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Chapter 26. A Whelp Confused as a Sky at Sea
by Vivienne
"You did what[?" Viv's voice was shrill in the weaselkit's ears. He cringed - that tone pulled at his hind-brain like a talon on an ear.
"It's not my fault, ma!"
"Not your fault? Did someone make you throw things at that old buzzard?"
"He tried t' kill ye'!" Jinck shouted.
"He tried to kill you!" Viv shouted right back. "He tried to kill you last time, and fates save us, this time you go and play a cuckoo when I'm not around."
"But ma!"
"No 'buts', furryface. You act a fool and imagine what happens to the rest of 'em." She pulled a face, like she did when she ate a rancid seed. "To me..."
The weasel fell silent, becoming incredibly interested in the ground between them, his tail twitching awkward agitation against his thighs.
Viv sighed. "Go on, then. Take a walk. We've a hundred new souls tromping about, see if any young 'uns are around without someone to mind 'em."
Jinck hated the cold.
He didn't hate winter. Winter was fun. Winter meant snow, which was one of the best things on earth or in sky. Snow meant snow hordes. Snow Abbeys or simply forts, if the yard's drifts had been picked clean. Snow meant snowball fights with the other Dibbun gangs: the snot-licking DAB, backbiting Marrow's Horde, or even those snivelly chalk-biters that ofttimes just huddled together outside the library windows - they hadn't earned a name, but they had their uses...
Snow also meant softer landings. And it melted away any evidence of ice-ball-throwing or snowbank-dunking. Useful when you're keeping the other Mottlewhelps in line.
Which was the job of the oldest. He knew that much from looking about at the other abbey kids, the short time they'd been here.
It wasn't winter that brought the disapproving stares and whispers in the cloisters. Some winters they stayed outside the redstone cage, in the real Nest, just down the road. It was the coldthat trapped them here.
It slurped him downward, this cold. Making his shoulders hunch against the chill, despite the nice cloth-thing Ma had gotten off of the snobby cat. It made him feel old. But not good-old. The kind of old that gets you into the cellars. It was bad-old, the kind that leaves you sitting outside them, the favored spot of the abbey's elders.
And the last thing a young weasel needed was to smell like cedar and talc!
And now this. Jinck pitched his voice high and tossed a paw around, his lips curled into a sneer. "Go look for any other dibbuns, bleh bleh." It dropped a fraction in tone, to its usual adolescent tenor. "It's a horde, mother. I doubt they're carryin' about a nursery on their backs. I mean, what would it be? Vomit 'n rattles, in ranks! Fire!"
His sniggers echoed about him deliciously, creating a chorus of chittering Jinck. It filled the orchard, and was a newly made quince tart to the stray dibbuns he was sent to harvest, its essence drawing them.
The weasel grinned to himself, then settled back against a pear sapling, shifting his weight onto its bent whipcord trunk. He reveled in the weightlessness of it, the feeling of another holding him up - he always had. Too bad he was almost too big for flights anymore.
Shhrunck.
The first one arrived, nearly sinking into a drift between the rows, the frozen-topped snow offering a throaty objection to the mass above it. It was a ratly ball of sniffling handkerchiefs, and seemed more ill-at-ease than the lace clutched to his snout. Another came, soon enough, and another. Soon, a half-dozen urchins ringed the reclined redtooth.
And there's the key. Sitting back, holding in. Keep those breaths shallow and relaxed. Let one of them speak, first. Mention Ma to those vole twins, but not to the ferret kit. Oh, Fates, my tail is - no. Don't slip. Just tense up that belly and ge?
"Are... were you... we heard -" The mousebabe had only a moment to mumble a mouthful of greeting before Jinck's paw shot out.
"Squeak!" The mouse flopped back, holding his forehead.
Pumph.Next to him, a fat hickory nut plopped into the snow.
"Arghleggo!" Jinck gazed through slitted eyes at the volepile that formed next to the fallen beast. Both twins had fallen over themselves for the missile.
Jinck let the melee continue for a moment before springing forward, letting the tree propel him into an bowstring-sent arrow of fluff. He tackled the twins with a fierce roar, sending them tufted-tail over pricked ear. "'Ey now! I tossed that to th' lad, 'ere. Not you lot!"
The clearing settled into a tense detente. Jinck waited a few more beats for hackles to lower just that fraction.
Back on their heels, but not tipped over...
He reached a paw down to the mouse and offered his best rakish grin, but taking care to keep his lips closed. "Sorry 'bout that lad, but you looked like you could use a bite."
"I... I don't... I mean... please don't bite -"
Jinck pulled up the rodent by his sleeve and began to dust the snow off his front. "I know, lad, it's a bit overwhelmin'. Everythin' big is. But let me tell ye', we've got a stash larger than one o' them great, whoppin' colored windows, full o' everythin' ye' could need. And by the look of ye', you need plenty."
The final of the six beasts, a hogbabe, piped up, "Who's 'we'?"
Jinck reached down to pat the spiked head, but paused, reached his hand back and flicked a spike instead. "Let me tell you, Thistletop, about the best band of beasts in the ol' 'Bee."
All right, so the day hadn't been completely ruined. A few stops like that, and he'd gotten a handful of Downies - as mum sometimes called them. One even had a nice pair of gloves on - he'd nicked 'em in a trade for a plum - he thought they'd be a nice midwinter gift for Viv. They even matched the scarf he'd gotten for her earlier! Her claws got colder than a badgermum's scolding when she went out on patrols. He just had to do something about the tips.
The fur on the backs of his arms began to tingle.
It wasn't a breeze; for all of this winter's bluster, it appeared to be recouping itself for the moment and the Abbey was still. It wasn't a passing insect or shiver. It was one pair of eyes shadowing him, piggybacking their way along his path.
It made Jinck smile; he was noticed.
"If'n ye' want a word, just ask," he called out.
Apparently, he was being followed by a clearing throat.
"Or jus' come out. That works, too."
The beast emerged from where he was pressed against the walls. It was another vole, but this one was older. Bigger wasn't the right term, since your eyes just slid off of him; he blended.
And his eyes. They're like bees in a garden. Darting, quick, efficient. He's a bit old, but...
"I was wondering..." the vole began, his voice slithering into Jinck's ear like a tentative worm, nosing at gravel over its hole, "what you all were talking about out there."
Jinck flashed his teeth. "Let me tell you, my ancient Ancient, 'bout a certain lady bird..."
The weasel could feel a second pair of eyes on him, but he ignored them.
One at a time. He who hunts two birds at once will lose them both.
