A Taste for Rabbit Read online

  He had been planning to take an indirect route to the wall and double back occasionally in order to confuse anyone who might have decided to follow him. It was too late for that now. The direct route would be more dangerous because he’d have to avoid the unpredictable curfew patrols — would Dan be among them? — but in the end it would be faster. Maybe I can make up some time.

  Quentin had often commented that whoever had built the fortress had been careful, as well as smart, about defense. The old perimeter wall began on a cliff high above the river, which ran along the edge of the compound and formed an additional barrier that took up about half of the western side of the community. Tower 1 was located at the northwesternmost corner; the towers and the wall continued around the roughly rectangular fortress, with the towers evenly spaced. All he had to do was turn right out the door, walk a few blocks, and make another right. It shouldn’t be too difficult, even at this late hour.

  He began by trotting down the street, but the satchel he’d packed thudded heavily against his back and he couldn’t keep up the pace for long. He switched shoulders, but soon decided to carry it and slowed to a walk, trying to save his energy. In a few moments, his paws began to sting with the cold in spite of his mittens.

  Quentin found he was grateful for the dark between the lampposts as he tried to watch for the guards. The enormity of the risk he was taking slowly dawned on him. Maybe I should at least try to concoct a story to explain why I’m here, he thought — just in case. But his mind was fuzzy and his head ached. He could come up with nothing.

  As he half walked, half trotted through the snow, he went over last night’s conversation with Frank and Zack. He had agreed, hoping his reluctance was not too obvious, to meet Frank and Zack at the entrance to Tower 33, where Zack had guard duty. But they had been expecting him at dusk. Now, he thought, suppose they have already jumped? How long will they wait for me? And how will I know if they’re waiting, or if they’ve given up and have gone ahead without me? Or if they’ve been caught and taken away for questioning — or worse? Suppose I jump and find myself alone in the forest? We should have agreed on some kind of signal, some way of letting me know they are down there in the dark! But if they had, he couldn’t remember what it was. In desperation last night, he’d asked Frank — casually, of course — if he had heard anything about the tunnels that were rumored to exist under the perimwall, but apparently no one knew where they began or where they ended. It had been Quentin’s last hope.

  He stopped at the sound of muffled footsteps. Was he being followed? He turned slowly and searched the dimly lit streets in all directions. There was no one. Why hadn’t the military police found him by now? The turning made his dizziness worse and he staggered, barely able to recover his balance.

  “I’m not drunk,” Quentin muttered into the darkness. “I just have a monumental hangover. There is a difference.”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been out at night, alone, he thought. Now I know why. The darkness and the quiet streets were terrifying: The wind sighing in the firs below the fortress could be heard even from this distance; the shadows, the shapes of familiar benches and buildings were suddenly strange and ominously threatening. Then there was the unnatural silence when the wind was still and nothing moved, and the whole world seemed to be waiting for the one violent act that would …

  The sound of footsteps stopped him again. He shrunk into the shadows and pressed himself against the cold stone wall of a building as the sound came closer.

  “Who goes there?” a youthful voice asked, and Quentin could hear the fear behind the challenge. This was not Dan. The curfew guard stepped cautiously toward him. Quentin didn’t breathe. Holding a torch aloft, the youth peered into the darkness, but the search was halfhearted. He doesn’t really want to find anything, Quentin thought. I know how he feels. He could almost hear the guard’s sigh of relief as he turned and walked away, his boots crunching in the snow. In a few moments, the guard had vanished into the night.

  Quentin let out a long breath and slid slowly to the ground against the wall. He was drenched with perspiration inside his jacket and he began to shiver. He crossed his arms, tucked his paws beneath his armpits, hoping for warmth, and looked around.

  He seemed to be in some sort of alley between large buildings. Here, far from the inhabited and familiar streets, the Rabbittampers apparently had visited once, perhaps weeks ago, and never returned; the ground was soft with snow that had acquired a crisp coating of frost. There were no homes now, only warehouses for food storage that loomed above him, windowless and stark, like prisons.

  A sharp ache in his stomach reminded him that he had eaten nothing since last night. He opened the satchel and felt around in the dark until his paw closed on the familiar shape of a veggie bar. Pulling it out, he tore off the wrapping and chomped down on its salty sweetness, the saliva pouring into his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He reached for another and then another, then buried the crumpled rice-paper wrappers in the soft snow. Littering. Just one of the many laws I will have broken by the time this day is over.

  He leaned over and opened the satchel again. Why is this so heavy? He’d taken some dried fruit, a few packaged vegetables, and his last bottle of plumbo, wrapped in a heavy sweater. What do you take when you may not be returning, ever? The travel advisors never talked about it. His pockets were heavy too, with a few more veggie bars and a small book. On an impulse he had gone to his bookcase and found an old childhood favorite: Rabbit Heroes for All Times. Zack would have a good laugh at that.

  He heaved himself to his feet. Now, thankfully, the street lamps were farther and farther apart, and for long stretches he walked in near darkness, the only sound the crunch of his footsteps and the occasional whoosh of wind that blew the soft snow against his face.

  The perimwall finally loomed in the distance.

  Suddenly he heard something behind him again — another curfew guard? So soon? His heart pounded, and the simultaneous pain in his head was almost blinding.

  Quentin turned, but could see nothing except the empty streets, the glittering snow, and the dark shapes of the buildings. He picked up the satchel, slung it onto his back this time, and started to walk again, more quickly.

  In a few minutes, he began to run heavily toward the wall. It was farther away than it looked and Quentin lunged toward it, panting. The satchel thumped on his back; he slipped it off his shoulders and grasped it in his paw. Reaching the wall at last, he squinted at the numbers that were painted above the small entry doors at ground level. According to his mental map, he should be right in front of Tower 33.

  He looked up — 22.

  No! It can’t be! He stopped and, trying to catch his breath, reconstructed his actions. The dropped key had distracted him. He had gone too far in the wrong direction. Damn! Feeling dizzy, he started to run back, but the snow alongside the wall was deep and he stumbled several times, catching himself and struggling to regain his stride. As his heart pounded, so did his head. He searched the wall ahead for a sign of Frank, but could see nothing. He looked up and gasped. Ahead of him the entry door said 18.

  He had turned the wrong way.

  Now panicky and barely able to breathe, Quentin ran alongside the wall, staggering with the weight of his burden. He reached inside his satchel, grabbed the bottle and the sweater and tossed them into the snow. Good-bye, plumbo.

  Snow blowing off the top of the wall stung his face as he continued on, but he’d used up every last bit of energy and could hardly move beyond a fast walk. He was worn out. Quentin’s face and paws were very cold, but inside his jacket the perspiration poured down his back. He stopped more and more frequently to lean against the wall and catch his breath. Periodically he squinted up at the faded numbers painted on the small doors that led to the interior staircases, which in turn led up to the top of the wall and the guard path. The numbers were going up. He was almost there, thank the gods. He stopped when he heard footsteps crunching softly in the distanc
e behind him. When he turned, he had a fleeting glimpse of four large figures holding torches far away and a tall, thin rabbit in what looked like a military uniform who quickly vanished into the night.

  Dan.

  Touching the wall to keep himself steady, Quentin walked slowly, close to exhaustion. I can’t go much farther, he thought, peering into the dim light for Frank’s familiar shape. Then he saw him, crouched against the wall, bundled up against the cold in a blue-gray coat that almost disappeared in the darkness.

  “Frank!” Quentin whispered loudly.

  “Where have you been? Do you know how dangerous this is?” Frank’s breath puffed in front of his face as Quentin stumbled toward him.

  “I’m sorry. Fell asleep. Too much plumbo. I’m sorry.” He gasped. “I’m being … followed. It’s Dan. And … some others.” The running footsteps were much closer.

  “I hear them,” Frank said. He pulled out a pocket watch and tried to read its face. Then he tapped softly on the wooden door to the interior tower staircase, his ear to the wall. “I don’t understand why Zack hasn’t responded,” he said. “He told me he’d come to the door every half hour, or else he’d leave it unlocked.” He jiggled the handle, turning it right and left, but it did not give.

  Then from behind the door they heard a voice. “Quentin? Frank? Is that you?” Zack’s voice was low and urgent.

  “Zack? Where have you been?” Frank said angrily.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get down here before this. I’m being watched,” Zack whispered. “I’m supposed to be up on the wall right now.”

  “I’ve been spotted too,” Quentin said, still breathing hard. “It’s Dan and some others. Open the door, Zack!”

  “I’m trying. It’s jammed. You won’t believe who’s got my tower — Wally!” The handle moved slightly. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a second. Damn this thing! I think the lock’s rusted. I could barely get through this door when I reported. Give me a minute — I’ll be right back.”

  “Zack! Don’t go away! What are you doing?” Frank whispered, and Quentin could see he was tempted to pound loudly on the door. There was silence from the other side. Quentin rubbed his mittened paws together, shivering. He looked around him and could see nothing moving, no sign of life. It was suddenly very quiet again. This isn’t good, he thought. What are they up to?

  After what seemed like long time, Quentin heard a clicking from behind the door. “I had to find a tool in my pack,” Zack said. “Wally’s disappeared, at least for the moment. Sorry this took so long.” More rattling and scraping sounds coming from the door handle.

  “Did you say Wally was in the tower?” Quentin asked.

  “Yes. I …” There was a faint clattering sound. “Damn! I dropped it. Give me a minute.”

  Wally in the tower, Dan on the ground — they’d been set up. Guard duty and the draft for two friends on the same night. Friends who’d been overheard complaining about the government, perhaps; friends who’d been seen with Frank. It probably hadn’t helped that Quentin had mocked Wally on the perimwall, or that Zack had confronted Dan. It was a trap, and they had walked right into it. Now Wally had enough evidence to bring to the Leader. Quentin, Zack, and Frank would be sent to prison for life for attempting to avoid military service, for collusion, treason, and any other charges Wally and Dan could invent. Old Small Ears would have the last laugh after all. “Zack! Hurry, for the gods’ sake!”

  “I think I’ve got it,” Zack said. “Just one more … Hey!” Quentin heard a thump and the sound of scuffling. More thumps and a groan, then the sound of something heavy falling against the door.

  “Zack! Are you all right? Open the door!” Frank cried. He leaned on the door, kicking it and pushing against it with all his strength. “Zack! Zack! Open the door!” There was no answer, and the scuffling and pounding had stopped.

  Suddenly, an arrow whirred past Quentin’s ears and whumped into the snow close to where he and Frank stood. Another followed, and another. He could hear shouts and Dan’s high voice, and the sound of running on three sides of him, coming closer and closer.

  They’re shooting at us! Quentin thought in amazement. I can’t believe it. We will be killed like prey. He felt a rising anger. No! Not here, and not by Dan!

  Then there was a rain of arrows, just as the tower door opened slightly. An arrow pierced Quentin’s shoulder and the pain shot down his arm.

  “Weasels!” he cried, and with a last desperate effort, he and Frank pushed their way inside and fell into the darkness.

  Harry arrived at the cabins by dusk. He’d been able to maintain a steady pace trudging along the snowy path with the help of Isaac’s walking stick, and soon he could see the vaguely dark shapes of the cabins in the distance. Many years ago this had been a summer vacation spot for wealthy families who rented the cabins from an aging, irascible fox. Harry remembered the last time he was here with his parents, shortly after Isaac had recovered. They had swum in the lake and watched the stars circle the heavens at night while Mama read to them and Dad pointed out the constellations.

  But the fox, a widower, had died without heirs, and no one had bought the property or maintained the cabins, which had fallen into serious disrepair. Now, rumor had it, they were notorious for their use as a refuge by vagrants and lowlifes. That didn’t bother Harry.

  There were nine cabins, settled in a clearing and arranged in a very large, roughly shaped triangle, about thirty steps apart, not far from the frozen Elk Lake, with one point of the triangle close to the woods. Only four cabins faced the water, set back about a hundred steps — Harry and Isaac had counted — from the water’s edge, and these were the most coveted.

  Harry approached from what had been the main road and looked around. The cabins were built of logs, with slanted roofs and small chimneys, all now blanketed in snow. Each had had a porch with a swing or chairs made of rough twigs that poked you when you sat on them without the cushions, he recalled now, and each cabin door was painted a different color. Harry’s family had stayed in Green, the farthest cabin facing the lake.

  The light was fading, and he was tired. His pouch had become heavier with each step, and with dusk had come a damp and freezing chill that promised more snow. Harry found the last cabin just as darkness fell.

  He used the walking stick to clear away the path before him and stepped cautiously up to the porch. There was no way to know if the steps had rotted, or if they were there at all. With a gloved paw, he brushed away the snow that clung to the door.

  “Anyone here?” he called. There was no answer. He pushed the door slowly. It gave with a slight creak. “Anyone here?” he repeated. When there was no response, he pushed harder on the door, which creaked some more as he walked inside.

  He dropped his pouch and reached for the matches he knew were in a small pocket near the top. He struck one and looked around.

  The cabin was much smaller than he remembered, and it was damp and cold. The main room was square, with a small alcove for a bare minimum of kitchen equipment, and there was a bathroom in a small building outside in the back. There had been bunk beds, and a separate, smaller room off to the side, where his parents had slept. As a child, Harry had loved the idea of sleeping in the kitchen, although there had been the predictable fight about the bunk bed and who would get the top. In the end it had been Harry, but only because Mama would not allow Isaac to try to climb the ladder with his weakened leg.

  “Isaac needs to save his strength,” she had said, tucking him in, and the triumph that Harry had felt at having secured the top bunk instantly soured. He had climbed nimbly up to the top, but felt no pleasure even at his ability to lie on his back and barely touch the ceiling with all four paws. Besides, on warm summer nights it was hot, and the first few times when he awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, he bumped his head. Isaac slept soundly below. Harry shoved him hard as he climbed back up, but Isaac didn’t stir. It wasn’t fair.

  Six large, fat candles
, burnt low, sat on the counter, and he lit them with his match. The room brightened. Now Harry saw in the flickering light that the bunk bed still stood against the wall near the kitchen alcove. A worn plaid blanket lay crumpled on the lower bed, and an ancient rocker, its woven seat shredded, stood silently in a corner. Harry didn’t remember a rocker. He walked into the adjoining bedroom, which was empty. The floor was gritty with dirt and bark, tracked in from the forest, and the shriveled droppings of small animals. Back in the kitchen area, a dented black pot encrusted with many ancient meals sat near the hearth, alongside a rusty kettle.

  Clearly the cabin had been used frequently, although not in a while; the ashes, stirred slightly by the rush of air that swept down the chimney, were cold. He pushed the blanket aside and sat down on the bed, feeling the mattress sag beneath him, then opened his sack and dug out the remains of the meal Gerard had offered — two more sandwiches and some dried fruit. When Harry finished eating, he stepped outside to scoop some snow into the black pot. He held it over the candle and when the snow melted, he drank deeply. Cold and rusty.

  How long would it be before Gerard and Elton arrived? Reluctantly Harry walked back outside into the freezing night and wiped away the snow from the window that faced the road. Inside, he placed one of the lit candles on the window ledge, where the flame flickered slightly in the draft.

  He moved his pouch to lean against the door after he bolted it from the inside, folded the walking stick, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He went out the back door to use the deteriorating outhouse and found a large pile of dry wood stashed under the cabin. In a few minutes, he’d lit a fire and the room began to warm. Pulling the rocking chair over to the hearth, he folded the blanket on the seat and watched the fire spit and crackle. He took off his boots and stretched out his feet. Shadows leaped across the rough, brown walls and ceiling. Time to make a plan.

  Harry went to his pouch, pulled out his map, and brought it over to the candles, holding it close to his face in the dim light. It was impossible to know how long it would take to reach the fortress. Since there was no road, he’d have to make his way through the dense underbrush of the forest in what would surely be another series of storms and find whatever food and shelter he could. Still, he had almost two weeks to get there and back. It shouldn’t take that long. He folded the map and put it back into the pouch, planning to leave the cabins in the morning.