Thunder oak, p.5
Thunder Oak, page 5
Sylver said, ‘Your memory never fails to astound me, Lord Haukin. We are indeed those of whom you speak.’
‘I thought so,’ said Lord Haukin. ‘I never forget a face. What brings you to my mansion at this hour? Do you want food from my kitchens? Go and see the cook.’
‘No, we require advice,’ replied Sylver. ‘We’re planning an expedition to the Yellow Mountains and want to know how they got their name. Is there anything in particular we need know about them before we set off?’
‘The Yellow Mountains?’ murmured the old stoat, shuffling through some documents. ‘I was reading about them only the other day for someone just like you . . .’
‘Looks like you were reading about everything the other day,’ remarked Icham, staring round the room at the piles of books and papers. ‘I expect if we’d asked you where a coot’s feathers went after that pond bird left this life, you’d have probably been reading about it the other day.’
‘They become waterlogged and sink down to settle in the mud,’ murmured Lord Haukin, still reading. ‘Now, where were we? The Yellow Mountains. I wish you wouldn’t keep distracting me, young weasel, it makes me all of a twitter.’
‘Sorry,’ said Icham.
Eventually, Lord Haukin found what he was looking for amongst the debris. ‘Here it is,’ he said, squinting at the paper. ‘Yes, the Yellow Mountains. They’re yellow because of the sulphur, you know, which covers the slopes like snow on colder mountains. It’s a volcanic range of mountains, so there’s a lot of underground activity – bubbling lava, hot mud, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t go there, if I were you.’
‘But we’ve got to,’ cried Wodehed, ‘if we want to find the first clue to where the humans have gone.’
‘In that case,’ replied Lord Haukin, lowering the document before his eyes and looking over the top at Wodehed, ‘may I say it has been a pleasure to have known you, sir, whatever your name is, and may your passing bells be merry.’
‘Passing bells?’
‘The bells they toll for the dead. Priory bells, chapel bells, cathedral bells. They say those mountains have swallowed lives like a river swallows bricks. Indeed, the mountains themselves are merely giant tombstones, huge monuments to those who have lost their souls on the yellow slopes.’ Lord Haukin stared at his guests. ‘Oh dear, I hope I’m not frightening you, my dear weasels. That’s not the intention. You’ve all gone dreadfully pale. I’m trying to warn you, you see.’
‘We appreciate that, Lord Haukin. No, Wodehed is right, we can’t let the fact that many have died trying to scale those yellow walls put us off. We’ve got to go and that’s that. We have to find the great sea eagle’s egg.’
‘Ah,’ nodded Lord Haukin, gravely, ‘in that case the Yellow Mountains are the only place to go. You won’t find any great sea eagles around here, that’s certain. Those sort of creatures don’t like woodlands. The trees get in the way of their wings, you know, and there’re not many fish left in the ponds of Halfmoon Wood, are there? Whereas, beyond the Yellow Mountains lies the Cobalt Sea.’
‘Exactly,’ said Icham.
Lord Haukin looked at the outlaw weasels through narrowed eyes. ‘Just what do you hope to achieve by this expedition?’ he asked.
Sylver said, ‘We hope to find the great sea eagle’s egg, which is a map of the world.’
‘For what purpose do you require such a map?’
‘To help us find Thunder Oak,’ sighed Icham, rolling his eyes to heaven. ‘You know we have to find the Welkin humans.’
Lord Haukin wrinkled his brow. ‘Is that so? Is that so?’ he murmured. Then his face brightened. ‘Yes, of course, the Welkin humans. Alice and her friends, eh? Naturally, the dykes need to be repaired, don’t they? Well, good luck to you all – good luck, good luck,’ and with that he disappeared into the depths of his library.
They heard him trying to take down a book, which almost crushed him before they quickly went to his aid. When the book was open on the floor, Lord Haukin pored over its pages. His eyesight was so bad that his nose brushed the print as he squinted at it. ‘Yes, you’re quite right – Thunder Oak is where the first clue lies. Do you know where to find Thunder Oak?’
‘No,’ said Sylver patiently, ‘that’s why we need the map.’
‘Please be careful, my little friends,’ said the old stoat with genuine affection. ‘I’ve come to like you, even if your heritage is somewhat lowly. I’m not one of your snobbish stoats, you know, and the under-classes are quite as dear to me as any high-born noble family such as my own. It matters not to me whether your ancestry begins and ends in the greasy scullery of some dirty hovel. The great unwashed are my brothers and sisters, just as much as those regal and stately figures of my own family line. Farewell. Try to return.’
Icham raised his eyebrows at Sylver during this speech from the old stoat, which clearly showed him to be a snob deep down into his soul, almost as far as his toes.
Sylver said, ‘Goodbye for now, Lord Haukin. We’ll call in the minute we get back. Don’t wait up for us though.’
‘Oh, I never wait up,’ said the kindly old stoat. ‘I need my sleep, you see. It’s important to me.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is,’ replied Wodehed. ‘It helps refresh your brain, doesn’t it?’
‘Precisely, er, what-d’you-call-yourself? Precisely.’
Once they had left Thistle Hall, Sylver summarized what they had learned for the benefit of the less clever weasels amongst them, such as Mawk. ‘Basically,’ he said, ‘it comes down to this. Someone or something has forced the Welkin humans to leave this island home. Where they have gone is supposed to be kept a secret from anyone else. The children, perhaps because they were not under such close scrutiny as the adults, managed to leave behind a complex set of clues. They couldn’t be plain and open because if the clues had been recognized for what they were every clue would have been destroyed and the children punished.
‘We have to find and follow the clues if we want the people from Welkin back again – and we do, because the sea walls are crumbling and we’ll all be drowned if they don’t come home and repair them. Now, are there any questions?’
‘Yes,’ cried Mawk firmly. Then, as the others sighed in exasperation, he said unhappily, ‘Could you go through all that again, please . . . ?’
Chapter Six
‘That old stoat must have a million empty bottles in his house,’ said Icham. ‘I wonder what he does with them all?’
Sylver replied, ‘They’re like pictures to him. Pictures by famous artists. I can see why he likes them. All those deep colours – the rich blues, the pond greens, the earthy browns – you should see his face when he holds one up to the light. You would swear he could see a smoky genie inside.’
‘Well, I think it’s all a waste of time and space,’ snapped Alysoun. ‘They’re just empty containers to me. You should either throw them away, or fill them up again.’
‘You have no romance in your soul,’ said Sylver. ‘You should use your imagination. Personally I find anything made of glass fascinating. Especially bottles.’
‘I like bottles, too – full ones,’ said Mawk-the-doubter.
The monk Luke grunted, ‘Full of honey dew, no doubt, you poor sinner.’
The band were on their way through the Lightless Forest on the far side of Halfmoon Wood. Trees in this part of the wood were conifers: pines and firs. No birds lived here, no animals in the branches. There were no badger setts, no woodpecker hollows, no owl perches. Rabbits did not live here, nor mice, nor voles, nor any kind of creature larger than a beetle. It was a silent forest, thick and brown with needles underneath, dark and gloomy in the lifeless branches above.
Suddenly, out into the narrow aisle through the trees stepped a huge and formidable shape. It moved stiffly and awkwardly, as if its joints had seized. First it faced away from the band, but after whispering to itself in an annoyed fashion, it eventually turned round ponderously, until it was bestriding the path and looking directly at them. It swayed there for a moment, a little drunkenly, then seemed to gather itself together more tightly and compactly.
‘Go no further,’ said the figure. ‘This path is forbidden to weasels of all denominations.’
Denominations? thought Sylver. ‘I think it means you, Luke,’ he said. ‘You’re the only holy weasel here.’
‘Me?’ said Luke indignantly. ‘A monastic person of my standing? The very idea.’
‘You especially,’ cried the figure. ‘No-one shall pass me without he lose his head.’
Sylver stared at the monstrous shape before him as it stepped forward into a ray of light. It was a knight in black armour, wielding a two-handed sword. The metal gleamed under the errant beam which filtered through the trees. A flying black plume of feathers topped the helmet, which had a pointed face and metal grids for the eyes and mouth. The knight seemed to rustle from within, as if the creature inside were too small for the suit and continually fidgeted.
‘Is it a statue?’ murmured Bryony. ‘I should think it must be, for there are no humans left on Welkin to fill such a suit of armour.’
Wodehed said, ‘I’ve never heard a statue speak in such clear and precise tones before. You remember you normally have to get me to interpret what they say, and then I have to concentrate very hard. This is not a statue.’
‘Then it must be a human,’ Sylver said. ‘It stands to reason. I’m inclined to speak with this knight.’ He paused, then called, ‘What is your name, knight of the forest?’
The knight swung the double-handed sword from side to side and almost overbalanced in the effort. He really was a giant when compared to the weasels, even when they stood tall on their hind legs. He towered over Sylver, Icham, Alysoun-the-fleet, Luke, Wodehed, Dredless and Mawk-the-doubter. To little Miniver, the finger-weasel, he was like a mountain. The metal creature rattled itself before replying, ‘Malach – no, Riach – no, Silach . . .’
‘Strange,’ said Dredless. ‘Doesn’t he know his own name? Why would he have three different names?’
‘And all of them ferret names,’ murmured Sylver. ‘That really is strange. Why would a human call itself after a ferret in the first place? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Are you lot going to push off, or do I have to chop you to pieces with this battle-axe?’ cried the knight in quite a different tone to the one he had used before.
‘Battle-axe? It’s a two-handed sword, you lune!’ yelled Bryony.
‘Whatever it is, it’s jolly sharp,’ grunted the knight, clearly embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if it could split a weasel whisker down the middle. Now push off home, before I have to use my fearsome weapon on you.’
The giant metal man gave the sword another swing, got it stuck in the fork of an overhead branch, and had to tug hard to release it again. On pulling it out of the fork, however, he swung it too hard in the opposite direction, and got the point caught in a mossy bank. Once again the knight pulled on the weapon awkwardly, almost falling over with the effort.
Alysoun said, ‘He’s a bit awkward, isn’t he? He’s not very deft with that weapon of his. I’ve never seen a knight before, but I’m sure he’s supposed to be more skilful than that, especially if he’s guarding an important pathway.’
‘He is a bit lacking in dexterity,’ said Icham.
Sylver said, ‘Dredless, give him a taste of the treasures of the stream bottom.’
Dredless unhooked his slingshot from his girdle and then took a smooth pebble from his ammunition pouch. He fitted the stone into the leather saddle on the sling. Then he whirled the weapon around his head and let fly. The stone zinged through the air and struck the knight’s helmet like a gong with a loud clang, causing a dent to appear in the metal.
The knight seemed to shudder from head to toe.
His great pointed-faced helmet almost spun round back-to-front. A step was taken to the fore, another step was taken to the rear, both with the same leg. The other leg remained perfectly still, as if it were nailed to the floor. To balance himself, the knight’s torso spun right round in a full circle and back again, like an owl’s head on its shoulders. It sent shivers down the spines of the outlaws. It seemed that what they were up against was a demon of some kind.
‘Hey!’ cried the knight in a squeaky voice. ‘I can’t hear now. I’ve gone completely deaf.’
One of the arms swivelled at the elbow joint, so that the sword twisted like a mincing blade.
‘That made my ears ring,’ complained the knight from one of his knees. ‘I heard it all the way down here.’
‘None may pass this place,’ said the knight resonantly from deep in his chest. ‘We – I mean – I stand firm!’
‘Not likely,’ cried the helmet in the squeaky voice. ‘You come up here and say that!’
‘Stop arguing,’ cried the knight in a third, soupy sort of voice from one of the elbows. ‘Do as you’re told.’
Wodehed shook his head. ‘This is very strange,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a knight who throws his voice in several different ways. The fellow talks to himself. He must be some sort of mad ventriloquist. No wonder he doesn’t know who he is. I wouldn’t know my own name either, if I was in such a state.’
‘I think I know what’s going on,’ said Sylver. ‘Look, everyone fill their slingshots, and when I say “now” I want you all to let loose at the same time. Icham, go for the right arm, Bryony for the left, Alysoun for the right leg, Wodehed for the left, Luke for the head, Dredless for the body, Mawk for the right shoulder, Miniver for the left. I’m going to aim for the belly. Now, are you ready? One, two, three . . . NOW!’
They let fly a shower of pebbles, which all struck their marks, some harder than others. The suit of armour rang out like a timepiece suddenly striking nine o’clock, with its notes bunched together. Dents appeared all over the surface of the black armour and there were yells and shouts to follow.
Suddenly, the armour began to come apart at the joints. The arms fell from the shoulders, then parted at the elbows. The legs dropped away from the thighs, then split open at the knees. The head rolled to the ground. The torso fell like a great metal drum, to break in twain at the waist on impact.
Out of each one of these separate parts came a ferret. One out of the forearm, one out of the upper arm, one out of the head, one out of the chest, and so on. These creatures slunk away into the darkness on either side of the pathway, flowing into the forest, some shaking their skulls as if they had flies in their ears. The last one to leave came staggering out of the helmet. He tottered giddily this way and that, seemingly unsure of which direction to take, before finally following the ferrets who had vacated the armoured legs. He was muttering: ‘It’s all right for them. I was all the way at the top. You get a sort of donging at the top which nearly blows your brains out. You can’t expect a ferret to put up with that kind of sound for long. It isn’t right . . .’
‘So there’s the mystery solved,’ said Sylver. ‘The suit of armour was full of ferrets, probably a forward patrol from Prince Poynt’s Royal Guard. No wonder the knight had so many different names. No wonder he had such a variety of voices. And no wonder he couldn’t work his sword arm very well.’
The band of outlaws inspected the bits of armour and decided they had indeed come from Castle Rayn. Icham said it looked like it had belonged to a knight with very little couth. One of those rough fellows who always ignored the code of chivalry and stabbed his enemies in the back when he got the chance. ‘What can you expect from Castle Rayn?’ he went on. ‘It’s a breeding ground for rogues and scoundrels. I expect this lot was sent along by Prince Poynt to delay us, while the main force came up behind. We’d better get out of here quickly – no doubt the whole Royal Guard will soon be here.’
The band were now able to continue to the other side of the forest, where they found themselves in a field of tall grass. It was here that Sylver said they would make camp for the night. They made bivouacs from sticks and grass, mainly to camouflage themselves. Sylver had no doubt that Prince Poynt would send stoat patrols out from the castle to try to harry the band. Such expeditions as theirs did not remain secret for very long. There were spies everywhere, willing to pass on their movements to the prince in return for favours.
The band passed a peaceful night and woke to the sound of birds singing. A skylark on the far side of the meadow was climbing up to the heavens as Sylver woke. He wondered why it was making so much fuss. Skylarks did not normally get upset unless they thought someone was about to find their nest. ‘I can smell stoat troops in the air,’ he said to the others. ‘Icham, go back to the edge of the forest and climb a tree – see if you can see anything ahead.’
Icham did as he was bid and returned some time later. ‘A thousand stoats at least,’ he said breathlessly. ‘They’re hiding in a ditch on the other side of this meadow. I don’t see how we’re going to get past them.’
Sylver nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s not going to be easy, is it? Let me think for a minute . . . wait, look at those mounds all over the meadow!’
‘Moles,’ said Bryony. ‘You know what they’re like – show them a meadow with nice soft loam underneath and they’ll soon turn it into hummocky land.’
‘That’s it,’ Sylver said, his eyes shining brightly. ‘We’ll go underground. We’ll use the network of mole tunnels to take us past the stoats. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t extend into the next field, is there? That way we’ll go beneath the stoats.’
Alysoun shuddered. ‘It’s dark down there – and you know what moles can be like – rough characters.’
Dredless professed he was none too keen on going subterranean either. ‘How will we find our way in the darkness?’ he asked.
‘You have a point there,’ muttered Sylver. ‘Can you work some magic, Wodehed? Someone must have some idea how to get round this problem? Luke? Bryony? How about you, Mawk? Miniver? Icham? Come on, someone.’
