Bookweird by Paul Glennon Page B

didn’t sleep all afternoon,” Malcolm protested, but not strenuously. He didn’t say thank you in so many words, but there was plenty of gratitude in this friendly banter.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” Norman asked, inspecting his companion.
    â€œFoighting fit,” Malcolm replied, pulling himself up on two feet and thrusting out a proud white chest. Norman saw him wince as he did so.
    â€œYour father will be relieved.”
    Malcolm acted as if he hadn’t heard this last thing. “So I hear you beat the ravens off single-handed. Lifted a huge boulder over your head and crushed six of them in one blow.”
    Norman could tell he was joking. “They told you six, did they? It was eight, and not one less. Get it straight.”
    The two laughed again. Only the sound of Duncan’s orders cut them short. “Aye, are you kits going to lie around gossiping all morning, or are you going to make ready to march?”
    Malcolm stiffened at the sound of his father’s voice.
    â€œReady, sir,” he replied, in a low, subdued tone.
    â€œAnd you, Norman Strong Arm,” Duncan asked. “Do you hibernate like a bear as well as smell like one?”
    Norman was taken aback by the insult. Duncan had said nothing to his son about his recovery, and had not shown any relief that the boy was awake. He was back to the gruff creature that Norman had read about in the first chapters. He thought of his own father, and how differently he would have reacted in such a situation. Perhaps stoats were different from human fathers, or perhaps warriors were just different from professors.
    They were very soon ready to break camp. Norman rubbed his stiff arms and legs until they felt like they might work properly. The stoats had left him a large bowl of raspberries and blueberries, which he took thankfully and gulped down quickly. Duncan was impatient to get going. They were safer under the cover of the trees, but not totally safe. Ravens could move more quickly in the air than stoats could through the bushes, and even through the branches of the forest canopy a raven’s eyes were sharp.
    They moved hurriedly in single file along a narrow path that Norman never would have seen himself. After twenty minutes young Malcolm was already struggling to keep up the pace. He scurried forward as quickly as he could, but his foreleg was injured and forced him to limp. His breathing was laboured and wheezy, and whenever he thought no one was looking, he held his ribs andgrimaced. Twice he refused a lift from Norman before he finally agreed to take a ride.
    â€œI’ll carry you later,” the boy promised jokingly as he climbed wearily back into the sling.
    Malcolm did not lie still for long. Now that his strength was returning, the young stoat found it impossible to stay still in the sling unless he was actually asleep. A short nap restored him. He fidgeted and tossed about for a while longer before poking his head out impatiently. He soon clambered onto Norman’s shoulder and began chattering into his new friend’s ear. Every now and then he yelled out “duck!” to warn Norman of an approaching branch that threatened to poke his eye out. The forest path was not made for humans, not even eleven-year-olds. While the stoats scampered relatively carelessly along the narrow path, Norman had to be constantly on the lookout for low-hanging branches and outcrops of roots. In between his cries of “duck” and “look out,” Malcolm told Norman about his life among the river raiders.
    â€œI’ve lived on boats all my life. I’d almost rather be on the water than on land. The best place in the wide world is up top in the sails. It’s much like riding on your shoulder, ’cept smoother and safer. Riding with you is like riding out a storm clinging to a mast. You’re lucky I have my sea legs, or else you’d have to catch me every few yards.”
    Norman struggled