He covered more distance in a few minutes than Norman had covered in an hour.

  Between the slits of his half-closed eyes, Norman caught a glimpse of the brick arches of the railway bridge. They ran alongside the railway embankment for a while, then plunged into the river gully. Norman inhaled deeply as the water loomed ahead. He heard himself gasp, “Oh no,” as Raritan dispensed with the bridge and galloped right at the river. The water hardly slowed him. The unicorn must have known exactly where to ford it. They were across it in a few splashes. Norman again closed his eyes as the water sprayed up around them. This was no longer a roller coaster but a flume ride.

  Norman could not have said how long the ride lasted. He was breathless when Raritan finally slowed to a canter. After the river there had been more fields and some woods. Now they emerged onto the lawn of a great house. Who knew rabbits travelled so far?

  The great house was boarded up now, but it had once been magnificent. Norman knew he recognized it from somewhere. It reminded him of Kelmsworth Hall, but this house—made entirely of pale grey stone and surrounded by a formal garden with a hedge maze and a tiny ruined church—was even grander. It was the church that brought it back to him. He had been here with his parents on one of their boring old house tours. He had stood with his mother on the balcony and stared out at this lawn, but now the balcony was boarded up and the house seemed long abandoned.

  Just weeks ago Norman had lain down inside this little church, which was not even a real church but a rich person’s garden ornament. Now the grass around it had grown long and the hedge maze was tangled with vines. Norman loosened his grip on Raritan’s mane and patted the unicorn’s neck gratefully. There was something else about this church—something Norman had dismissed as a dream, but it was coming back to him now. He slipped off the unicorn’s back and approached the ruin. It reminded him of a church he’d seen in Undergrowth. That day on the tour, he’d slipped away from his parents for a closer look, crawled inside and fallen asleep on the moss-covered slate floor. As he dozed there in the shade, he’d heard voices, tiny little English voices arguing about something, and when he’d opened his eyes, there had been a rabbit in a monk’s cloak and cowl. He’d only seen it for a moment. He’d blinked and it was gone.

  “That was real,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

  Raritan couldn’t have known what he was talking about, but he seemed to nicker in agreement.

  Norman turned to the unicorn. “When did you see them? How many? Did you talk to them?” He blurted out his questions without stopping to listen for an answer.

  Raritan, by contrast, was not to be rushed. He glanced at the church as if he was reconsidering the wisdom of what he had done. Before he answered, he exhaled deeply and solemnly.

  “You will not harm them.” Again it was an order, not a question.

  Norman shook his head. It was unthinkable.

  “They are timid creatures. I followed them from the bridge, but I did not speak to them.”

  “So far?”

  “They have a shorter route through the woods, too narrow for you or me, but yes, it is a long way to go for herbs.”

  “They are here now? In the church?” Norman took a step towards it, but Raritan shook his head.

  “In the grass. They are afraid. They are waiting for you to leave. If you approach them, they will scatter.”

  Norman surveyed the long grass but stayed where he was. These rabbits had to be from Undergrowth. He’d heard them by the footbridge, singing about the Great Cities. Either the rabbits had escaped from their book or he was in Undergrowth now. Either way, they could lead him to Malcolm.

  He knew that people could escape from their books. He had seen it happen with the wolves that hunted him into Fortune’s Foal and the thief from his mother’s crime novel who’d turned up at Kelmsworth. Raritan too had come from another book, though Norman didn’t dare ask him about it.

  He took a deep breath and considered his words before he spoke. He knew quite a bit about the Great Cities. In fact, he probably knew more about their homeland than the rabbits themselves. Two Undergrowth books were set there, and Norman had read Exiles of the Ultima Warren twice. He knew the secrets of the displaced kings from Far Warren, who had founded the Great Cities. He knew about their long wars with the Sea Otter raiders and the longer truce that ended The Rescue of Isla Wake. He’d actually met someone who’d grown up in the Great Cities, Malcolm’s Uncle Cuilean.

  He cleared his voice again and turned to address the long grass.

  “Rabbits of the Great Cities,” he began—too loudly, he thought. He held his breath and waited to hear the sound of fleeing rabbits, but there was nothing but the whisper of the wind in the grass. “Rabbits of the Great Cities; citizens of Logarno, Cuaderno and Santander; people of the Book and the Tower—I hail you in the name of Cuilean of the Mustelids, fellow of the University of Santander, thrice champion of the Palio of Archers, proud bearer of the blue cloak and the banner of silver towers, lord protector of my liege, King Malcolm of Lochwarren.”

  It was an impressive speech. At least Norman thought so as he stood back to assess its effectiveness. But though he stared long and hard, there was no movement in the grass, save for the blades themselves swaying back and forth in the breeze. The whispering sound built though the wind itself was dying down, until Norman finally realized that it was the lowered voices of the rabbits arguing in the grass.

  “Have you seen the size of the liocorno with him? He’d trample us to death.”

  “Or gore us with his horn.”

  “But he says he’s with Cuilean from the old stories.”

  “Anybody can say he knows Cuilean. If I told you I was best mates with Mad King Boris, would you believe me?”

  “I’d believe you if you said you were Mad King Boris,” another voice snickered.

  “Shush, you. I believe the boy. No human would know about Cuilean and the Great Cities unless he’d spent time with a civilized rabbit.”

  “Maybe he’s come to take us back. Mightn’t it be a sign of the end of our exile?”

  “More likely a sign of us at the end of a liocorno’s horn.”

  Norman knew this w
as the sort of argument that could go on forever if he let it.

  “Please,” he interrupted. “I need your help.”

  The rabbits in the grass went silent. He fully expected them to scatter now, but it didn’t matter—he would stay here, sleeping in the ruined church if he had to, until they trusted him.

  He didn’t even hear the rabbit’s footsteps as she emerged from the grass. He saw her before he heard her. She was smaller than Norman had expected. He wondered if she was even fully grown. Having hopped out from the grass, she came no farther, just stood there at the edge of the lawn. If not for the tiny crown of buttercups woven between her tall, attentive ears, no one would have thought her anything other than a wild animal.

  On some impulse, Norman dropped to one knee so that he was closer to her height. At this level, he could see by her eyes that she was different. A wild rabbit never looked at you directly like this. A wild rabbit’s eyes were always elsewhere, focused on the point of escape. This rabbit didn’t look ready to run just yet.

  “I’m Norman.” He introduced himself in the kindest, softest voice he could muster.

  She stared back for a long time, assessing him before answering. “I’m called Esme,” she replied. “You’d better come with us to Willowbraid.”

  Norman rose slowly and took a step forward. The rabbit’s ear flicked. Suddenly a dozen other rabbits appeared behind Esme at the edge of the tall grasses. She was the smallest of the bunch, but only she dared hop all the way out.

  “You’d better leave your liocorno,” she told him. “The boys are terrified.”

  Raritan snorted defiantly. Nobody was going to tell him what to do. Only Dora seemed to have any influence on him.

  The thought of his little sister, alone back at the Shrubberies, gave Norman a little pang of guilt. “I need you to stay here,” he told the unicorn. “Look after Dora, please,” he asked. “Don’t trust Kit. He’s up to something.”

  The unicorn stared back defiantly before dipping his horn in assent. “I could do no less,” he declared. Raritan’s eyes flicked to the rabbits once more, as if he was still wondering if he’d done the right thing. He gave them a solemn nod before turning and trotting away. Norman and the rabbits felt the thud of his hooves as he moved to a gallop at the far end of the field and was gone.

  “Willowbraid is this way,” Esme said, her tall ears bending to indicate the woods at the edge of the great lawn. “We’ve sent someone ahead to tell the magistrates. They’ll be arguing about you already, I expect.”

  Norman had some experience following woodland animals. They paid scant attention to the requirements of human travel. While the rabbits darted, barely seen, through gaps in the tall grass, Norman waded after them through the weeds. Burrs clung to his jeans and sharp leaves cut at his hands as he tried to make a path for himself. An abandoned rake lying hidden in the grass tripped him, nearly sending him headlong. He managed to stay on his feet, but a peal of rabbit laughter told him that his trip hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  It wasn’t any easier when they got to the woods. The rabbits must have had paths down there in the brush, but they were no good for humans. The paths went through brambles and thorn bushes for a reason: rabbits don’t like to be followed. The more Norman struggled, the braver his travelling companions became.

  “Try to keep up,” one insolent fellow told him.

  “Watch out for the br—” another called the moment before a branch cracked him on the forehead.

  Esme remained patient. “You’ll need to crawl from here,” she told Norman, and he followed her instruction, falling to his knees and moving forward on all fours. It didn’t make him any faster, but it was the only way to proceed. The brambles had closed in over his head. It was almost as if they had been grown that way on purpose, arched over the path like a vaulted tunnel. Just enough light came through the cracks to illuminate the way. It made little diamond patterns on the firmly packed soil beneath. For the rabbits it was a broad, protected avenue. For Norman it was like trying to crawl through the Tunnels-O-Fun at Dora’s last birthday party.

  Seeing Norman tattered and gasping on his knees did wonders for his companions’ confidence. They hopped back every now and then to encourage him, darting between his legs as they came up behind him and passed him. It would have been more discouraging if Norman hadn’t felt so at home. He’d been through this before. It was like his first time in Undergrowth, trying to keep up with Malcolm and his father, Duncan, as the fearsome River Raider led his band of rebels back to Lochwarren. The thought of reuniting with his lost friend made the difficulties of the path easier to take. Despite the scratches on his arms and the twigs in his hair and the friendly insults of the rabbits, Norman was happy. He was back among the people of Undergrowth, and he was sure that he would soon see his friend again.

  Even so, it was a relief to finally emerge from the tunnel and rise from his knees to stand again. But he could only just stand. A canopy of woven branches arched upwards, forming a huge dome that just grazed his head. It was like standing inside a huge overturned wicker basket. Vines of flowers and ivy twisted through the weaving, providing a decorated canopy for the wide clearing below. Norman, still capable of being surprised by the ingenuity of the Undergrowthers, gasped as he surveyed it all.

  There was a whole village in there. Beneath the canopy the clearing was laid out with streets, each of which was lined with little wicker dwellings, modest huts towards the edge, growing in size and grandeur towards the middle. In the centre was a single building that looked like it had been made of scavenged brick. A broad avenue led from this building to the stone cathedral. It was a perfect Undergrowthian town. It wouldn’t have been out of place in the Borders or the Windward Dales, but here it was instead, hidden in the woods, just a short distance from Norman’s house in the countryside of England. It made him want to cry out with joy.

  “Welcome to Willowbraid,” Esme called up from beside his foot. “You’d better wait at St. Peter’s. It’ll be about the only place you’ll fit.”

  Norman skirted the edge of the village until he reached the square in front of the cathedral. The two tall doors at the front might open wide enough for him to fit his head inside, there was no way he was going to fit his shoulders through. Instead, he just sat down cross-legged in the square.

  A delegation of rabbits approached, following the avenue from the brick hall, where they had evidently just finished meeting. Many of the rabbits wore brown monks’ robes, which were almost indistinguishable from their fur. At the head of the delegation was a dark brown rabbit in red robes. He wore a black hat and had a gold chain around his neck. As he got closer, Norman could see that his hair was grey beneath his ears and about his whiskers. Norman could also see that he wasn’t happy. He carried a tall staff that he jabbed angrily into the ground as he walked.

  Behind the official party, all of Willowbraid seemed to have come out. Rabbits young and old poured out of their houses and onto the street, rushing to the square to see the spectacle. The crowd halted when they reached the edge of the square. No rabbit seemed to want to get any closer than two human arm’s lengths, and yet none of them could take their eyes off the human who sat cross-legged in the middle of their church square.

  The members of the official delegation also kept a wide berth, skirting the edge of the square around to the steps of the cathedral, where they all gathered in rows as if they were assembling for a group picture. The old rabbit in the red robes climbed the steps last and took his place at the front of their ranks.

  “Who is responsible for bringing the two-legger here?” he demanded, rapping his staff on the stone steps as he did so.

  The rabbits in the crowd took their eyes off Norman for just a moment to look around. Their eyes flitted madly as they tried to guess who would be mad enough to bring a human here.

  Esme stepped forward. “I am, Father. I brought him here.”

  The crowd gasped.

  The old rabbit frowned, but his voice sof
tened. “Esme, you should know better. There are rules against talking to the two-leggers, and they are made for good reason. You want to end up a martyr like St. Peter up there?”

  Norman hadn’t noticed the mosaic on the front of the cathedral. It showed a little rabbit in a blue coat being stuffed into a burlap sack by a giant human hand. The human boy turned around to look at the crowd that had gathered. There were a lot of wary faces and a lot of baby bunnies cowering behind their mothers’ aprons.

  “He’s going to bake us all into a pie!” one tiny voice cried out in a panic. It was greeted by muttering and grumbling. Somewhere a baby rabbit started crying. It was about the most pitiful thing Norman had ever heard. Humans, he realized, were the stuff of rabbit horror stories. He was their bogeyman.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” Norman whispered to no one in particular. He was starting to realize that he was not in Undergrowth—that this was the human world and the rabbits were as lost as he was.

  Esme, still standing beside him, repeated his assertion earnestly. “He’s a vegetarian.”

  If the crowd heard her, they didn’t show it. Their voices continued to rise in panic and anger.

  “Blind him!” someone cried.

  “Throw him in a burlap sack, Alderman,” shouted another.