Brambleheart
DEDICATION
For Biscuit and Mullet
CONTENTS
Dedication
1. Twig
2. Incident in Metal Craft
3. A Bowl of Soup
4. Errand Runner?
5. Running Away
6. Something Marvelous
7. A Dragon
8. A Hiding Place
9. A Sundial
10. Char
11. Practice
12. Becoming Masterful
13. The Necklace
14. Suspension
15. Advice from Uncle Beau
16. Olive
17. Basil
18. Char, Unleashed
19. A Plan
20. Escape
21. The River
22. A Discovery
23. Getting Things Shipshape
24. Freedom
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About the Author
Books by Henry Cole
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
chapter 1
Twig
Twig made his way to class, in the rain. It was a cold, late-spring rain, which soaked into his fur with a chill. A gray sky of leaden clouds hung over the Hill like a drab, wet quilt.
Plink! Splot! The raindrops hit the metal and plastic junk that made up the giant Hill. It surrounded Twig as he scooted around and through the familiar assortment of human refuse.
He paused outside the Burrow of Weaving. A notice had been posted outside, a reminder of the upcoming Naming Ceremony, as if anyone needed to be reminded.
The Naming Ceremony was the most important day at the Hill. At the end of their Naming Year, every graduating student would be given their final names. The names signified mastery of a subject and would determine what job and status the graduates would have in Hill society. Soon, Twig’s friends would be named Weavers and Metal Crafters and Carvers. Twig hoped he would be named something.
Twig slipped into the classroom. His chipmunk nose twitched gratefully as he saw his friend Lily gesture to him, pointing to the seat beside her. He scrambled onto the wooden bench.
“Professor Fern is going to call for demonstrations this morning,” Lily whispered. “I’m all set. If she calls on me, I’m demonstrating either the Cloud Knot or the Burr Knot. I can’t decide.”
Twig smiled. Either knot was extremely difficult, but he knew that if anyone could tie them, Lily could.
“What about you, Twig?”
“I thought I’d try the Sparrow Knot.”
“That’s an easy one!”
“For you, maybe.”
Lily’s nose wiggled. “Did you study your Knot Manual last night?” she asked.
Twig turned pink at the tips of his furry ears.
“Uh-huh . . . just as I thought,” Lily sighed. “Looking at your picture books instead of studying. Really, Twig. You need to put your whiskers in the Manuals.”
Just then Professor Fern slapped her tail. She was large, even for a beaver. Her thick brown fur was always at least a little damp and smelled of marsh weeds and pond water. She kept a stash of fresh willow twigs next to her desk and was constantly peeling and nibbling the bark off them.
She smiled patiently as the students settled in. “All right,” she called out. “Everyone quiet, please. We’ve got a few demonstrations this morning, and then a small pop quiz after.”
Everyone groaned.
Phoebe piped up. “You didn’t tell us there was going to be a quiz!” she squeaked, and nervously fidgeted with her pink tail.
Professor Fern smiled, chewing a willow stem. “If I announced it, it wouldn’t be a pop quiz, now, would it? Okay, let’s see. Lily? How about you for our first demonstration? Do you have a knot you’d like to show us?”
Lily stood, like most rabbits, erect and alert, with sharp eyes and soft, tawny ears. Her fur was a mottled mix of cinnamon brown and pearl gray, except for her paws and tail, which were as white as moonlight on a snowbank.
Lily was almost certainly destined to be named Master Weaver. Ever since she was young, she’d practiced at working strands of grass or string or nylon cord into amazingly strong and intricate ropes. She could weave any fiber into rope as strong as an ironwood branch, or as delicate as a moth’s antenna.
As expected, Lily’s demonstration went smoothly. She tied the Cloud Knot with no mistakes. Her coral-colored nose wiggled as the nimble paws went this way and that.
Professor Fern looked pleased, beaming at the perfectly formed knot. She slapped her tail on the floor. “Excellent, Lily,” she said. “I would be proud to have executed such a difficult knot as well as this. You are most certainly to be named Master Weaver at the upcoming Ceremony.”
“Thank you, Professor Fern,” Lily replied, blushing.
Twig sighed. His chances at Master Anything looked fairly bleak. He was barely good enough to keep up. And this third and final year of training was the toughest yet, with projects and assignments popping up like mushrooms after a spring rain.
He tried to hide in the back of the room behind Hyacinth, hoping to be overlooked as the next presenter.
Professor Fern called on Ivy, a young wood rat, who created a satisfactory example of an Owl Knot. Though not very difficult, it was an unusual knot.
“Good, Ivy. Peeper?”
There was an awkward moment when Peeper stumbled for a moment while tying a Snail Knot, but he recovered to finish nicely.
Basil the weasel did a passable job tying a Double Branch Knot but got distracted when Twig sneezed. “That was easy,” he announced when he completed the knot, but as he sat down, he glared at Twig. “Idiot!” he whispered.
“Okay,” Professor Fern said. “Next we’ll have . . . uh . . . how about you, Twig?”
Twig gulped.
He picked up two ropes and began his Sparrow Knot, but quickly became all left toes, flustered and confused. The ropes became a jumbled tangle.
“No, wait . . . ,” Twig mumbled, trying to loosen the knot and start over. “Let’s see, right over left, around . . . through . . . and back? No . . . uh . . .”
Professor Fern sighed, interrupted him. “Twig, perhaps you should have a seat.” Looking disappointed, she took the confusing mass of rope and tossed it in the bin marked To Untangle. “If I were you, Twig, I would spend tonight memorizing.” She gestured at a copy of 20 Basic Knots lying on her desk. “And I mean memorizing well. You need to be skilled at those before you can advance in here.”
“Yes, Professor Fern,” said Twig.
“Now, everyone, pencils out for the pop quiz.”
Twig handled the quiz without too much problem; it consisted of true-or-false questions about threads and yarns. But afterward the professor pulled Twig to one side.
“Twig, dear, really . . . you need to pay more attention in class!” she said, leaning over the chipmunk. Twig could smell her duckweed scent. “I’m afraid your work isn’t up to the quality we’re striving for here on the Hill.” She chewed and munched some more, looking serious. “You want to be powerful, don’t you? That’s what being a Master means. It means being able to build things . . . so you can trade things . . . and own things.”
Twig looked dejectedly at the floor.
“The Sparrow Knot demonstration today,” Professor Fern continued. “A perfect opportunity for you to shine! But . . . well, I don’t think your heart was in it. I know that you want to be a part of the Naming Ceremony, but at this point you wouldn’t even be considered. I can hardly imagine what your mother would say if after three years of training you remain . . . nameless!”
Twig gulped hard. Not receiving a last name would mean never becoming a respected member of the Hill. “No name . . . ?” he asked incredulously.
Twig’s tail sagged.
Professor Fern looked apologetic but said firmly, “If your work doesn’t improve, and I’m certainly hoping it will, I will have to suggest to the Hill Council that you be . . . trained as an Errand Runner.”
Twig looked up, wide-eyed. Errand Runner! It was the lowest of all positions on the Hill. Errand Runners spent their lives toiling over trivial, tedious chores: delivering scrap metal, stoking glass furnaces, untangling knots.
“Professor Fern,” Twig yelped. “I’ll learn those knots tonight, honest! But please don’t give my name to the Council as Errand Runner.”
“I’m sorry, Twig,” she answered, putting her damp paw on his shoulder. “That’s the recommendation I would have to make.”
Twig’s tail sagged even lower. “Yes, ma’am,” he said despondently. He left the Weaving classroom with ears drooped, tail dragging.
chapter 2
Incident in Metal Craft
Errand Runner. It meant fetching, carrying, emptying trash, doing all the little thankless jobs that never end. He could picture Basil and the others ordering him around, giving him odd and silly tasks to do, belittling and humiliating him.
He wandered through the forest of mayapples that surrounded the Hill, passing the Burrow of Manual Storage. The burrow held every Instruction Manual that had been collected by Hill inhabitants since ancient times, Manuals written by the Two Legs. There were stacks and stacks of materials with labels like Ace Vacuum Cleaner Operation and Maintenance and Know Your Lawn Mower.
The burrow was held sacred and always kept orderly and clean, but nothing there interested Twig. He preferred his own collection of picture books, and he wished he were home, immersed in the stories.
His daydreaming was broken by Lily’s soft voice coming from behind him. “Twig! You look lost. Aren’t you going to Metal Craft?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh . . . yeah,” groaned Twig. “Metal Craft. Another reason to get yelled at. Another reason to become an Errand Runner.”
Lily looked at him sympathetically. “Come on,” she chirped, and gestured with her soft ears at the Burrow of Metal Craft. “This afternoon might be better. I’ll be your partner. It’ll be fine. You’ll get a name, I’m sure of it.”
They entered the burrow and donned the thick leather aprons. Here Professor Burdock was writing the day’s classwork on the slate board. He had a slender weasel body and a pinched face with pointy teeth and ears. He was an important member of the Hill, and next in line as head of the Hill Council.
He grinned as he saw his nephew Basil enter the burrow. “Ah! The next Master Metal Crafter!” he said loudly. Basil smugly sat at his seat in the front.
An Errand Runner, a graying and thin-bodied vole, tottered into the room through the service tunnel, carrying lead scraps and other materials for the professor. He padded back and forth between the stockroom and the classroom with a blank expression. Burdock’s whiskers twitched with disdain, but the sight of the vole filled Twig with gloom.
The class sat and listened while Professor Burdock gave instructions. “Watch closely as the lead melts in your crucibles,” he said sternly. “It will glisten slightly, and wiggle and jiggle a bit as it melts. Be extremely cautious as you pour the liquid lead into the casting form. Melted lead is heavy . . . and very hot.”
Twig had no problem melting the lead; with its relatively low melting point, heating it was easy. But next came pouring the molten metal into a form. Professor Burdock handed Twig and Lily a small, decoratively shaped ceramic dish. After the lead had cooled back into a solid, they would have a tiny lead bird.
Lily carefully heated the lead chunk until it crumpled and was rendered into a dull, silvery puddle.
Iris and Basil were at the adjoining workplace. Basil watched as Twig took the tongs and gingerly picked up the crucible of melted metal. “Hey, Deer Toes,” he said. “Careful you don’t spill any!”
“Steady as she goes,” Lily said, ignoring Basil’s taunts. “Steady . . . steady . . . you want me to do it?”
“I can do it!” Twig said. “You’re making me nervous!”
Lily turned to the side and set about putting out the flame. Twig’s paws were shaking as he carried the heavy, hot, smoking metal over to the mold. Just then Basil stuck his foot in front of Twig. Twig stumbled slightly, and hot metal flew through the air, landing on the wooden table, popping and sizzling in all directions. One tiny glob landed on Iris’s paw.
“AHH!” the young squirrel squealed with pain as the molten metal burned through her fur. Professor Burdock raced over with some cool water, while the others in the class stared at poor Iris.
“Iris! I’m so sorry!” squeaked Twig. “Let me help you!” He reached for a wet cloth.
“I think you’ve done quite enough,” Professor Burdock said sharply, baring his pointy teeth at Twig and grabbing the cloth. “The rest of the class, keep working. Lily, you can continue with the exercise, solo. Twig, you are to leave immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Professor Burdock. I tripped and—”
“There is no room in my classroom for incompetence.”
“But it wasn’t my fault! I tripped over Ba—”
“We will discuss this later. Get your things together and go. Now.”
Twig glanced at Lily, who looked at him with sympathy. “One step closer to Errand Runner,” he sighed to himself.
chapter 3
A Bowl of Soup
Outside, the rain had stopped, but everything was still gray. Twig’s head was as clouded as the sky.
The Hill, a human-made mountain of plastic and glass and rust and rubber, loomed all around him, making him feel even smaller. It wound through the Woods, surrounded by trees, shrouded by brambles and vines.
This was his home. This was where he and his family and the rest of the Hill inhabitants lived, existing by scavenging and reconfiguring what the humans, or Two Legs, had discarded. But he felt like a stranger among the ridges and valleys of the Hill.
Twig spotted an old groundhog, some distance away, who wrestled with a rusted pot and then pulled it from the pile.
A Master Metal Crafter, Twig thought, sighing gloomily, as he watched the grinning groundhog haul the pot away. “Everyone who’s been Named is a somebody. Has a chance at greatness. And I’m going to be a great . . . nothing.”
He saw a pair of deer grazing on tender underbrush. They looked up at him and blinked blankly. Twig envied their simple life: eating, sleeping . . . no pressure to read Manuals or build or be trained or be Named or even be a part of the Hill. Just walk around on their inefficient hooves and chew the vegetation.
His own life seemed so complicated.
Heading home, he took the long way. There was no need to get there quickly; he could already see the disappointed look on his mother’s face after he told her of the day’s events.
Then, like it sometimes happens in spring, the cool, dreary clouds began to burn away, and the sun emerged, golden and huge and warm. It pulled every sweet, moist smell from the earth into the air. Birds were singing deep in the trees in all directions, and bees darted past, searching for honeysuckle, locust, and wild cherry blossoms.
Twig had never seen so many different shades of green, vivid and electric, and felt that he could almost hear the new leaves popping out of tree buds. It was as though the day was right out of one of his picture books . . . beautiful and magical. He half expected a mythical creature to come swooping out of the trees.
His mood brightened a bit. He couldn’t help but wonder how perfect the spring day would be if he hadn’t just been humiliated at school.
Eventually the path ended at his home, a pile of broken and cracked crockery, tossed in a heap and cascading down a slope, but transformed into a cozy maze of r
ooms. It was at a far end of the Hill, away from most of the Hill activity, surrounded by birdsong and wildflowers.
He turned the brass knob of the front door. Inside, something warm and wonderful was being created on the stove; the air was infused with delicious smells. He listened for sounds of Olive, his mother, and cocked his ears toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was an inviting spot, with everything in its place. Utensils hung in logical arrangements next to the oven, pots hung according to size from a beam in the ceiling. There was a small wooden table, usually draped in a piece of colorful cloth, two stools, and one carved chair. The chair had belonged to Twig’s father, Mullein. Olive kept it neatly polished.
Adjacent to the kitchen was Olive’s workroom: chisels and hammers and other supplies decorated the walls and shelves. She was a Master Stone Carver.
To the other side of the kitchen was Olive’s sleeping room. One of its walls backed up to the oven wall, so the room was toasty and snug in winter. Olive had made the acorn-patterned quilt that decorated the bed.
Just as Twig’s mother’s room was the definition of neatness, Twig’s room was that of chaos. It was Mullein’s old workroom, and Mullein had been a scavenger: piles of parts littered the floor, covered shelves, and were strewn across bed and chair. Coils of wire hung like strange birds’ nests from ceiling hooks. There were gears, knobs, switches, electric motors, scraps of copper, nails and screws, nuts and bolts, hooks and clamps, old jar lids, broken parts of clarinets and accordions, bits of candles, pencil stubs, and the remains of telephones, electric mixers, doorbells, and clocks.
And there was Twig’s own collection: a stack of books filled with stories and pictures of mythological sea monsters and dragons. Twig would spend countless hours scouring the Hill until he found one, sometimes worn and torn, or wet and mildewed. To the others who lived on the Hill, and valued only the Manuals, the picture books were just a silly waste of time. But to Twig they were captivating and enchanting. He devoured them. He couldn’t get enough.