the crowd that had gathered. There were a lot of wary faces and a lot of baby bunnies cowering behind their mothers’ aprons.
“He’s going to bake us all into a pie!” one tiny voice cried out in a panic. It was greeted by muttering and grumbling. Somewhere a baby rabbit started crying. It was about the most pitiful thing Norman had ever heard. Humans, he realized, were the stuff of rabbit horror stories. He was their bogeyman.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Norman whispered to no one in particular. He was starting to realize that he was not in Undergrowth—that this was the human world and the rabbits were as lost as he was.
Esme, still standing beside him, repeated his assertion earnestly. “He’s a vegetarian.”
If the crowd heard her, they didn’t show it. Their voices continued to rise in panic and anger.
“Blind him!” someone cried.
“Throw
him
in a burlap sack, Alderman,” shouted another.
More children started to cry.
Esme tried to mollify the crowd, but they pressed in closer, and her protests were drowned out by the din. Norman watched nervously as the rabbits closed in. The bigger ones pushed to the front of the crowd; some of them held pitchforks.
A flick of Esme’s ears alerted Norman to a movement at the top of the cathedral. Behind the steeple crouched two rabbits insilver-grey hoods. They had unslung their longbows from their backs and were reaching for their arrows. Norman went from nervous to panicked very quickly. The rabbits and hares of the Great Cities were renowned archers.
“This two-legger is special,” Esme shouted. “He has heard the old stories. He knows the legend of Cuilean of Lochwarren.” Her tiny rabbit voice went unnoticed.
Only Norman saw her struggling to be heard. Being too quiet had never been his problem, and now it was time he spoke up. He’d talk some sense into them, he thought, pressing his hands to the ground to raise himself to his feet. He’d hardly raised himself an inch off the ground, but the crowd gasped and took a step back.
“Esme!” the old man called nervously from the stairs. “Step away from the two-legger. Come to safety.”
But Esme didn’t move. Norman could tell from her twitching ears that the archers were getting into position. He didn’t dare turn around. They would aim for his eyes and might be the last thing he saw. He let himself down to a seated position again.
“Rabbits of Undergrowth,” Norman began, as calmly as he could. There was a murmur of disbelief as he spoke, but he did not yet hear the whistling of arrows. “People of Willowbraid, citizens of the Great Cities,” he continued. He tried to look a few rabbits in their eyes, like they teach you in public speaking, but they averted their stares. “My name is Norman Strong Arm,” he said, using the name the stoats gave him and trying his best to duplicate the formal language of the books he loved. “I come here to ask your help. Long ago, the people of the Great Cities took in Cuilean of the Stoats. You fought at his side in the war with the wolves. I come here as a friend of the stoats, as the protector of my lord, Malcolm, heir of Lochwarren. The stoat throne is in danger again.” A hundred little rabbit jaws dropped as he spoke. “I need your help to return to Lochwarren, to the side of my friend and king.”
There was a long silence after he finished his speech. Esme looked up at him, her whiskers twitching and rippling in puzzlement. When still no one said anything, Norman screwed up hiscourage and turned his head slowly towards the cathedral. He couldn’t help squinting instinctively to protect his eyes.
The delegation of rabbit dignitaries stood in stunned silence. Esme’s father opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out and he closed it again.
At Norman’s side, Esme raised her voice again. “He’s been to Lochwarren, Father. It means we can go back. It means the exile is over.”
For a long time, Esme’s father just stood there. A
“He’s going to bake us all into a pie!” one tiny voice cried out in a panic. It was greeted by muttering and grumbling. Somewhere a baby rabbit started crying. It was about the most pitiful thing Norman had ever heard. Humans, he realized, were the stuff of rabbit horror stories. He was their bogeyman.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Norman whispered to no one in particular. He was starting to realize that he was not in Undergrowth—that this was the human world and the rabbits were as lost as he was.
Esme, still standing beside him, repeated his assertion earnestly. “He’s a vegetarian.”
If the crowd heard her, they didn’t show it. Their voices continued to rise in panic and anger.
“Blind him!” someone cried.
“Throw
him
in a burlap sack, Alderman,” shouted another.
More children started to cry.
Esme tried to mollify the crowd, but they pressed in closer, and her protests were drowned out by the din. Norman watched nervously as the rabbits closed in. The bigger ones pushed to the front of the crowd; some of them held pitchforks.
A flick of Esme’s ears alerted Norman to a movement at the top of the cathedral. Behind the steeple crouched two rabbits insilver-grey hoods. They had unslung their longbows from their backs and were reaching for their arrows. Norman went from nervous to panicked very quickly. The rabbits and hares of the Great Cities were renowned archers.
“This two-legger is special,” Esme shouted. “He has heard the old stories. He knows the legend of Cuilean of Lochwarren.” Her tiny rabbit voice went unnoticed.
Only Norman saw her struggling to be heard. Being too quiet had never been his problem, and now it was time he spoke up. He’d talk some sense into them, he thought, pressing his hands to the ground to raise himself to his feet. He’d hardly raised himself an inch off the ground, but the crowd gasped and took a step back.
“Esme!” the old man called nervously from the stairs. “Step away from the two-legger. Come to safety.”
But Esme didn’t move. Norman could tell from her twitching ears that the archers were getting into position. He didn’t dare turn around. They would aim for his eyes and might be the last thing he saw. He let himself down to a seated position again.
“Rabbits of Undergrowth,” Norman began, as calmly as he could. There was a murmur of disbelief as he spoke, but he did not yet hear the whistling of arrows. “People of Willowbraid, citizens of the Great Cities,” he continued. He tried to look a few rabbits in their eyes, like they teach you in public speaking, but they averted their stares. “My name is Norman Strong Arm,” he said, using the name the stoats gave him and trying his best to duplicate the formal language of the books he loved. “I come here to ask your help. Long ago, the people of the Great Cities took in Cuilean of the Stoats. You fought at his side in the war with the wolves. I come here as a friend of the stoats, as the protector of my lord, Malcolm, heir of Lochwarren. The stoat throne is in danger again.” A hundred little rabbit jaws dropped as he spoke. “I need your help to return to Lochwarren, to the side of my friend and king.”
There was a long silence after he finished his speech. Esme looked up at him, her whiskers twitching and rippling in puzzlement. When still no one said anything, Norman screwed up hiscourage and turned his head slowly towards the cathedral. He couldn’t help squinting instinctively to protect his eyes.
The delegation of rabbit dignitaries stood in stunned silence. Esme’s father opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out and he closed it again.
At Norman’s side, Esme raised her voice again. “He’s been to Lochwarren, Father. It means we can go back. It means the exile is over.”
For a long time, Esme’s father just stood there. A
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