Thredwyl has just nine days of freedom before he becomes a staid tame rock. So why has he stirred his cousins to rebellion?
Read Chapter Three here. Or read Blurb and Chapters One to Three on Wattpad.
At first, in his haste to be with his cousins, Thredwyl had skipped along the labyrinthine passages that led from the centre of the clan-land, where Grandma Nari oversaw the doings of the Sapphire Kupies, his magical light lighting the way. The farther from the centre, the fewer the neatly turned columns with their fluted capitals, those elegant living places with lockable doors and flowing water. The farther from the centre, the fewer the signs of those long-ago magicians who had transformed the original caverns.
Until he’d heard Jawman Arion’s Tale of Creation, and the discussions that followed it, he’d given no thought that in morphing and modifying the rocks of creation, those early magicians had in effect criticised the Great Grandma, She of Creation. Naturally he’d given it no thought, for when had philosophical discussion been of interest to the immature Kupie. But now that his mind was alerted he couldn’t help but notice how what he’d thought of as normal was in fact ‘tamed’. And the tamed slowly gave way to the ‘wild’, the wild being the unaltered caverns where Thredwyl and his cousins explored and adventured and held their dares.
Me and my cousins, we’re the wild and original form. But Thredwyl’s philosophising got no further than that.
A cacophony of greetings, of hey and ho and yay and here comes Old Thredy erupted as the tight rock of the passage spewed him into Gruff’s Cavern. There followed so many slaps on his back he feared for his old injury, that invisible flaw that ran right through him, a constant reminder of a dare gone wrong.
When all the greeting quietened down, the questions began. But it was no good them asking what had been said at the Mother’s Meeting. He was forbidden to say. Yet he couldn’t help mentioning what he’d noticed on his way to the cavern.
“What,” Chrean said, “we’re the original Kupies and those…those staid old rocks are…are not?”
“Then why must we jump to their call?” Thredwyl’s young brother Yaren asked.
“They want us all to be like them,” another cousin, Vizan, lamented.
“Afraid, that’s what they are,” Chrean said, which led to grumbles and shouts of agreement.
“Let’s do an uprising,” Vizan suggested with youthful zeal. “Like in the jawmen’s tales.”
Thredwyl wasn’t sure about this, he could feel himself being split, a foot in each cave. And what form anyway would an uprising take? And when the staid old rocks overcame them – which obviously they would – what punishment might they mete out?
Yet he’d started this potential rebellion with his words, now he must curb his cousins’ wild enthusiasm. But how?
“Before we do anything,” he said – and he’d only nine days in which to act, “we need an infiltrator. All the tales have an infiltrator who acquires the essential insider knowledge. What we need is the Mothers Manual.”
He didn’t know if such a book existed yet imagined one must since every Grandma throughout the lands of Dolstone ordered their clans the same.
“Good thinking,” Chrean declared.
“And my brother’s the one for it,” Yaren said and spun around in madcap excitement.
Thredwyl pulled away, his eyes darting across the cavern. He’d never realised before just how many cousins he had. And now everyone of them was shouting, cheering and air-punching and declaring him the Infiltrator.
But…but…but…this wasn’t what he’d intended. He wobbled, dizzied, he wanted to sit, hold his head in his hands, wail, Nay-nay-nay-nay, not me.
No chance of that, not with his cousins crowded around him. Whoa, nay, now they’d picked him up. They carried him through the cavern, mindless of the stalactites that crashed against his head, and that head still fragile after imbibing that adults-only brew. They chanted, “Precious Thredwyl, Infiltrator, Hero of our Uprising.”
“Just…just…just put me down,” he shouted. And when, maybe shocked at his annoyance, they did as he asked, he said, “Maybe I’m not the best Kupie for the task. Nine days, I’ve only nine days left.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, tugged at his coat to rearrange the folds, and loosened his white neckcloth before it strangled him.
“Are you afraid?” Vizan asked, his head cocked in challenge.
“Nay-nix, absolutely not,” Thredwyl denied. Though aye, he was.
“Only,” Vizan said, “we’ve never known you to turn down a dare. Have you morphed already into a staid tame rock?”
“Absolutely not. Though is it really a dare? A dare needs a prize and a forfeit.” Thredwyl’s fingers tweaked his cuffs as if to neaten them, an action he’d seen the night before when one philosopher or another seemed exceptionally satisfied with an argument.
“He wants a prize,” Vizan said, turning to address the gathered cousins. “What’s it to be? It’s a big dare, you must agree. He has nine days to sneak into Grandma’s Chamber, find where she’s stored her Mothers Manual, pilfer it and bring it to us here. That’s dangerous that is. Would you do it? Nay, I admit I wouldn’t. What if Grandma Nari finds him there, and him without an invite?
“Then again,” Vizan said, having warmed to this oration, “he’s only nine days left. Think on it. When we hit that uprising, he’s going to be one of those staid old rocks. He needs a prize that’ll ensure his silence.”
Nay, what Thredwyl needed was someone else to do it. This was not a suitable dare for him. Why had he suggested it? Oh aye, to stall their dangerous talk of an uprising, talk which his own foolish prattling had started.
But then…ping! His inner magical light lit up. If he took the dare, but then didn’t succeed… would that squash their thoughts of rebellion?
Why had he opened his mouth. But at least he hadn’t mentioned the philosophers’ debate that had followed the jawman’s tale. How had Grandma the Creator created their passages and caverns? Had she used water? In which case the Nixies were created before the Stones and that was the epitome of nonsensical thinking. Or had she used fire? Which would place the Fernamon above the Stones. But on second thought, maybe he’d have done better to mention these, for these were concepts way above his cousin’s wild heads.
“Come on,” he said, “I’m waiting. I risk everything to fetch you the Manual. But that Manual’s no good to me. Nine days and I’ll be one of the tamed. So tempt me to do your bidding, young cousins of mine.”
“I’m not your cousin, I’m your brother,” Yaren called back.
Thredwyl smiled at Yaren, but otherwise ignored him. “What’s the prize. And what’s the forfeit if I should fail?”
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