Brambleheart Page 2

  In the middle of the mayhem was Twig’s bed, a plastic tub padded with milkweed down. Sometimes he slept with an illustrated book of fanciful beasts spread open on top. His favorite picture book was almost always propped against his bed, ready for the umpteenth reading.

  Twig tiptoed past Olive’s studio. Olive was deep in concentration as she chipped away at a chunk of white marble. A pot of soup bubbled on the kitchen stove; Twig could smell the wild onions, mushrooms, and herbs permeating the air in an aromatic blend. Olive looked up.

  “You’re home,” she chirped. “Hungry? Soup’s about ready.”

  “Okay,” Twig replied.

  “Go wash up.”

  He stepped into a tiny alcove that served as a washroom. Twig carefully washed his paws, taking his time. He could see that his mother was having a great afternoon, immersed in her carving. Describing his grim day would dampen her mood, so he decided to tell her about the classroom disaster another time. He dried his paws on a scrap of bright-red cloth, sighed, and went back to the kitchen.

  Olive looked at the wall clock. “Aren’t you home a little early?” she asked, with one eyebrow cocked.

  “Oh,” Twig hedged, scratching his furry ear absently. “There was some sort of accident in Metal Craft. I got out early.”

  “Accident? Anything serious?”

  “Um . . . not really. Want me to set the table?”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Twig.” Olive began ladling out a bowl of the savory, steaming soup. “This should be pretty good. I used morels I picked this morning . . . plump from the rain.”

  Twig sipped the delicious soup. It was heavenly. For a moment he was lost in the fragrant broth and tender chunks of morel.

  Then his eyes rested on the brown feather that Olive had placed high on a shelf. Twig knew it was from a hawk, the hawk that had taken his father many months before. The day’s events sat again on his heart, and the thought of being passed over in the Naming Ceremony. He so wanted to make the spirit of his father proud, but that seemed less and less likely.

  His stomach twisted, and he lost all his appetite.

  chapter 4

  Errand Runner?

  Olive poked her whiskers around his bedroom curtain. “Time to get up, Twig!” she said cheerfully. “Peppermint tea and dogwood berry pancakes.”

  Twig stretched a morning stretch, his tail and paws curling. For a moment he lay staring at the ceiling. Another day of dealing with school; at least Lily would be in both of the day’s classes.

  He splashed cold water on his face at the basin and combed the white whiskers. He studied himself in the mirror. His eyes held no sparkle. Today he would have to deal with Basil, who was very good in Metal Craft; there would be Basil’s showing off, Basil’s belittling comments.

  Instead of attacking the berry pancakes with his usual gusto, Twig picked at his breakfast. Olive eyed him worriedly.

  “Anything on your mind?” she asked, wiping a dish dry.

  He poked at the plump red dogwood berries that popped from his pancake. “School . . . Basil . . . everything,” he said simply.

  “Well, your job is to do your best in class. Concentrate on what you’re learning. And ignore Basil. He’s not worth worrying over.”

  Twig ate one more bite of pancake and then slung his leather tool bag across his striped back. “Easier said than done, Mom,” he sighed, and he headed off to Welding.

  Down the path his ears perked up when he discovered Beau, sitting on a tin can, paws on his cane. Beau had been a teacher, in fact had taught both Olive and Mullein when they were youngsters. Now, as the eldest member of the Hill, he was the well-respected head of the Council. He had been like a grandfather to Twig after the loss of Mullein.

  Beau’s eyes were closed as he sniffed the morning air, smiling absently, enjoying the beginnings of a spring day. Twig was reluctant to interrupt Beau’s peaceful moment but wanted to say hello to the old raccoon.

  “Good morning, Beau,” he said quietly, rolling up another tin can.

  “Ah! Twig, my boy,” he said warmly. “Heading off to school? Too sweet a morning to be shut up in a classroom, eh?” He scratched behind his ragged ear.

  “I’ll say,” Twig replied.

  “What do you have? Electricity? Wood Carving?”

  “Worse. Welding.”

  The raccoon gave a little barking laugh. “I know how you love that one.”

  Twig poked a stick into the soft ground. “Were you good in school, Beau?”

  The raccoon looked up into the trees thoughtfully. His eyes were dark and watery. “See that bird, Twig? Way up there? That was me. Always exploring, poking around . . . paying no mind to anyone.”

  Twig squinted up into the trees. “Did you get into trouble for that?”

  “Well,” Beau replied. “The truth is, I don’t remember. But I was happy poking around and exploring. Learned a lot. The thing to do is be happy with what you are, whether it’s a Metal Crafter or a Welder . . . or an Errand Runner.”

  Twig sat thinking.

  Beau tapped his cane on the ground. “Found a new storybook for you, Twig,” he said. “Lots of pictures of magical creatures. Yours anytime.”

  Twig smiled, feeling better. “Thanks, Beau. I should get going.”

  “Make it a good day,” the raccoon barked as Twig trotted down the path, his tail flicking. “And tell that Lily I said hello,” he added, grinning.

  WELDING STARTED OUT WELL ENOUGH. EVERYONE COPIED down the usual take-home assignment from the slate board before beginning the laboratory experiment. Professor Dunlin stood in front of the class, holding a wooden pointer. Dunlin was a barrel-chested badger with huge, wiry eyebrows. He was a Master Welder for the Hill. His leather apron was blackened and speckled from a history of burns and sparks.

  “Does everyone have a partner for our lab exercise?” he asked.

  Twig smiled and exchanged a quick glance with Lily, who sat next to him expertly sketching the diagram from the Bellows Instruction Manual into her notebook.

  “Ah . . . the bellows,” Professor Dunlin said. “You must keep the flow of air steady and at just the right volume. Air in here as the handle is pulled up; air out here through this funnel when the handle is pushed down. Air in, air out . . . like breathing . . . till the coal burns white hot.”

  Twig reached over and drew flames engulfing Lily’s bellows drawing. Lily giggled.

  “Twig . . . Lily . . . a question?” Professor Dunlin asked sharply, his bushy eyebrows raised in an arch.

  “No, sir,” Twig replied weakly. He felt his ears redden.

  “To continue. Once your fire is hot enough, you have the power to become a Master Welder! Now, let’s practice with the bellows, taking turns with your partner. Watch the coals; don’t let them get too close to the bellows.”

  Small piles of embers glowed and faded, glowed and faded, as Dunlin walked slowly among the novices, watching them practice.

  “Too fast, Sorrel . . . slow and steady as she goes. More elbow grease, Iris! You’re not putting enough weight into it!”

  Twig watched as Lily took her turn at the bellows first, working diligently and patiently adding to her coal until she had a white-hot furnace going.

  “Excellent!” Dunlin crowed. “Lily, you are quite the pro already. You might even be a contender at the Naming Ceremony.”

  Lily continued her slow pumping of the bellows. “Thank you, Professor,” she said, blushing. “It’s not too difficult, once you get the rhythm of it going.”

  “Quite right,” said Dunlin. He licked his paws and stroked his gray whiskers.

  But then it was Twig’s turn.

  Lily was a hard act to follow, and Twig was nervous even before he began. A little overanxious, he pushed the bellows so hard that some hot coals blew across the workspace, almost hitting Lily.

  “Twig!” she squeaked. “You want to burn the place down? Start off slowly!” She choked at the gust of ash.

  Twig could feel t
he hot coals burn his cheeks. “Slow and steady, slow and steady,” he murmured to himself. Try as he did, his small cluster of coals never progressed. Finally, after accidentally placing the tip of the air intake too close to the coals, and pulling up on the bellows, Twig sucked in some of the hot embers. Soon a stinky yellow-brown smoke began pouring out as the leather began to smolder, then burn. A pungent haze quickly filled the room.

  “Open the doors! The windows!” Professor Dunlin screeched.

  Coughing and gasping, the students raced outside, with Twig choking from the smoke, and from embarrassment.

  Thick smoke billowed out of the classroom window. Several of the teachers could be heard inside, smothering the fire with buckets of sand. Professor Dunlin pedaled a ventilation fan inside, and soon more puffs of the smoke poured out. Twig felt his cheeks burn, sensing the stares of his classmates.

  “You’re a complete idiot,” muttered one of the students as they huddled together. “You . . . again! Don’t you ever do anything right?”

  Twig glanced over to see with no surprise that it was Basil, glaring at him with sooty black eyes, hackles raised. Everyone heard Basil’s remark, and there were nods and murmurs of agreement. Twig felt himself redden even more. Lily gave him an encouraging, although helpless, smile.

  A small crowd of Hill inhabitants had gathered, gawking with curiosity; Twig was relieved to see his mother was not among them. He tried hiding among the crowd of students and prepared himself for what he knew was coming.

  “Twig!” It was Professor Dunlin’s voice.

  “Yes, sir?” Twig squeaked.

  “The whole morning is wasted because of your negligence,” Dunlin said. “You need to pay more attention to what you’re doing!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.”

  Suddenly another voice growled from the edge of the crowd.

  “Well, well! What a surprise . . . another failed project from Twig!” The class turned to see Professor Burdock.

  His breath smelled of wild garlic and crawfish as he leaned in to Twig. “Tell me,” he said. “Would you like your Failure now, or at the end of the semester?”

  The others in the class giggled. Burdock glanced casually over the group with a smug grin.

  Twig swallowed, churning with embarrassment on the inside.

  “Please, Burdock, next time I will—”

  “I doubt very much there will be a next time. It is my intention to suggest to the Hill Council that you be demoted to Errand Runner, permanently.”

  Twig’s head was swimming. For the second time in as many days, the threat of Errand Runner had been thrown at him. He looked at Professor Dunlin hopefully, but the old badger’s gray eyes were solemn. “You may go now, Twig,” he said quietly.

  Burdock stood next to the badger. “As for the rest of the class,” the weasel snapped, “let this be a lesson to you all: becoming a Master Craftsman allows for no failures or accidents.” He glanced at his nephew Basil and grinned. “The cream always rises to the top.”

  chapter 5

  Running Away

  Twig wandered aimlessly, pausing near the Hill gates. Nearby was an ancient statue of Arbutus Yardbuilder, the founder of the Hill and its most famous figure. The statue depicted him holding sheets of paper, with one hand pointing, as if giving directions.

  Twig stared at the statue. “Tell me where I should go, what I should be,” he murmured.

  Reluctantly, he started for home.

  Tomorrow I will probably be yelled at by Professor Burdock, he thought to himself. And then forced out of the Guild Master Classes. And then I’ll become an Errand Runner . . . an outcast.

  He looked up at the tall trees and thick understory that surrounded him. It was a bit scary, but also mysterious and inviting. He ventured farther into the Woods.

  The drooping leaves hung over Twig like a cloak. He crept past the outskirts of the Hill and then past Beau’s cottage. Beau had created a cozy spot far from the bustle of life on the Hill, at the base of a beech tree.

  A thicket of jack-in-the-pulpit and honeysuckle surrounded the front door, which had been salvaged from an old clock. It was decorated with a bright painting of a cuckoo on a glass panel, and a brass knob. For a moment the warmth of Beau’s kitchen beckoned him. He remembered the many evenings the two of them had sat eating muffins and berries by the steamy kitchen window.

  He was tempted to tap on Beau’s door. No doubt Beau would have welcomed him in, pulling out the carved wooden stool, unwrapping a wild cherry biscuit, and putting the kettle on to boil. But Twig was in no mood for conversation.

  He wandered on. Eventually all the familiar trees, rock formations, slopes and valleys, fern patches, rotting logs, trickling streams, and shelf fungi disappeared behind him. His heart raced a bit; he didn’t know where he was going, but it felt good to be alone. He quietly scrambled through the thickets and brambles of the Hill, heading east. No one saw him.

  He came to a bridge, woven from old leather bootlaces and knotted lengths of baler twine. It had been strung years ago by the Hill’s Master Weavers and suspended high above a ravine. He started across.

  Midway, Twig peered over the swinging rope rails and studied the tangle of debris far below. Tall weeds and tree saplings had sprouted among the rusted carcass of an old machine, and the persistent push of growth had raised up part of it, as though it was throwing up a tree. Scavengers from the Yard had been here; Twig could see parts had been long ago unscrewed or removed.

  To one side lay the mostly decayed remains of what Twig figured to be a deer, with bone, hooves, and bits of brown fur hiding beneath a blanket of mayapples. Twig shivered and scrambled to the far side of the bridge.

  Where the bridge ended, a tunnel began. Twig cautiously entered, the dark, hollow space swallowing him.

  Inside the tunnel, he tiptoed around pools of collected rainwater, as he followed one curving space to another, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It was a good way to remain hidden from hawks and owls when traversing over this part of the Hill.

  Twig had been in the tunnel while on a day trip with his father, and it had marked the farthest he had ever been from home . . . until now. He remembered the dark curves and turning walls of the tunnels. His father had squeezed Twig’s paw reassuringly as they explored the tunnel together. “We’d better head back,” his father had said when they had reached the end. “Can’t let the Dark Creatures catch us.” And they had turned home. Twig was suddenly overcome with the wish to have his father next to him again.

  Emerging from the tunnel, he breathed in the sweet smell of the forest. The edge of his universe spread before him. Now each step forward was one step into new territory, and one step farther from home.

  He passed something huge and ancient, the top of it tilted and its thick carved legs splayed and half-buried in the weeds and soil. Years of rain and snow had battered the once-lustrous mahogany to a matted gray. Mosses and lichens had found the perfect home. Black-and-white pieces, swollen and warped and peeling, ran up one side of the top in a pattern. A festoon of pokeweed jutted out from beneath a sagging lid.

  Twig stepped lightly and cautiously onto one of the white pieces. It sank beneath him. Somewhere in the bowels of the sodden, three-legged behemoth something moved, and struck a rusting wire. A sadly muffled note filtered through the decaying wood and hung softly in the evening air.

  He stepped again, onto a black piece, and a white one, then another. No sound emerged. The next step made a sound that was loud and strong, startling Twig, and he scampered off into the tall weeds.

  He climbed over split and rotting boards, old broken bottles and rusty wires, finally passing through a suspension bridge converted from an old vacuum cleaner hose. There, he came to a small sign, facing the other direction.

  Entering the Hill, it read. All visitors report to Authorities.

  So, Twig thought. I have reached the edge of the Hill.

  He knew he was in new territory when the very smell of
the air was unfamiliar. There was a strange new scent. He didn’t recognize it. It was carried on the breeze that caressed his face, luring him on. He had never ventured this far from home. In fact, no one he knew had been this far, not even his father.

  The thought sent a shiver through him. Being in this unknown, unfamiliar spot seemed better than the prospect of becoming an Errand Runner.

  It felt fine to run away.

  chapter 6

  Something Marvelous

  He scampered up a fallen log and looked ahead. He could sense an expanse of light, just a tree’s-length away, where the forest seemed to end.

  As he maneuvered around piles of broken fence boards and old plastic bottles and climbed over the massive roots of an ancient sycamore, he poked his head through a clump of maidenhair fern . . . and nearly stumbled off a cliff.

  Twig gasped in surprise: the whole hillside dropped off in front of him, a dizzying vertical drop. He’d never been so high; he’d only seen the world from the forest floor.

  He looked down, down, down. . . . An enormous expanse of water lay before him, a river of gray and green and blue and brown that rippled and gurgled and sang. He had heard of this before, a river, and had seen illustrations of rivers in his collection of books, but could never have imagined the beauty, or the enormity, of a river.

  Large birds were calling to one another in a cascade of white, wings constantly tilting and balancing. They seemed to float on a suspended, invisible river themselves, and Twig stared at them in wonder.

  And the breeze! It flowed all around Twig like a magical silk cloth. There was sweetness to it, and a rich earthiness, and honeysuckle, and roses, and a hundred other smells Twig couldn’t name. He stood there for some time, overwhelmed.