Chapter Nineteen: The Attack

 

Arthur was sitting at his piano when the hawks launched their attack. It was the very middle of the day, and the sun hung high overhead in the clear blue sky, reflecting brilliantly off the glistening blanket of snow that covered the forest, and inside the Rookery animals of all kinds had gathered around the piano for the afternoon sing-along.

“Hawk!” came the sudden cry from the lookout atop the Rookery. The word echoed throughout the whole of the Rookery. Every animal heard it and immediately understood: the attack had begun.

The Rookery turned to a flurry of activity once the initial shock had passed, though very little of this activity was positive. The rooks argued with each other. Every other animal scrambled about aimlessly. Every face was full of desperation; every voice was filled with terror.  All around them, the Rookery shook with a series of loud crashes and the entire structure groaned and vibrated as if in pain. The hawks, every last one of them, had united to destroy the Rookery.

“How many are there?” Titus shouted to the lookout..

“Dozens, mate! Dozens!” the terrified lookout called back as he fled his post. “I counted fifteen before they landed. They’re ripping the roof to shreds! We’re doomed! We’re doomed!” His echoing cry sent the animals into an even greater panic.

“How could it end like this? After so long...how could it end like this?” another rook shrieked, spiraling to the floor.

“Why? Why?” cried out several of the rooks.

Above the chaos Arthur stood atop his piano, beckoning his choir members toward himself, calling for peace and calm. “What’s all this talk about the end?” Arthur cried out to them. “What’s all this talk about losing? We live in the Rookery, friends! Remember your heritage! The Rookery will not fall today. Have courage!”

“Perhaps the truth is hard to see from so very low,” cursed Romulus, who had barreled through the crowd and landed almost on top of Arthur in his anger. “The hawks are ripping the Rookery to shreds! Courage? Friendship? They’re useless! And you’re useless! Say your prayers, mouse.” Romulus fixed his blazing eye on Arthur and stretched his wings to their full span. But just as he was about to attack, Titus stepped in, standing firmly between his brother and his best friend. The crowd of frightened animals turned their attention toward the quarrel.

“It seems that you’ve lost sight of a few things, little brother,” he said to Romulus, refusing to step aside. “We all have: I most of all.”

He turned to face the crowd of animals around him. “Please, everyone! I have a confession to make. Arthur has been much more than a friend to me these many months; he has been a source of advice and insight,” he threw a quick, glance toward Arthur. “These months in the Rookery have been very difficult for us all, but I must confess that I have failed you. For though I have acted as your leader all this time, Arthur has acted as mine. It is only because of his wisdom and courage that we have made it this far. Listen to what Arthur has to say, all of you. He alone can save us! I…I can do nothing….”

A gasp rippled through the company of rooks.

“We, the rooks—saved by a mouse?” Romulus cried out dramatically raising his wing to his brow. “Oh! What a story! Who would believe it?”

As Romulus hurled a mocking laugh toward Arthur, the Rookery shook under a powerful unified blow from the angry hawks above, and the rook fell silent. In an instant, the Rookery was in disarray. Their yelling reached every corner of the atrium and what had previously been a Rookery in panic became a far worse place indeed—a Rookery in anarchy.

Arthur could not stand it anymore. He shouted for them to be quiet, cried out for calm until he was nearly hoarse.

Turning to the piano was perhaps a final act of desperation.  He turned his back on the madness, sat down on his stool, and rested his fingers for a moment on the keys. Then he closed his eyes. This time, his musical offering had none of its normal peaceful, soothing melodies.

“This is no time for your awful racket!” Romulus bellowed, but Arthur ignored him.

Instead, his fingers pressed the keys with more force than they ever had, and though the sounds emanating from his instrument were still beautiful, they now held a war cry—a fervent, dedicated melody; firm in its convictions and fierce in its devotion to the Rookery. Arthur’s fingers carved out a new song on the keys of his piano that spoke far more than his tiny voice ever could—and it had its effect. The sounds of music filled the Rookery from bottom to top and silenced the raging, panicked animals.

Arthur stopped the piece long before it reached its climax, for there was no time to finish. Back atop his piano he climbed, with every eye upon him, every mouth silenced, every sound quieted except for the sounds of heartless violence from the hawks above them.

Arthur spoke in a firm but calm voice. “My friends,” he said, “our words and our thoughts have grown far too desperate. We have no right to speak as if our hope is lost. For if we speak as if we have no hope, then we truly shall have no hope. If we speak as if the battle is lost, then—mark my words—the battle was lost long ago. If we cry out in fear or fight with one another as if all else has ceased to matter...well then...I suppose nothing matters at all, does it?

“But things do matter, dear creatures! They matter a great deal, and we all know this. We all know that this place, this great Rookery, means far more than its individual pieces. It is more than a bundle of sticks; it is more than a bonfire; it is more than a family of rooks. The Rookery is home—it is civility and hope and love. And this is what we must protect today, friends.

“The question is this: Will we allow the Rookery to be destroyed? Will it be said that we might have fought back, but could not manage to stop bickering long enough to save this place?

“It is upon us that the fate of this glorious, ancient refuge depends. Hear me please, my friends, for these may very well be the last words I speak to you: No help is coming. The task falls to us and to us alone.

“The hawks attack us with a force of perhaps twenty. But how many are we, friends? Have we even thought to count? How can we possibly believe that any army—even an army of hawks—should have the strength to defeat us?

“I can answer that question. They do have what it takes to defeat us, for we have failed to recognize that alone we are weak...and yet, together we could be stronger than any animal in the forest!

“Look around you! Look around and be amazed! Have you seen the place in which you live? Have you seen the carvings of your ancestors and the delicate work of their hands? Do you truly believe that any of this could have been accomplished by a single rook? Could it have been made by any single animal? Certainly not! Your ancestors came to this forest and found themselves facing a number of adversaries far greater than what we face today, and the very fact that we are standing here, in this magnificent structure, ought to remind us that we have every capacity for doing great things ourselves.  No man or animal ever did anything great on his own.  Why should we expect anything different of ourselves?”

Arthur completed his speech and sat down at his piano once more, his question ringing in the silence.

“Why, indeed?” Titus asked.

“Why? Why?” cried out another rook. “Why? Why?” other rooks joined in. The room was a flurry of black feathers and cries of, “Why? Why?” Even Romulus reluctantly took up the curious battle cry.

Why, their cries asked, had they not recognized it before? Why had they become so divided? Why were they allowing their home to be attacked?

The rooks took no time to discuss. No time to argue. No time to debate. Everyone knew what to do instinctively. For the first time in generations, the rooks had become a flock.

Titus was, naturally, the first to take flight, but the flock moved so swiftly that within seconds, hundreds of them had raced through the arched doorway and into the snowy world outside. As they passed the carvings of their ancestors, Arthur’s melodies came flooding back—his songs of nobility and chivalry, of the greatness of the rooks—and with those songs in their hearts, the rooks raced to meet their destiny.

Though the battle in the sky belonged to the rooks, the other animals followed them faithfully into the courtyard, willing to face their fear of the hawks to catch a glimpse of the rooks in their greatness and glory. Arthur led the way, followed by Sigmund, Jack, Nathaniel, some shrews, the family of bats, and the otters—each of them slapping his back in solidarity or giving him looks of devotion and even awe. The earthbound animals crowded the courtyard, looking intently skyward at perhaps the most wondrous sight their eyes had ever beheld.

They could no longer see the rooks—at least, they could no longer see individual rooks. There was no longer any Titus or any Romulus or any of their brothers. There was but one rook—a cloud of fearsome blackness soaring over the Rookery as a single body.

Titus led the flock higher and higher, pushing past the hawks into the sky above the Rookery. Alistair swung around as the massive black cloud of rooks sped past him. “Come out to play, have you Titus?” he shouted in their wake. Many of the hawks laughed, but their laughter died quickly as they looked up to see the flock turning as one above them, casting a huge shadow over the Rookery.

Titus hovered above the hawks, the great, writhing mass of angry rooks held at bay behind him. “I don’t recall giving you leave to use that name, hawk,” he snarled. “And before we finish today, you will realize that this is no game.”

The hawks landed on the unstable, crumbling Rookery roof, each of them looking to Alistair to guide their next move.

“Before we finish today, I will be picking my teeth with your bones,” he retorted.

The flock launched toward the hawks at once. The hawks held their ground as long as they dared, but as the rooks shot toward the Rookery, many of them lost their nerve. They scattered in their fear, and the rooks followed. The hawks struggled and cried out in pain, surprise, and anger as they were driven away from the Rookery.  

“Come back, you cowards!” Alistair screamed over the tumult, frightening many of the hawks into turning back to fight. They dove toward the flock from every angle, trying to break the rooks apart. But they failed with every attempt. Alistair tried again and again to break through to Titus, who was leading the flock in spectacular twists and turns, but he couldn’t keep up. The flock attacked hawk after hawk, and one by one, the hawks stumbled toward home on broken and bleeding wings.

As the hawks turned in retreat, Alistair turned and circled back toward the Rookery.

“This isn’t over, Titus!” he screeched before speeding off over the forest.

The earthbound animals cheered from below, none louder or more enthusiastically than Arthur. He gazed up proudly at his friends as they circled the Rookery in triumph, letting out a loud “Whoop!” as he caught sight of Titus leading the way.

Suddenly, a great crash echoed through the trees on the edge of the courtyard, and Arthur heard a familiar voice shouting his name. He turned to see Lily picking herself up from the ground where she had tumbled over a fallen log.

“Lily?” he called out, his voice a mixture of happiness and disappointment. “What are you doing in the forest? I thought that I was quite clear—”

“You were clear, Arthur! And I’m very sorry I have disobeyed, but I wouldn’t have come unless it was important! The hawks are going to attack! I’ve seen them circling the Rookery!” she cried.

“Oh, my!” he laughed. “What a dear, sweet girl you are! But you are an hour too late. The hawks have attacked, but look skyward. Look what the rooks have done!”

So Lily did look skyward. She looked into that great, noisy cloud of rooks and could not suppress a smile. They pitched and dove and painted the sky with beautiful swirls of the deepest black as they celebrated their victory.

“Why, it’s so wonderful!” she cried out. “It’s the most wonderful thing I have ever seen! Oh, Arthur! I should have believed in you and the rooks.”

“Perhaps so, Lily,” Arthur said smiling, “but you are here now and once again you’ve shown bravery beyond reason. Perhaps you ought to stay for a bit, since you’ve come all this way.  I’m certain that Titus would love to see you—though as you can see, our general is busy at the moment.”

Lily laughed, and they began to walk toward the Rookery door behind the other animals who had already gone inside for the celebration.

“Oh yes, Arthur! I would love to stay. Perhaps we can even have a Tea Time? I do so love—” Lily stopped mid-sentence, her words escaping her. At first it was only a whisper that she heard—a voice in the forest behind her whispering her name. A voice she could not help but recognize.

“What is it, Lily?” Arthur asked cautiously.

“It’s just...” her voice trailed off as she looked back toward the forest, “...I thought that I heard something in the forest.”

Arthur turned and looked for himself, his eyes straining to see into the wood.

“Perhaps we ought to hurry into the Rookery, my girl,” he said, running up ahead in hopes that she would hurry after him.

Lily did run after him. In fact, she had nearly caught up with him when she heard a terrible flapping sound behind her, followed by an even more terrible, piercing cry. Long, leathery talons curled around each of her shoulders and though she continued running, her feet were no longer touching the ground. She swung her legs wildly, trying in vain to escape her captor’s vice-like grip. She tugged at his claws, but he was too strong. Lily knew that the last weapon in her tiny arsenal was her teeth, but as she summoned the courage to bite the huge bird’s scaly ankle, she looked down. She had passed beyond the upper levels of the Rookery now, and in an instant she knew that to try to escape the bird’s grasp at this height would be suicide. She saw the Rookery fade into the distance below, and she looked up to see the horrible face of Alistair grinning back at her.

Chapter Eighteen: Winter

 

After her banishment from the Rookery, Lily spent several days in her room, her sorrow weakening her body and eventually turning into a severe cold. Nan and the housekeeper were on hand night and day with warm stew and tea and more blankets, but nothing seemed to help. Her fever broke after the first week, but still Lily didn’t seem to improve.

The purple heather disappeared from the hills as autumn slipped into winter. Icy winds whipped around the edges of the house, creating a low ghostly moan that often reflected the tone of Lily’s heart. Her one solace on these lonely, wuthering nights was the knowledge that Strathclyde knew the truth. He knew the stories and the wonders and the joys of the forest, and somehow that eased her pain.

After some time, Lily became more active, leaving her room and joining the family for meals, but she had lost the sparkle in her eyes—she had lost some of the life that had made her Lily. She was the picture of obedience at home: she helped the housekeeper with dinner, and never gave Nan any trouble. She did her lessons and went to church dutifully. She was never cross with her brothers. But she never truly laughed either, and, worst of all, she had abandoned the moor.

Sometimes at night, Lily would imagine that the low, moaning song of the moor that whistled at her window was actually the soft tinkle of Arthur’s piano, and she would often drift to sleep hearing what she was sure was his strong baritone voice, singing her a lullaby. She dreamed often of a mouse’s tail or a rook’s wing slipping out of view around a corner, but even in her dreams she could never see their dear faces. Every now and then from the nursery window, Lily would spot a bird flying high above the moor in search of a meal, and many a day would find her sitting in her window seat, searching the edges of the forest for signs of her friends as the trees made their last offerings of red and gold to the forest floor.

Over time, Lily’s memories of the Rookery became hazy, though her love for her animal friends was no less strong. Mother came home from Aunt Sarah’s at last and busied herself with preparing the house for winter, canning vegetables with the housekeeper, and helping Mrs. May with her garden. Lily was glad Mother had come home. But Mother was not Father, and as much as she longed to share the true source of her sorrow, Lily knew that Mother would never understand. If only Father would come home...

One day in late November, Lily’s mother sent her upstairs to clean out her old toys and prepare the room for Aunt Sarah, who was coming to visit with her baby. Lily was cleaning her room dutifully when she opened her special drawer and saw her pencils and special paper for the first time in many weeks. A creeping sadness stole over her, but this time it was not an image of Arthur that rose in her mind. It was her father. She had stopped writing him when she stopped going to the forest, and she was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to tell him everything—the whole story, from beginning to end. 

She uttered a silent apology to Mother and Aunt Sarah, and sat down at her chair and table. For hours she sat by the fire, writing and writing. She told her father of Titus and the history of the rooks, of Arthur and his family and his tiny piano, of the owl and the jackrabbit and Arthur’s little choir, of Alistair and the hawks and the impending danger, and lastly, of the moment Arthur made her leave the forest behind. It was all there, on paper, and this time she intended to send it.

A strange sense of calm came over Lily once she had told the story to her father. She sighed deeply. It was as if he now shared her burden, her sorrow, even though he hadn’t yet read the letter. She felt that his share in her burden made it somehow lighter, more manageable—almost like it had gone away altogether now that it was in stronger, more capable hands. Lily smiled, not quite with her lips, or even with her eyes, but her heart became the slightest bit lighter, and something inside her knew that one day things would be right again.

“Lily, dear,” her mother called from downstairs before she had had an opportunity to fold the letter and put it away.

“Yes, Mother?” she answered.

“It’s tea time, love,” her mother called back.

Lily walked to the nursery door and opened it to go down to tea, but looked back for just a moment at the letter lying open on the table. And her heart smiled a little bit more.

As she walked down the stairs, stepping gently on the squeaking fourth step, Lily noticed her mother putting on her gloves. “Are you leaving, Mother?” she asked, disappointed that Mother wouldn’t be joining them for tea.

“Yes, Darling. Mrs. May has invited me to tea this afternoon. She is so lonely, poor dear, that I couldn’t resist spending the afternoon with her. I will be back before supper.” Mother smiled warmly and swept out the door.

Tea time was, unfortunately, another one of Nan’s spectacular failures. But today, Lily felt a new feeling—or perhaps a very old one—rising in her heart. Nan’s dreadful tea time had reawakened in her the very real, very exhilarating need to escape. For the first time in weeks, Lily found herself longing for the moor. But this time, instead of crumbling her cakes or insulting the horrible tea like she would have done before meeting Arthur and the rooks, she simply said, “Nan, I feel like going outside today. May I be excused?”

Nan looked up from her cake, stunned. Lily had barely spoken, much less attempted to leave the house on her own in many weeks. Nan was so shocked, she could only manage to say, “Yes,” and, “Be sure to wear your coat.”

Lily donned her black duffle coat and her white gloves and, for the first time in what seemed like ages, breathed deeply the brisk air of the moor.  She walked slowly up the lane toward the stone boundary wall, scrambling stiffly to the top. She stood on the low wall with her cozy home and her letter to Father and her sorrow behind her and looked out over her great, wide, beautiful moor. Snow had fallen the night before, blanketing the gray hills and turning them into glorious mounds of double cream. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue and the sun sparkled through the frigid air. A bird sang somewhere in the forest, and suddenly Lily’s heart began to soar. She was free!

 She flew from the boundary wall and landed with a light thump in the snow. She ran up and down and up and down over the hills until the village disappeared behind a rise, the wind whistling in her ears and causing her eyes to water. A sea of white billowed around her. She spun around with her arms spread wide and laughed a deep, hearty, healing laugh, then she flung herself to the ground, rolled over on her back and closed her eyes. The sun kissed her smiling face ever so gently and she listened to the snow creaking beneath her as it melted from her body heat. The crisp air stung her nose and throat as she took great deep breaths, and all was silence and peace.

For a long time, Lily lay on the hillside, reveling in her freedom. But soon her mind drifted to India and her father. She wondered if he would ever come home. And then, perhaps inevitably, her mind found its way to Arthur and the forest, and she wondered if she would ever go back. The old sadness began to overtake her, so she opened her eyes to ward it off, and as she did, she saw a black speck circling high in the sky. She thought of Titus, and the day she had met him in this very spot, and she wondered, hoping against hope, if he might be coming to see her. She sat up, looking into the sky as the black speck grew larger. She was about to shout, “I’m here, Titus, I’m here!” when she realized as the speck drew nearer the ground, that it was growing too large. That was not a rook. It soared overhead, still very high, but as it did, Lily realized two things at once: that bird was a hawk, and it was headed for the forest.

She lay very still until it had passed her, and the moment it did, she leapt to her feet and faced the forest, squinting to see past the glare of the sparkling snow. A chill shot through her body, but not from the cold. Just where the Rookery would be, twenty hawks circled very, very slowly, poised for attack.

Lily’s heart nearly stopped as she watched the hawks circling the Rookery. She looked around frantically for someone, anyone who might hear her cry for help, but of course no one was there. She was alone on the moor, as always. She thought about going back to get Strathclyde, but surely he would tell her to stay away from the forest. She thought about fetching her brothers, but they would only make fun of her. Her friends were in danger and no one could help!

Promise or no promise, Lily felt that she had no choice. She had to get back to the Rookery. She had to get to Arthur and Titus. She had to help!

Lily ran as if her life depended on it, and she truly believed that lives did depend on it. She thought of all the animals in the Rookery, playing games or perhaps having another Tea Time, and wondered if she would get there in time to warn them. She silently prayed like she had never prayed before, asking desperately for protection for her friends. Asking for a miracle.

Lily reached the edge of the forest near an old, gnarled blackthorn hedge. Its leaves had fallen to the ground, leaving the tightly twisted black branches bare and treacherous. The place she normally entered the forest was on the other side of the hill and it would take several minutes to get there. Lily was forced to stop and choose. She could either try to climb through the hedge and make a straight line for the Rookery, or she could waste precious time and run to the place where she knew the Rookery path would begin. Frantic, she tried to climb through the hedge, thinking that the straightest path was also the best, but the blackthorn’s branches were too sharp and too tightly twisted to let her through. She tried again and again, but she simply couldn’t get through. Then, like a long forgotten dream, she remembered Arthur’s voice: “Can you promise me that should you ever find yourself alone that you will stick to the path?” She had promised that day, and broken her promise with terrifying results.

“What a wretched girl I am! Have I learned nothing?” she thought, climbing from the hedge, ashamed. She ran frantically over the hill, toward the path she knew.

She entered the forest at full speed, and hurtled along the familiar path with the wind at her back. The forest looked much different under the fresh blanket of snow, but she knew the path well enough to follow it even in these conditions. She was, for the first and last time, relieved to come upon the familiar briar patch and practically slid into the small hole beneath it, across a sheet of snow. Without a hint of complaint, she tore through the tunnel on her hands and knees, but before she came through the other side, a chilling sound echoed through the forest—the collective cry of what sounded like a hundred hawks. It could be nothing else. Her heart froze with fear, but her arms and legs wouldn’t stop. She emerged from the briar patch, leapt through the intertwined trees and practically stepped on the spade as she raced for the Rookery. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.

Chapter Seventeen: Wartime

 

Titus’ heart was heavy as he surveyed the Council Chamber in the moonlight. The fragrant grass was beaten flat. The crocuses were bruised. The stone benches were overturned in places. And here and there, weary animals huddled together for warmth, too afraid or too exhausted to go home for the night.

“You’re better than this, Titus,” he said to himself. “It should not have happened this way.”

The Forest Council had been a disaster. In the end the rooks reluctantly agreed to give asylum to the forest creatures. Tomorrow, the animals would begin moving their winter stores of nuts and berries, and their innumerable children, into the Rookery. But it was an uneasy alliance for many of the animals, and Romulus’ violent protests did little to help the situation. Titus hung his head. “You’re better than this.”

“You’ve done the right thing, friend,” Arthur said, walking toward Titus across the platform.

“No, you’ve done the right thing. Arthur, I can’t do this. I can’t pretend anymore. I’m no more the Lord Wickersham than I am a fish!”

Arthur laid a paw on Titus’ shoulder. “Don’t say that Titus. It’s not true. You are every bit the leader of the rooks, every bit the son of your father, and of his father before him.”

“How can you say that? You know as well as I do that the Rookery is in this sorry state because of my terrible leadership. We barely even function as a flock anymore. The only reason we’ve lasted this long is because of you. If you hadn’t been here to tell me what to do, the Rookery would have crumbled long before now.”

“Titus, you are stronger than you imagine. You come from a long line of noble rooks, and their blood runs in your veins—but that doesn’t matter much, does it? What matters are your choices. And, regardless of what you have chosen in the past, now—when it really matters—you are choosing well. Don’t despair. All will be put right.”

“I wish I had your faith, Arthur. I wish I had your courage,” Titus sighed.

“You do, my friend. I think you’re going to surprise yourself.”

Early the next morning, the forest creatures arrived in droves. Burrows and holes were dug around the edges of the Rookery floor, and piles of hay were gathered from nearby farms to keep everyone warm. That afternoon, the rooks began to painstakingly seal the hole in the top of the Rookery’s central hall, and did the best they could to patch the places in the roof that had been damaged by the fire.

Within a week, the Rookery had been transformed from a palace to a wartime bunker. It was well stocked, and well defended. The rooks took turns watching the sky through hatches in the Rookery’s roof, ready to sound the alarm the moment the inevitable attack began. The foraging animals had brought with them enough food to keep the Rookery well fed throughout the winter, should they come under siege. And an army of very brave beavers kept the Rookery supplied with wood from the forest, and day and night, the comforting glow of a merry bonfire warmed both the animals’ bodies and souls.

The early weeks of winter were spent pleasantly enough, considering the circumstances. At night, the elders would sit around the fire discussing the olden days while the little ones tottered around in the hay, and by day, Arthur kept the animals busy with games and stories, and, of course, with afternoon concerts on his piano.

During the long October days, the piano became a symbol of hope to the animals, in many ways. At first, only the few members of Arthur’s fledgling choir gathered around when he would play. Sometimes they sang along, and sometimes they sat quietly as the soft notes carried a sense of peace throughout the Rookery. But as the days and weeks passed, more and more animals gathered around the instrument. Titus was always there, and, slowly but steadily, many of the rooks began to float down from their roosts to hum quietly along.

By early November, Arthur’s choir had grown to a hundred voices or more. Moles and weasels, rabbits, otters, turtles and rooks came together every day to sing, and before long they began to give evening performances of the songs they had learned.

Not everyone approved of the choir, Romulus least of all. He turned his back on their performances, and squawked his irritation loudly throughout their afternoon rehearsals. But the music continued—not just as a diversion for the captive animals, but as part of Arthur’s master plan.

Though Arthur had not told his friends, every action he took was filled with purpose. His daily story times were not just a re-telling of the same old fairy tales; the stories he told were new to almost everyone. Every evening, the animals gathered around the fire to listen to tales of the Rookery—the story of the rooks’ first victory over the hawks, the exploits of their first patriarch, Albert the Vanquisher, and the long but educational tale of the construction of the moat (by permission of the beaver, of course). Arthur filled their minds and hearts with images of the first rook weavers and their patient work on the Rookery, and drew the smaller animals and rooks alike into the grand story of the palace they now called home. The music Arthur wrote for the choir was much the same—stories of the courage and honor of the early rooks, and stories of the animals of the forest working together to achieve great things. And all the while, the animals and rooks were slowly, steadily swelling with pride, with honor, with loyalty to the Rookery and loyalty to one another.

Snow began to fall in mid-November, tempting the animals sorely. It had been weeks since most of them had left the Rookery, and the delicate crust of newly fallen snow outside absolutely begged to be played in. It pleaded with them to escape; to have snowball fights; to run and slide down Abbot’s Hill into the soft, wet snow bank; to slip and slide along the thin ice of the stream. But they mastered their longings, for the hawks were never far from their minds. And day after day the sentries watched the sky, not for falling snow, but for the danger they all knew would come.

Chapter Sixteen: Mourning

 

The sky had become a chilly white by the time Lily and Nathaniel reached the village. The air smelled of wood-burning fireplaces, and the willow’s long, leafy tendrils caressed Strathclyde’s garden shed with each of autumn’s faint, dying breaths. Strathclyde lay resting under his apple trees when the kissing gate’s familiar squeak awakened him from his slumber. He waited to hear it squeak closed before resuming his nap. But it didn’t squeak. The kissing gate didn’t close, and he knew something was awry. As unruly as the children could be, no one ever left the gate ajar. Strathclyde roused himself and ambled slowly around the north corner of the house, just in time to see a vole creep silently under the hedge.

He rounded the front of the house, and was shocked to find Lily, crumpled on the doorstep, her tears coming quickly and loudly. The old man’s heart ached at the sound of her grief, and he knelt before her. He curled his bony fingers around her shoulders and pulled her close, rocking her for a moment before picking her up and carrying her up the stairs toward her bedroom.

 “Oh, Lily, Lily. Hush now, my girl. All will be well. Old Strathclyde is here,” he whispered as he climbed the stairs slowly, his wrinkled, weather-beaten face etched with worry.

He carried her into the nursery where a cheerful fire was blazing and her familiar chair and table sat ready for her. Rather than putting her straight to bed, as that was a task best left to the women, Strathclyde carefully deposited Lily in her chair near the nursery fire. He smoothed her hair, tucking it gently behind her ear, whispering, “There, there,” and, “Hush now,” as he crouched beside the chair keeping her face close to his own. He glanced around the room to find a blanket, and as his eyes grazed her table, they fell on the picture of Arthur she had drawn the day before.

Lily looked up at Strathclyde through blurry eyes, and followed his curious gaze. “Oh,” she groaned.

Though Lily was shaken, Strathclyde knew the moment to uncover the truth had come. He had always thought his father’s stories about spades and talking rooks and fierce battles in the forest were only fairy tales. But now…now he wasn’t so sure. Could there have been some truth hidden in his father’s stories? Desperate to calm Lily, Strathclyde glanced quickly at the door to see whether or not they were still alone. Then he asked carefully, quietly, “Is this the friend I saw running from the door just now, Lulu?”

Lily hiccupped, and blinked hard. “How do you—“ she started. “No, that was Nathaniel,” she sighed. “He’s a vole. That picture is...is...” and her tears came hot and fresh again. “Oh, Strathclyde!” she cried.

“What happened, Lulu?” he whispered softly.

“How do you know? How do you know?” she sobbed.

“I was a child once too, love. I thought the animals were make-believe. My father tried to tell me, but I didn’t understand. Now…I think I do.”

“I had to leave, Strathclyde...the hawks…and…and…oh, Arthur!” she gasped. But those were the last words she spoke that day. She lunged at the old man, nearly knocking him over, and wrapped her arms around his grizzled neck. She buried her head in his chest and cried as if the world had come to an end.

Having heard her shout, Nan and the housekeeper burst into the nursery in the frantic way only women can. They took one look at Lily, sure that she had caught her death, and began rushing around the house, collecting blankets and hot towels and all manner of horrid medicines, and shouting all the while. By the time the women had gathered together everything they needed to nurse Lily back to health, she had fallen into a deep sleep on Strathclyde’s lap. Her face was red and swollen and she was still filthy from her mad dash away from Alistair, but for now, she was at rest, and Nan refused to wake her for something so trivial as a bath.

Together, Nan and the housekeeper lifted Lily from Strathclyde’s arms, and carefully removed her shoes, her ribbons, and her dress, gently wrapped her in a soft nightgown, and tucked her tightly into bed. Lily moaned softly as they closed the door behind them, whispering to each other that she must be “terrible ill,” but Strathclyde knew differently. He alone knew that Lily was not ill—she was suffering from a broken heart.