Urchin and the Raven War

  Text copyright © 2008 by M. 1. McAllister

  Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Omar Rayyan

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney•Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No Part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Disney•Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN: 978-1-4231-4095-5

  Visit www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

  For the Northumbrian saints, past, present, and to come

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PROLOGUE

  ORR WAS TIRED OF WAITING. He needed to do something new.

  Corr was one of a large clan of otters living beyond the Rough Rocks on a far tip of Mistmantle. He had so many brothers, sisters, cousins, half cousins, and sort-of cousins that the adults were always counting them in case any of them got lost and nobody noticed. They taught each other to swim, fish, row, and sail, make boats and nets and repair them, and all the other skills an otter needed to get along “well enough.” That was what everyone said, time and again. “We get along well enough.”

  Corr was young, and didn’t want to get on well enough. His head and heart were full of dreams, stories, and questions, and he wanted excitement. What he yearned for was to see the world, but that was no good, living on Mistmantle. Enchanted mists circled the island, making it impossible for anyone who truly belonged there to leave by water and return by water, so unless he learned to fly—unlikely for an otter—he could never leave. But if he couldn’t explore the world, couldn’t he at least explore the island?

  On long summer evenings he would sit with his great-aunt Kerrera outside the smokehouse, and she would tell him of the terrible times of Lord Husk, when weak and disabled babies had been put to death, and little Prince Tumble had been murdered. On winter nights when even the starlight was bitter with cold, they would settle by the fire and, in a haze of fishy-smelling smoke, she would tell him of the wonderful Spring Festival when King Crispin (but he had been Captain Crispin in those days) had flown home to Mistmantle on a swan and saved all the island. When snow fell, she would tell him of the night when Urchin of the Riding Stars, Juniper the priest, and Captain Lugg the mole had sailed home through snow and riding stars, and the mists had let them through, bringing Cedar of Whitewings, who had married King Crispin. He loved that story, partly because it had a night of riding stars in it, when the stars flew from their orbits and swooped about the island. Nights like that always signaled a great event, for good or for harm. But he liked it, too, because it was about sailing through the mists, and the thought of that thrilled and frightened him.

  In all these stories Brother Fir had been there with his wise, kind eyes, his limp, his way of saying “Hm!” and his friendliness to all animals, from the king and queen to every young hedgehog, otter, mole, and squirrel. Corr had seen him from a distance and knew the priest had been at his naming ceremony, but he couldn’t remember it. With all his heart he wanted that kind, wise smile turned to him.

  I want him to know about me, he thought. Even if there isn’t much to know.

  He had heard breathtaking tales of King Crispin and Queen Cedar at Mistmantle Tower, and of their captains and the Circle, the animals closest to the king who helped and advised him. Corr wanted to meet Captain Padra and his brother, Fingal of the Floods. They were otters, like himself. He dreamed of meeting his hero, Urchin of the Riding Stars, the pale squirrel who had crossed the sea and returned again.

  There were stories, too, of the distant past, and Voyagers. There had been very few Voyagers in the history of the island. A Voyager—usually an otter—could travel freely through the mists and back, and visit islands beyond the sea.

  He’d never meet a real Voyager. But he might meet Brother Fir. One day, he would go to the tower and meet them all. One day, he would have the adventures he could only imagine as he carried baskets of herring up the hill to the smokehouse and mended nets. But each day was filled with fishing, repairing, and tramping up and down the hill to the smokehouse.

  The warm, dark smokehouse, where Great-aunt Kerrera cooked fish over woodsmoke to preserve it, was on a hill with the fumes of oak, peat, and fish hanging around it. Great-aunt Kerrera was always good for a cordial, a biscuit, and a story of old times, and occasionally, Filbert would be there, too.

  Filbert was a stout and solid squirrel who seemed old to Corr but probably wasn’t really. He was too shy to mix with the otters on the shore, but he liked to help Great-aunt Kerrera in the smokehouse, where he, too, was rewarded with a drink and a biscuit. When he could be persuaded to talk at all, he sometimes talked of Mistmantle Tower.

  On this particular spring day, when Corr had carried so many baskets of fish to and from the smokehouse that he smelled of singed oak and never wanted to look at a kipper again in his life, Filbert was there. They sat outside in the sunshine, drinking cordials that tasted smoky.

  “Can you tell me anything else about the tower, Filbert?” asked Corr.

  Filbert was silent for a while, looking into the cordial. He always did that.

  “I was there when we all had to give our clawmarks and Crispin was sent away,” he said at last, shaking his head at the cup. “Bad, that. Bad. Bad days. 1 remember old King Brushen crouched over on his throne.”

  Corr had heard that story before, and wanted something new. “Did you ever do anything really exciting?” he asked.

  “Me?” Filbert made a little grunt that was probably meant to be a laugh and continued talking into his cordial. “Would have liked to. No time for adventures, though. When I was young, I was like you, fetching and carrying. Might have liked an adventure. Never got around to it, really.” There was a long silence and Corr thought he had finished, when Filbert added, “I hear Brother Fir hasn’t got long. Must be very old. Getting frail.”

  “Corr!” shouted Great-aunt Kerrera. “I’ve got some nice big fish bones and oil here. Take them to your ma; they’ll come in handy for mending.”

  That evening Corr trudged downhill with his paws full of fish, fish bones, and oil for waterproofing, and his head full of Brother Fir, who was old and dying. How many other animals would grow old and die before he had the chance to meet them?

  One day, he thought, I could be like Filbert. I could grow old and look back wishing I’d done more with my life. It’s no good waiting for a chance to get away. I have to make my own chance, and do it now.

  At home, he found a boat so old and shabby that nobody else wanted it. He patched it up with sap and seasoned bark and put in fresh water, food, and a cloak. Then he found his parents, who were struggling to put his brothers, sister, and a few cousins to bed. When he told them he was going to the tower to see Brother Fir before he died, his mother said that Brother F
ir was a lovely old soul, bless him, give him our love, take a warm cloak, take care, and don’t be too long. After he had gone, she winked knowingly at his father and said that Corr would be back when he was hungry.

  At sunrise, Corr the otter took to the water. What he hadn’t told anyone was that he wasn’t going straight to the tower. There was exploring to do first, and adventures to be found. He couldn’t go to the tower without any stories to tell.

  CHAPTER ONE

  N MISTMANTLE Tower all went on steadily and peacefully, but with a little sadness. Brother Fir might live as long as the winter, but he would never leave the tower again. One side of his body was numb and paralyzed, and his heart and limbs had weakened, but his sight, his hearing, and his mind were as sharp as sword points. He lay on his small white bed in the highest turret of Mistmantle Tower while animals took turns to keep him company. They had moved his bed to give him a good view of the shore. Two young squirrels, Juniper (the younger priest) and Whittle (the apprentice historian and lawyer) opened windows so he could feel the sea breeze, and the scent of flowers in the window boxes would drift in for him. On cool evenings they lit the apple-log fire in the grate, mixed cordials the way he liked them, and told him the news of the island.

  Urchin of the Riding Stars would tumble through the window to visit between having advanced fencing lessons himself, teaching the new pages, and keeping an eye on the young animals in Anemone Wood. Crackle, the squirrel pastry cook, sweetened rice puddings with red berry jam the way Fir liked them, and learned to cook seaweed because apparently he liked that, too. (Seaweed was becoming very popular.) Sepia of the Songs called between looking after the king and queen’s children and teaching and practicing her music. In the workrooms where the Threadings were made—the woven, stitched, and painted pictures showing the story of the island—Thripple and Needle and the small hedgehogs said little as they worked. Hope, the shortsighted hedgehog, seemed to have given himself the job of fetching and carrying, fire lighting, and washing up for the priests. On a spring morning he stirred the bilberry cordial and put it into Brother Juniper’s paws.

  “It’s just the way Brother Fir likes it,” whispered Hope with a glance at the bed.

  Brother Fir gave a weak, lopsided smile without opening his eyes. “Don’t look so worried,” he wheezed. “I’m not dead yet.” He took the cup in his good paw when Juniper had helped him to sit up.

  “That’s a very good cordial,” Brother Fir remarked. “He will come, you know.”

  “I know he will, Brother Fir,” said Juniper, who had no idea what Fir was talking about. Brother Fir had been murmuring on for days about somebody who would come, and Juniper had given up asking who he meant. He never got an answer.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” remarked Fir, looking down at the shore. “Are they having a race down there?” He chuckled, then leaned forward with great interest. “Juniper! Look up! What do you suppose those are?”

  There were always animals on the shore beside the long wooden jetty, especially young animals. On this particular morning, when the turning tide carried drifting seaweed to the sands, Fingal was swimming in and out of the wharves on one side of the jetty with Padra’s son, Tide, racing him on the other. Swishing her tail in the water, Tide’s sister, Swanfeather, opened her mouth to shout for Tide, then thought she might support her uncle Fingal instead, then couldn’t decide and shouted herself hoarse for both of them. Princess Catkin and her brother, Prince Oakleaf, leaned from either side of the jetty to watch, and the race looked so close that all the otters in the water had stopped fishing and swimming to see who won. Catkin, her tail curled high over her back, sprang up as Tide won by a nose and a whisker. (Swanfeather thought Fingal had lost on purpose.)

  “I declare Tide the winner!” cried Catkin.

  Glossily wet, dripping, and laughing, Fingal bobbed up. “Oh, are you declaring again?” he said. “You do a lot of declaring, Catkin.” He winked at Prince Oakleaf, then disappeared underwater again and presently emerged on the dry sand, where he rolled and shook himself dry. Princess Catkin was telling Swanfeather something very important, and hadn’t noticed what he was doing.

  “Fingal, now I’m soaked!” she cried.

  “It must be raining!” said Fingal. He looked innocently up at the sky and suddenly stopped being flippant. “Swans!” he said. “Four—five of them!”

  Five swans drifted down from the sky and skimmed onto the sea so smoothly that a graceful track flared through the water behind each one. But they looked weary and ragged. Swans usually held their necks tall and their heads high, but these drooped over the waves. Their badly ruffled feathers were smudged with mud, blood, and weed. Their eyes were hollow with strain and tiredness. Their leader—bigger than the rest and still struggling to hold his head and wings high—swam to the shallows and stepped on great webbed feet to the shore. Fingal, as a member of the Circle, went to greet him. The swan lowered his beak just a little.

  “I am Lord Arcneck of Swan Isle,” he announced, and there was pride in the tired voice. He glanced at the gleam of silver from the bracelet on Fingal’s wrist. “My greetings to King Crispin of Mistmantle. You wear silver. Are you a lordling of this island?”

  “Not exactly,” said Fingal. “But can I help you? You look as if you’ve had a rough journey.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Tide, will you find…”

  “Thank you, Fingal,” said Catkin’s clear, commanding voice behind him. “I’ll do this.”

  Fingal wanted very much to say, “Certainly, Your Princess-ship,” but he bit his tongue, fought against a smile, and moved aside for her. Young Princess Catkin had flame-red fur like her mother’s, a heart-shaped face, long ear tufts, and immense determination. The swan lord stretched out his neck and lowered his hard, bright beak as he looked down at her.

  “What is this?” he croaked. “A youngling?”

  “I am Princess Catkin,” she said before Fingal could introduce her. “The firstborn child of King Crispin and Queen Cedar, and the Heir of Mistmantle. Anything you have to say, my lord, you may say to me.”

  Fingal winced silently. Lord Arcneck regarded Catkin with cold, sharp eyes, as if wondering whether she were worth speaking to.

  “Then kindly take me to your father,” he said. “King Crispin and I have been allies from long ago.”

  “Oh, of course!” said Catkin. “You’re from that island. You’d better come with me.”

  “Er… Catkin”—began Prince Oakleaf—“do you think …” but Catkin was already marching to the tower with a weary procession of swans waddling behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she realized she was leaving them behind, and had to wait.

  “Don’t worry, Oakleaf,” said Fingal quietly. “I’ll go with them. You and Swanfeather nip into the kitchens. Find out what swans like and whether we’ve got any. Good lad.”

  It could have been worse, he thought as he loped up the sand. That island. At least she hadn’t said, “Oh, you’re that swan.”

  “Excuse me, my lord,” he said as he reached Lord Arcneck’s side, “the tower steps may be awkward for swans to climb, but you’re welcome to fly up if you have room to spread your wings. I’ll send someone to get you some springwater; it’s very good.” He waved at a young squirrel page near a window. “The king needs to know that there are visitors from Swan Isle on the way. We’ll need springwater brought to the Gathering Chamber.”

  “The Throne Room,” called Catkin over her shoulder.

  “Are you sure that’s the best place, Catkin?” he asked. The Throne Room might be the likeliest place to find the king at that time in the morning, but it would be a tight squeeze for five swans.

  “Of course it’s the best place,” said Catkin, and Fingal didn’t argue. It would be unkind to show her up in front of visitors, and anyway, she wouldn’t listen.

  “Springwater to the Throne Room, please,” he said. “Lots of it.”

  The Throne Room windows looked down on trees just beginning to show shy green bud
s, and conifers frilled at the tips with new growth. The fire had been newly lit, and small flames flickered around the logs. Opposite the throne hung a Threading of the famous Captain Lugg the mole wearing his captain’s gold circlet and a blue cloak, with a spray of oak leaves at the neck. Woven into the background were a clump of borage flowers and meadowsweet, a golden yellow lapwing, and a spray of black broom, and one paw was edged in gold.

  Nobody was seated on the tall, carved thrones. Queen Cedar knelt on the floor as Princess Almondflower took wobbly steps toward her, fell over, and giggled. King Crispin and his oldest friend, Captain Padra, sat in the window seat, cups of wine in their paws, looking down on the island. There were three captains just now—Padra; his wife, Arran; and Docken the hedgehog.

  “Docken’s a good captain,” Crispin was saying, “but try telling him that.”

  “He’s been a captain for a long time now,” said Padra, “but he still seems to think it’s just a temporary arrangement. He doesn’t believe that he’s suitable. Fair enough, he doesn’t have the dash and sparkle that animals like in a captain, but he doesn’t need it. The ordinary animals find him easy to approach.”

  “Dash and sparkle?” The queen laughed.

  “Mine’s worn off,” said Padra.

  “Not a bit of it,” said the queen, rolling a ball to Almondflower. “Doesn’t Docken want to be a captain anymore?”

  “The way Docken sees it, he doesn’t mind being a captain until we have someone better,” said Crispin. “But I don’t want him to resign. We could have a fourth captain, but the best of the moles won’t do it because they still don’t feel they could follow Lugg. There’s the squirrel brothers, Russet and Heath, but they’ve said that neither of them would accept it because of the other. And the rest are too young, except possibly Fingal.”

  “Let him have fun for a bit longer,” said Padra. “And the same goes for Urchin. It’s really Urchin we’re talking about, isn’t it? We both want him to be a captain one day, but it isn’t his time yet, and I don’t want—”