A Taste for Rabbit Read online

  Isaac shrugged. “Whatever suits you. Once you have a system established, I may join you, as the spirit moves me. Just to be sure things are going … smoothly.”

  “Fine.”

  “You can meet Dan near Inn the Forest. I’ll give you a map. Apparently there’s a tunnel — that’s all I know.” He walked over to the library door and held it open.

  What kind of monsters would sell their own kind for food? Gerard thought as he made his way down the mirrored hall, Isaac at his side.

  “You can start tomorrow,” Isaac said, opening the front door. A sliver of moon lit the path ahead.

  Gerard turned to him. “The package?”

  “Oh, yes, the package. I won’t go into details,” Isaac said. “But I can tell you this —” He leaned closer and whispered into Gerard’s ear. “When I roasted it with onions and garlic the next day … it was delicious.” He licked his chops noisily and closed the door behind Gerard.

  It was a few moments before Quentin’s eyes adjusted to the dim light from the small, flickering torch fixed to the stone wall of the tower, several feet above his head. He and Frank had fallen inside the tower door and Quentin had landed on his side on top of something — or someone. The someone was Wally, sprawled face down and unconscious on the floor. He took up much of the space between the door and the bottom of the spiral staircase that led to the tower and the perimwall several stories above them. Next to Wally lay Zack, who began to groan softly.

  Frank had tripped over Wally and had fallen, and now he made no effort to get to his feet. “That was much worse than what I expected,” he said. “I should have known it was a trap.”

  Quentin dropped his satchel and started to remove his jacket.

  “You’re hurt!” Frank said, standing. “Let me see.” There was blood all over the inside of Quentin’s sleeve, and his shirt was wet with it. Frank reached into his pack and pulled out a long cotton strip of bandage. He turned Quentin into the light. “It’s just a flesh wound. It probably hurts, though.”

  Quentin nodded. “It does.” He was surprised at his own calm. It was as if he had entered another world when he pushed his way into the tower room. It was like a dream.

  Frank dabbed at Quentin’s shoulder and proceeded to wind the bandage expertly around his upper arm.

  “You come prepared,” Quentin said. “Thanks! All I brought were some snacks and my last bottle of plumbo, which I dropped in the snow. Oh. And a book. You can see which of us was thinking ahead. It wasn’t me.”

  “Did I hear you say you brought a book?” Zack said, getting up and rubbing his head. “Quentin, you amaze me. Were you planning to catch up on your reading?”

  Before Quentin could respond, there was a pounding on the door behind them, and shouting. They could hear Dan’s high voice. “They’re going to have trouble getting through,” Zack said. “It’s an automatic lock. That’s one reason I couldn’t open it. It’s rusted.”

  Quentin looked at Wally. “What did you hit him with?”

  Zack picked up a large stone from beside him on the floor and looked both pleased and dismayed. “I brought it just in case. It was so heavy I almost regretted it, until he clobbered me with that.” He pointed to a large wooden club that lay on the floor near Wally.

  “Wish I’d been here,” Quentin said.

  “I know. I had just enough strength to hit him before I lost consciousness.”

  “He could come to at any moment,” Frank said, glancing at Wally’s prone body. As if on cue, Wally stirred and moaned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Frank said.

  Zack quickly climbed a few steps and reached for the torch. The spiral staircase was narrow and turned on itself over and over; the torch cast large, dancing shadows against the rough stone, and Frank and Quentin’s footsteps echoed as they made their way to the top. By the time they reached the door, Quentin was breathing heavily again and pulling himself up by the handrail.

  Zack stopped. “This is it,” he said, turning to Quentin and Frank. He was breathing hard too. “Frank? Any thoughts?”

  “Yes,” Frank said, panting. “We’ll drop our packs over the wall first. I think we should jump separately. That way, if one of us is injured the others can help.”

  “Injured?” Quentin looked at him.

  “Well, the ground should be soft. But there are no guarantees.”

  Zack nodded.

  “Then, Zack, you jump. Try to aim your body away from the wall and toward the woods. It shouldn’t be too hard a landing — as I said, I’m certain there’s nothing there but several feet of soft snow. Quentin will jump next, and I’ll jump right after. We’ll look for shelter in the woods, and when the rebels find us we can try to find my Mary and the children first thing in the morning. How does that sound?”

  Zack nodded. “Fine.” He started to open the door, then turned back to Quentin. “You’re afraid of heights, aren’t you.”

  “Yes. Ever since that day at the pond.” It was a relief to admit it.

  “You are?” Frank looked surprised. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Quentin said with a sigh of resignation. “You yourself said there’s no other way.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said. “I wish I could help.”

  Zack pushed the door open and, when they were safely on the path, placed the stone in front of it. He doused the torch.

  Quentin expected shouts or a rain of arrows, but there was nothing but an eerie silence. The light from the tower above them made the snow-covered path sparkle; the skies had cleared and a bright, full moon rode high in the sky above them. Its face looked down on him, its expression unreadable.

  Zack dropped his pack over the edge, without looking down. Quentin waited to hear it land. Gods, how far down is the ground? he thought, as the seconds seemed to tick by. Thump.

  There was a shout. Ahead, on the path in the distance, several rabbits in uniform, armed with bows and arrows and carrying torches, were running toward them, having climbed the stairs from the next tower. Another shout far behind them, and Quentin saw one or two more rabbits in military gray, more arrows.

  “Look out!” Frank shouted, and they ducked as an arrow thunked into the snowy path.

  Zack stepped up to the low railing that bordered the pathway and stood looking down. He turned for a moment to Quentin and whispered, “Mouse courage!” He jumped. The sound of his landing was muffled by the shouts of the rabbits coming toward them and the pounding of Quentin’s own heartbeat in his ears. Was Zack all right? He wouldn’t find out until he landed beside him.

  Frank reached down, picked up Quentin’s satchel, and dropped it over the side. “You’re next,” he said. “You can do it! But for the gods’ sake, hurry! They’re getting closer!”

  Quentin felt the panic rising in him. His heart pounded and he could feel the perspiration trickle down the backs of his legs.

  Another arrow thunked into the path, closer this time.

  There was the sound of the door being shoved against the stone. Behind them a voice growled, “You won’t escape, Vole-hole! Don’t even try it!”

  Quentin turned to see Wally’s thick, stupid face, streaked with blood from an ugly gash on his temple, peering from behind the partly opened door. His cold eyes were red with rage, and he leaned with all his might against the weight of the stone. “You’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your life!”

  “Now!” Frank shouted to Quentin.

  Quentin turned to the woods and took a deep breath. He crossed his paws over his chest, closed his eyes, and jumped.

  * * *

  He fell, plummeting through space, thinking, Ohgodsohgodsoh as the cold air rushed against his face and ears, and then landed with surprising gentleness in a snowbank that immediately buried him up to his knees. He struggled to regain his balance and saw his pack a few feet away, resting in a deep hole made by the impact. I did it! I did it! he thought and then, for a fleeting, irrational sec
ond, wanted to jump again.

  A few moments later, there was a heavy thump nearby. Frank had landed and was struggling to reach his pack. A hail of arrows rained down on them and there were shouts from the wall above. Zack had landed on his back, deep in snow, not too far from Quentin. Arrows zinged around them, but the tower light provided little illumination to the distant ground and the moon was now partly hidden by dark clouds, filled with snow. It was clear Wally and the others could not see well enough to find a target.

  Quentin made his way to Zack. In a few minutes, Frank joined them, dragging the packs. In the dim light the three friends embraced.

  “Q! Are you all right?” Zack’s sad brown eyes were anxious. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “I’m fine,” Quentin said, the good feeling already fading; he felt more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life.

  They struggled through the snow. The light from the tower grew faint; the shouts of Wally and Dan and the others were far away. In a short while, they were at the edge of Wildwood Forest, illuminated only by the moon, hidden, then revealed, then hidden again behind the increasingly dense clouds.

  The three rabbits walked abreast into the woods, silent. Quentin’s wounded arm throbbed and he began to shake and sweat so much he could no longer carry his satchel. He stopped walking as Frank and Zack continued ahead. At one point Zack turned and waved encouragingly. Quentin raised his good arm in response. He’d catch up when he could. Now his knees shook and he dropped to the ground.

  He leaned against a tree and retched.

  Then it was over; his head cleared, his heart stopped pounding. He scooped up some snow and washed his face, then put more snow in his mouth and swallowed the cold, pure water as it melted.

  Something tight inside him uncurled. I’m ready, he thought.

  Frank and Zack stopped beneath a snow-covered fallen tree on a low hill. How had they gotten so far ahead? Zack brushed snow away from the ground while Frank unpacked two small blankets and what looked like some packages, probably food.

  Suddenly, as Quentin watched, three large rabbits wearing heavy boots and jackets and carrying clubs leaped out from behind the trees and grabbed Frank and Zack, roughly tying their paws behind their back and throwing them to the ground. Quentin could hear Frank’s voice, protesting, and Zack, explaining, and the curt responses of the large rabbits.

  Quentin couldn’t move. Were these Wally’s forces, already mobilized to prevent their escape? They didn’t appear to be in uniform. Could they be the rebels? But then why take Zack and Frank prisoner? He watched in horror as the three rabbits lifted Frank and Zack to their feet and pushed them forward. In a few moments they had vanished into the woods.

  It was very quiet. Stunned, Quentin walked slowly toward the fallen tree and saw that Frank and Zack had left their packs, partially opened, on the ground. Their tracks led into the forest and disappeared in the darkness.

  I should go after them, Quentin thought. I could follow them and try to find a way to save them. They would do it for me.

  He started into the woods, following the deep footprints in front of him. After a while, as the darkness closed in, he stopped. Wait. Does this make sense? The trail was now almost impossible to see; the night had grown colder and he realized he was starving. I’ll never find them in the dark, anyway. He turned back to the clearing where the half-opened packs sat silent, waiting.

  I’ll look for them first thing in the morning, he thought. Right now I need shelter and I need food.

  Now he wished he’d paid more attention when his friends had talked about camping on summer vacations. Knowing how to build a fire or find water — information he’d decided he’d never need — would certainly have been helpful right now.

  Wait a moment. It can’t be that difficult, he told himself. Use your head.

  He looked around and gathered some large fallen branches, shaking them free of snow with his good arm, and piled them up against the tree, forming a basic shelter. He dragged the packs, blankets, and packages of food and tried to stow them neatly underneath it. Breathing hard, he finished clearing the ground of snow as best he could, sat down on an unfolded blanket, and wrapped the other one about his shoulders. He leaned back against the fallen log. Then he took off his mittens and opened one of the food packets — it was an enormous eggplant-and-dried-tomato-sandwich — and wolfed it down.

  Probably I should ration the food. He rummaged inside Frank’s pack again, finding amidst the sandwiches, bandages, and matches, two small packages, fragrant with cinnamon. Apple turnovers! I’ll save them, Quentin thought, although his mouth watered. If we find Charlie, we can give them to him.

  I mean, when.

  He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  When he opened them it was morning and a pale light filled the sky. Quentin stood up and stretched. He’d slept in the same seated position with his head on his bent knees the entire night. His back ached and his injured arm was stiff.

  All around him, the forest was silent and white. The tracks of the rabbits and Frank and Zack had long since disappeared in the light dusting of snow that had fallen during the night. Quentin seemed to be in a small clearing of sorts, carpeted with ivy and ground cover but with few shrubs. Only the tall firs stood guard in an irregular semicircle around him. If he had to be lost, this was as good a place as any.

  Lost! I’m not lost. Frank and Zack will come and get me, either by themselves or by directing the rebels — if that’s who those goons were. I’ll just wait for them. I certainly can’t go back to Stonehaven. I’ve probably broken every law we have! Maybe the rebels will find me before Wally and Dan organize a search party.

  Why haven’t they done that?

  Of course, I’m assuming that Frank and Zack are still alive.

  But maybe they’re dead, or suffering in some way, beaten or imprisoned, trying to prevent their captors from finding out about me!

  Quentin’s mind filled with images so terrifying he cried out, “No!” his voice muffled in the snow-filled woods.

  Suppose they never come back. What will I do?

  I am not going to think things like that. They are fine and I will be fine too. I have food, shelter, and blankets. I have matches, and I can make a fire if I have to. They’ll come back for me. It’s just a question of time.

  He sat down again and reached inside Frank’s pack, devoured another sandwich and then carefully removed every item from Zack’s satchel searching for — there it is! A bottle of plumbo and a corkscrew. Good old Zack!

  Quentin opened the bottle and tilted it above his head. The tartness burned, and in a few moments he was quite warm. He recorked the bottle, wrapped it carefully, and sat back, looking around.

  Gods, I’m all alone.

  Something poked him in the side; he looked down at his pocket and saw Rabbit Heroes for All Times.

  He pulled out the book, its cover worn and pages yellowed. Inside, on the flyleaf, was the enormous, crooked Q where as a toddler he’d attempted to write his name with a blue crayon.

  He began to read the familiar introduction: “Although many think that rabbits are timid and easily frightened, the fact is that we have been known throughout history for our bravery and courage under the most difficult circumstances. Here are some stories of the bravest of the brave.”

  Quentin lifted his head. It was beginning to snow. The sky was a light gray; the profile of the fir trees sharply outlined against it. There was not a sound.

  He put the book aside and covered his face with his paws.

  Gerard rose early after a sleepless night. The conversation with Isaac had replayed itself in his dreams, and at one point he’d awakened and walked restlessly about his apartment, smoking, unable to calm down. For some reason, he kept seeing the painted bookshelves and the almost invisible safe — like a stage set, a façade of civility, he thought — covering a blank wall and disguising the hidden container for the gold Isaac would collect from the trade in sentient rabb
its. With my assistance. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.

  A while later he picked up a quantity of boxed, gold coins from Isaac and fitted them neatly into a briefcase, along with a large, empty burlap sack. Isaac had met him at the door and handed him the heavy box.

  “Remember — I trust you,” he said, “and I’ll know if you betray me.”

  Gerard nodded. “Yes.”

  But after walking through Wildwood on a beautiful day, Gerard felt his equilibrium returning. This is no different from any other assignment I have ever accepted, he told himself as he trudged along the quiet path. Have I not handled uncomfortable situations before? It’s merely a job, a role to play. I see this now as a question of attitude. The right attitude can enable a minor character to steal a scene — as I know, perhaps, better than most, he thought with a smile. The wrong attitude can cause stage fright and memory lapses. Besides, I have no choice. Might as well make the best of it.

  He tried not to think about Isaac’s last words.

  * * *

  When Gerard finally arrived at Inn the Forest, it was dusk. The innkeeper greeted him with a grudging hospitality; her partner, however, was friendlier and more welcoming. The food turned out to be quite good. I can stop here on a regular basis, he thought, as he sat in a comfortably worn leather chair in the lobby, smoking. This is going to be easier than I expected.

  The next morning he left the Inn early, carefully hiding the briefcase at the bottom of his overnight bag and piling his change of clothes on top of it. Then he started down one of the overgrown paths, following the map Isaac had given him. Gerard soon found himself in a clearing, looking up at the enormous firs, the lovely light and the sweet scent of spring woodland flowers all around him. This was too delightful to ignore. He sat down on a rock and patted his pockets, found a pencil and a piece of paper, leaned on his knee, and gnawed the end of the pencil thoughtfully.

  Birds are singing, he wrote,

  Time is winging

  Quickly flies the newborn day,

  Sun is shining

  Insects flying …