LEAFHOLD WAS LANGUISHING IN A STATE OF COMPLETE apathy, like its inhabitants. This dark mood wasn’t helped by the torrential rain that had started falling after the rout of the Felons, transforming the soot into a sticky mud that plastered every tree, house and path in the forest city. After the terrible attack, the survivors had gathered at the foot of the Monumental Tree, which had been reduced to a giant charred skeleton. Some were crying silently over the lifeless bodies of those who hadn’t survived the conflict; others were staring into space and huddling close to each other, trying in vain to find some comfort. Ocious and the Felons had committed a despicable and unpardonable act and no one could quite believe that they’d crossed that line.
Sitting on the ground, her arms around her knees, Oksa was recovering in a makeshift tent at the foot of the battered tree, surrounded by the freed Runaways and the creatures which had been saved in the nick of time before the underground passages collapsed.
“My Young Gracious makes exhibition of a dejection garnished with depth,” murmured the ashen-faced Lunatrix. “Her mind experiences the colouring of great blackness.”
“What I am is exhausted, filthy and at a loss…” she replied flatly.
“Exhaustion and filthiness can meet erasure owing to the generosity of rest and soap,” replied the Lunatrix. “As for the lost heart, it experiences transient emptiness. The return to the triumphant path makes the assurance of great proximity.”
Oksa gave him a tremulous smile. The Lunatrix knew just what to say to make her feel better. He rubbed his large downy head against her and nestled into the crook of her shoulder. Oksa stroked him gratefully. She met Tugdual’s gaze and found herself avoiding his eyes before she could absorb what she saw there: the pain they all shared at the terrible price of their victory, as well as another more intimate, more private source of suffering. She was soon distracted, though, by the Getorix, feebly jumping in puddles, and by the Incompetent, standing nearby, looking tired but incurably serene. A Polyglossiper was striving hard to break the remaining chains around Naftali’s and Reminiscens’ ankles.
Leomido’s Lunatrixes had taken up nursing and were treating the injuries of the wounded with healing ointments.
Everyone was silent, locked in grief, whether they were keeping busy or regaining their strength. When Oksa saw people gathering to bid a final farewell to the dead, she stood up. Some Croakettes hurried to hold the broad leaf of a Parasol tree above her head as an umbrella. Not wanting to be singled out for special treatment, Oksa signalled them to stop, but the Croakettes blithely ignored her. Oksa decided not to press the issue and slowly trudged over to the circle, accompanied by her Lunatrix.
Edgar, the venerable Sylvabul who’d been her great-grandfather’s friend, was the first to be covered with damp soil.
“These people are dead because of me,” murmured Oksa.
Her hair fell over her face as she looked down and frantically blinked away the tears.
“It is not my Young Gracious who confiscated the life of her supporters,” whispered the Lunatrix. “It was the hated Felon, Orthon, and his warriors.”
Pavel and Zoe came to stand beside her and the inhabitants of Leafhold let them pass, saluting them with great solemnity and respect. Suddenly a voice rose in the crowd:
“Long live our Young Gracious!”
People lifted their heads and stood straighter. Everybody was soon echoing this cry and cheers erupted from all sides, sounding unexpectedly loud given the sad circumstances.
Rooted to the spot by contradictory emotions, Oksa winced. How could she enjoy such enthusiastic acclamation when the dead were lying at her feet? She found her father’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could. The situation was unbearable.
She wanted to go back through the crowd and find some peace and quiet at the top of a tree or the bottom of a burrow—anywhere she wouldn’t be seen. Anywhere no one expected anything of her. Anywhere she wouldn’t pose a danger to anyone. She was shaking all over now, as well as soaking wet, dirty and terribly unhappy. The cheers of Leafhold’s inhabitants reached her ears, but not her heart.
“If you give up now, you’ll ruin their only chance of regaining the world they love,” said Pavel softly, without looking at her. “Let them believe in you, Oksa.”
The Young Gracious considered those words for a few seconds. Then, with a grateful nod to her father, she accepted one of the flower shoots being handed out by Lucy to anyone who wanted to honour the dead. She gazed at the delicate roots at the end of the damp stem, then plunged the shoot into the small mound of earth that formed Edgar’s grave. The shoot immediately quivered, then began growing and swelling until a magnificent flower with creamy blue petals opened at the end of the stem. The plant bowed low, stroking the earth, and began to sing a gentle melody that sounded like a lullaby.
Oksa turned round in wonder and looked enquiringly at her father. Pavel merely smiled knowingly. He walked over to the gently swaying plant, followed by all the others gathered there, and a few minutes later all the graves were covered with sweet-smelling, melodious flowers. Pavel put his arm round Oksa’s shoulders and everyone stood in complete silence. Words were unnecessary as the message was very clear—Oksa definitely belonged to this world.
The ceremony had only just finished when the Velosos, which were acting as sentinels, sounded an alarm: a creature was flying towards them from the city. Everyone looked up and scanned the rainy skies.
“Ah, it’s our Young Gracious’s Tumble-Bawler!” announced one of the Squoracles, swaddled in a mohair jumper. “We wouldn’t say no to some good news about the weather. The hydrometric levels around here are disastrous.”
Oksa gave a sigh of relief. Her little informer was back at last from the reconnoitring mission she’d given it at the end of the terrible battle.
“Come here quickly, Tumble! Tell me what you know.”
The roly-poly creature landed on her filthy shoe. The Runaways gathered closer, accompanied by a few Sylvabuls, eager for information.
“Young Gracious’s Tumble-Bawler reporting!” it said, puffing out its tiny chest.
“I’m listening.”
With bulging eyes, the Tumble-Bawler shook itself and began:
“After being swept away from Leafhold by my Young Gracious’s Tornaphyllons, Ocious and his allies intended to go back to the Glass Column, but when they got to Thousandeye City they were prevented from doing so.”
“What do you mean?” asked Oksa.
“Thousandeye City is now securely defended,” replied the Tumble-Bawler.
They looked at each other in surprise and their breathing quickened. Some faces brightened with wild hope, while others darkened.
“Who is defending Thousandeye City?” asked Oksa, her voice shrill with apprehension. “Orthon? He’s turned against his father, hasn’t he?”
“I’m sorry to have to contradict my Young Gracious,” replied the Tumble-Bawler.
Oksa’s eyes widened.
“You’re sorry to have to contradict me?” she exclaimed. “Please do, I’m begging you! We’re desperate for you to contradict me!”
The Tumble-Bawler swayed from left to right, its long arms at its sides, then said in one breath:
“Neither Orthon nor any other Felon is in Thousandeye City. Ocious, his family and their supporters were forced to flee. They’ve taken refuge in their troglodytic stronghold in the Peak Ridge Mountains in western Edefia. The defence of Thousandeye City was assured by the Ageless Ones and their magical Attendants who have put a shield around and above the Glass Column. The exit is well-guarded and the Gracious’s residence is protected.”
Close to suffocating, the little creature took a gulp of air and its eyes rolled back in their sockets. It seemed about to explode.
“The Ageless Ones and the people are ready,” it concluded. “They’re waiting for you, my Young Gracious!”