Bookweird by Paul Glennon Page B

the wolves’ approach.
    â€œDo you think Simon’s missed them?” Norman asked through his teeth when he could hold it in no longer.
    The little stoat replied with assurance, “No chance—old Simon’s the finest hunter in these woods. Didn’t he sniff out the long snouts? They don’t even know we’re here yet.”
    Norman nodded, tried to believe this, but the image of the three wolf rangers coming ever closer tormented him.
    â€œBut how can he take them on alone?” he asked, breaking the silence again. “I mean, one stoat against three wolves. Isn’t that…” He decided not to worry about insulting his friend. “Isn’t that a mismatch?”
    Malcolm didn’t turn to look at Norman. As he answered, his sharp eyes remained focused on the forest darkness. “Simon’ll pick his spot. He won’t meet ’em on the ground. He’ll stay up high, in the trees, and keep his distance. That’s why he took the bow. Hand-to-hand, not even Simon is a match for a long snout. But wolves are no archers, nor are they climbers. As long as he’s in the trees, he’s as safe as houses.”
    Norman took a serious look at the woods around them and wondered whether they wouldn’t be better up a tree themselves. But the next wolf howl froze his motions and thoughts. It had changed—closer and angrier now, mixed with growls. Neither boy nor stoat spoke as they listened. Both knew that Simon had sprung his ambush on the wolves. Each tried to imagine the progress of the battle from the sounds. The night became filled with fierce wolf cries, bitter barks and every now and then a high-pitched yelp of pain. Only wolf sounds were heard. Simon fought silently; so too would he succumb silently. If Simon fell in battle, there would be no howl of despair or pain. The boys would not know until it was too late.
    The sounds of the skirmish may have lasted only a few minutes. Then a silence blew through the forest—no howls, no barks either of victory or of anguish. Could it have been that easy? Had Simon’s arrows picked off all three of their pursuers? If it was that easy, Norman found himself thinking, why hadn’t they ambushed the wolves sooner, rather than blundering madly through the woods? He kept this thought to himself. Even he knew it was too much to hope. Maybe he just didn’t want to jinx it.
    After that, the two were more silent than ever, waiting, either for the return of Simon victorious or for the wolf assassins to burst into the clearing and finish the pursuit for themselves. Norman had almost given up hope when they heard the rustle in the trees above them.
    â€œSimon,” Malcolm cried. His relief breathed through his voice. Norman felt it too: so the old warrior had done it.
    His relief was short-lived. “Shh,” Simon whispered as he came closer. “It’s not over yet, boy. Get yerself up in the branches, now. Be quick about it.”
    Accustomed to obeying battle orders swiftly, the young stoat did not hesitate. He did not seem to think about where to go, leaping immediately into the tallest tree, a thick pine that overshadowed all the rest. He scampered up the trunk effortlessly, chattering as he moved. “Did you get any of them, Simon? Are you all right?”
    â€œGot one,” Simon huffed. “His running days are over. The others scarpered when they saw it was just me. They musta figured who you—” Simon Whitetail did not finish his answer. His breath was ragged. He must have run at full tilt through the forest canopy to reach them before the two remaining wolves did. “You, beast,” he said when he had regained his breath, meaning Norman. “Can you climb?”
    Norman eyed the stout pine that Malcolm had scaled. The lowest branches were too high for him to grasp from the ground, and he did not have a stoat’s sharp claws to allow him to just scamper right up the