chapter 1

Twig

Twig made his way to class, in the rain. It was a cold, late-spring rain, which soaked into his fur with a chill. A gray sky of leaden clouds hung over the Hill like a drab, wet quilt.

Plink! Splot! The raindrops hit the metal and plastic junk that made up the giant Hill. It surrounded Twig as he scooted around and through the familiar assortment of human refuse.

He paused outside the Burrow of Weaving. A notice had been posted outside, a reminder of the upcoming Naming Ceremony, as if anyone needed to be reminded.

The Naming Ceremony was the most important day at the Hill. At the end of their Naming Year, every graduating student would be given their final names. The names signified mastery of a subject and would determine what job and status the graduates would have in Hill society. Soon, Twig’s friends would be named Weavers and Metal Crafters and Carvers. Twig hoped he would be named something.

Twig slipped into the classroom. His chipmunk nose twitched gratefully as he saw his friend Lily gesture to him, pointing to the seat beside her. He scrambled onto the wooden bench.

“Professor Fern is going to call for demonstrations this morning,” Lily whispered. “I’m all set. If she calls on me, I’m demonstrating either the Cloud Knot or the Burr Knot. I can’t decide.”

Twig smiled. Either knot was extremely difficult, but he knew that if anyone could tie them, Lily could.

“What about you, Twig?”

“I thought I’d try the Sparrow Knot.”

“That’s an easy one!”

“For you, maybe.”

Lily’s nose wiggled. “Did you study your Knot Manual last night?” she asked.

Twig turned pink at the tips of his furry ears.

“Uh-huh . . . just as I thought,” Lily sighed. “Looking at your picture books instead of studying. Really, Twig. You need to put your whiskers in the Manuals.”

Just then Professor Fern slapped her tail. She was large, even for a beaver. Her thick brown fur was always at least a little damp and smelled of marsh weeds and pond water. She kept a stash of fresh willow twigs next to her desk and was constantly peeling and nibbling the bark off them.

She smiled patiently as the students settled in. “All right,” she called out. “Everyone quiet, please. We’ve got a few demonstrations this morning, and then a small pop quiz after.”

Everyone groaned.

Phoebe piped up. “You didn’t tell us there was going to be a quiz!” she squeaked, and nervously fidgeted with her pink tail.

Professor Fern smiled, chewing a willow stem. “If I announced it, it wouldn’t be a pop quiz, now, would it? Okay, let’s see. Lily? How about you for our first demonstration? Do you have a knot you’d like to show us?”

Lily stood, like most rabbits, erect and alert, with sharp eyes and soft, tawny ears. Her fur was a mottled mix of cinnamon brown and pearl gray, except for her paws and tail, which were as white as moonlight on a snowbank.

Lily was almost certainly destined to be named Master Weaver. Ever since she was young, she’d practiced at working strands of grass or string or nylon cord into amazingly strong and intricate ropes. She could weave any fiber into rope as strong as an ironwood branch, or as delicate as a moth’s antenna.

As expected, Lily’s demonstration went smoothly. She tied the Cloud Knot with no mistakes. Her coral-colored nose wiggled as the nimble paws went this way and that.

Professor Fern looked pleased, beaming at the perfectly formed knot. She slapped her tail on the floor. “Excellent, Lily,” she said. “I would be proud to have executed such a difficult knot as well as this. You are most certainly to be named Master Weaver at the upcoming Ceremony.”

“Thank you, Professor Fern,” Lily replied, blushing.

Twig sighed. His chances at Master Anything looked fairly bleak. He was barely good enough to keep up. And this third and final year of training was the toughest yet, with projects and assignments popping up like mushrooms after a spring rain.

He tried to hide in the back of the room behind Hyacinth, hoping to be overlooked as the next presenter.

Professor Fern called on Ivy, a young wood rat, who created a satisfactory example of an Owl Knot. Though not very difficult, it was an unusual knot.

“Good, Ivy. Peeper?”

There was an awkward moment when Peeper stumbled for a moment while tying a Snail Knot, but he recovered to finish nicely.

Basil the weasel did a passable job tying a Double Branch Knot but got distracted when Twig sneezed. “That was easy,” he announced when he completed the knot, but as he sat down, he glared at Twig. “Idiot!” he whispered.

“Okay,” Professor Fern said. “Next we’ll have . . . uh . . . how about you, Twig?”

Twig gulped.

He picked up two ropes and began his Sparrow Knot, but quickly became all left toes, flustered and confused. The ropes became a jumbled tangle.

“No, wait . . . ,” Twig mumbled, trying to loosen the knot and start over. “Let’s see, right over left, around . . . through . . . and back? No . . . uh . . .”

Professor Fern sighed, interrupted him. “Twig, perhaps you should have a seat.” Looking disappointed, she took the confusing mass of rope and tossed it in the bin marked To Untangle. “If I were you, Twig, I would spend tonight memorizing.” She gestured at a copy of 20 Basic Knots lying on her desk. “And I mean memorizing well. You need to be skilled at those before you can advance in here.”

“Yes, Professor Fern,” said Twig.

“Now, everyone, pencils out for the pop quiz.”

Twig handled the quiz without too much problem; it consisted of true-or-false questions about threads and yarns. But afterward the professor pulled Twig to one side.

“Twig, dear, really . . . you need to pay more attention in class!” she said, leaning over the chipmunk. Twig could smell her duckweed scent. “I’m afraid your work isn’t up to the quality we’re striving for here on the Hill.” She chewed and munched some more, looking serious. “You want to be powerful, don’t you? That’s what being a Master means. It means being able to build things . . . so you can trade things . . . and own things.”

Twig looked dejectedly at the floor.

“The Sparrow Knot demonstration today,” Professor Fern continued. “A perfect opportunity for you to shine! But . . . well, I don’t think your heart was in it. I know that you want to be a part of the Naming Ceremony, but at this point you wouldn’t even be considered. I can hardly imagine what your mother would say if after three years of training you remain . . . nameless!”

Twig gulped hard. Not receiving a last name would mean never becoming a respected member of the Hill. “No name . . . ?” he asked incredulously.

Professor Fern stopped her chewing and looked thoughtfully at Twig. “I’m afraid your father would be very disappointed in you, Twig. He was so respected on the Hill, such a brilliant Metal Crafter, and you . . . well . . .”

Twig’s tail sagged.

Professor Fern looked apologetic but said firmly, “If your work doesn’t improve, and I’m certainly hoping it will, I will have to suggest to the Hill Council that you be . . . trained as an Errand Runner.”

Twig looked up, wide-eyed. Errand Runner! It was the lowest of all positions on the Hill. Errand Runners spent their lives toiling over trivial, tedious chores: delivering scrap metal, stoking glass furnaces, untangling knots.

“Professor Fern,” Twig yelped. “I’ll learn those knots tonight, honest! But please don’t give my name to the Council as Errand Runner.”

“I’m sorry, Twig,” she answered, putting her damp paw on his shoulder. “That’s the recommendation I would have to make.”

Twig’s tail sagged even lower. “Yes, ma’am,” he said despondently. He left the Weaving classroom with ears drooped, tail dragging.