Bookweird by Paul Glennon

tracker and fighter was handier in their current predicament. Even Norman could see that they were better off with the older stoat’s guidance and protection. He just wished that Simon Whiteclaw didn’t look at him that way.
    â€œShall we check the map?” Norman patted his chest pocket, where he’d safely stowed the tiny stoat chart. He was trying to be helpful. Whiteclaw only scoffed.
    â€œDon’t need no map. Just need a brain in yer ’ead.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small chunks of bread. He tossed one to Malcolm, who caught it deftly and set upon it greedily. The older stoat seemed to think for a moment before tossing the second at Norman. It hit him in the chest, but Norman recovered to catch it before it hit the ground. It was a whole meal for a stoat but hardly even a snack for a human boy, yet he was grateful for it anyway. “Thank you,” he said, before popping it in his mouth.
    Simon Whiteclaw grunted and bounded off into the forest. It was not the direction that Norman would have taken.
    Perhaps it was his imagination, but Norman was certain that the trail became less human-friendly now that Simon Whiteclaw was leading them. Complaining was useless. He was breathing raggedly already and words would only have wasted more breath. He did his best to absorb the trail’s fury and keep up. It seemed to Norman, when he could spare a second to think of it, that they were heading vaguely downhill.
    At midday they stopped for a bite to eat. It was literally a bite for Norman. He let the bread dissolve in his mouth so that he could savour it longer, but it did nothing to assuage his hunger. While the stoats chatted, he foraged for something else to eat. Hisdays with the stoats had taught him a few things about staying alive in the woods. Not far from their rest spot he found a stand of blackberry bushes. The berries were plentiful, but the picking wasn’t easy. Still, it was worth the stings and scratches. He ate as he harvested, stuffing the berries hungrily into his mouth. When he had nearly exhausted the bushes, he collected one last handful for his companions.
    Simon Whiteclaw could not disguise his surprise when Norman held out his hand. His eyebrows furrowed suspiciously and he motioned Norman’s hand away.
    â€œLet the boy have them,” he muttered ungratefully.
    Malcolm winked his funny little animal wink and picked the berries one by one from Norman’s open palm. Malcolm was fearless again now his guardian led the way.
    â€œHow far are the Borders?” he asked brightly.
    â€œThree or four days to Edgeweir,” Simon growled in a low voice, “if I were on my own.” His whiskers twitched as he added, “It’ll be a few more days with you lot.”
    Norman felt certain that Simon really meant with him.
    Little Malcolm’s cheerfulness was unaffected. “Ah, it’ll be nice to spend a few days in the Borders. It’s been months since I’ve seen the inside of a pie shop. Edgeweir is a biggish place, isn’t it? It should have a pie shop or two. Norman, have you ever tried a spiced lingonberry pie? Well, you haven’t lived. When we get to the Borders, we’ll share the biggest lingonberry pie that can be bought.”
    â€œIt’s not a shopping trip we’re on here, young pup,” Simon scolded. “Edgeweir is no holiday town. It’s a dangerous place. There’s wolf spies aplenty in the Borders towns near the Wolflands. If we make it to Edgeweir, you’ll be keeping out of sight, my son.”
    Simon cast a weary glance at Norman. No doubt he was wondering how a human boy could possibly be kept out of sight.
    Malcolm chattered on undeterred. “At least we’ve outrun the wolves,” he said brightly, licking blackberry juice from his paws.
    Simon Whiteclaw harrumphed. “Ye think ye’ve outrun ’em, do ye? Don’t you believe it. Wolf hunters