The Tale of Oat Cake Crag - By Susan Wittig Albert Page 0,48

with the French novelist Guy de Maupassant, who said, “The experience of centuries has proved to us that females are, without exception, incapable of any true artistic or scientific work.” The owl believed, as he had said to his friend Bosworth, that females suffered from “certain innate and irremediable intellectual deficiencies” and should not be allowed to hold positions of authority.

However, since the owl was an owl and not a badger, his opinion regarding the Badge of Authority had not been considered. After a grueling test that proved to Bosworth that she suffered from no deficiencies of any sort, Hyacinth had been named to the post. Which did not mean that the owl had to like it. Moreover, he did not like to be interrupted when he was discussing the stars. In fact, he did not like to be interrupted at all.

He turned a severe gaze on Hyacinth. “Perhaps Mr. Baum met with an accident on the way tooo the village,” he suggested in an icy tone. He lifted his wings, shook them, and resettled them. “An unfortunate possibility, but a possibility nooonetheless. The horse runs away, the cart is overturned, the driver is throoown out and killed. It’s a possibility that must be considered.” Having settled the matter, he took a deep breath and went on. “Now, as I was saying about Jupiter—”

This time it was Rascal who interrupted, since they really had to get on with the discussion and not be sidetracked by an academic dissertation on the stars. “But we came by the road, Professor, and we didn’t see anything of Mr. Baum. So I don’t think there’s been an accident.”

“We didn’t come by the road the whole way, though,” Hyacinth reminded him. “We only came by the road as far as Raven Hall, with Major Kittredge. After that, we followed the path through the woods.”

“Yes, of course,” Rascal said, seeing immediately that Hyacinth was right. “So we need to go back by the road and see if there’s any sign of—”

“Wait a minute,” Hyacinth said, holding up her paw. “What’s that?”

Rascal looked around. “What’s what?” he asked nervously.

“That noise,” Hyacinth hissed. “Listen!”

The animals fell silent. For a moment, they heard nothing—nothing except the companionable conversation of the wind in the trees, the soft slush-hush-slush of the lake waters lapping against the shore below, and far away, the inquisitive crawk? of a night heron.

“Really,” said the Professor, still irritated at Hyacinth. “I dooo not think—”

“Shush!” said Hyacinth.

And then all three of them heard it at the same time: a long, low moan. Then one word, low, weak, quavery.

“Heellllp!”

It seemed to come from somewhere behind them, at the foot of the cliff.

“Whooo?” cried the owl, lifting his wings and turning his head from side to side to peer into the darkness all around. “Who-who-whooo?”

“Where?” barked Rascal sharply, turning around several times. “Where? Where are you?”

But Hyacinth wasted no time in asking questions. With her nose to the ground and her ears tuned for any sound, she made off into the dark, moving silently and skillfully in the way of a badger who knows what she’s looking for. It didn’t take her long to find it, either, in a thorny tangle of bushes growing out of a heap of fallen stones at the foot of the cliff, some thirty yards away. That’s where she made her chilling discovery.

For a moment, all she could do was stare. Then she raised her voice. “Over here!” she cried urgently. “Rascal! Professor! Over here!”

When the others reached Hyacinth, they found her crouched beside the sprawled figure of a man. His arms were flung out wide, his legs at odd angles, his head bleeding badly.

“Whooo?” asked the owl somberly. “Whoooooo?”

Rascal didn’t have to look twice. Hyacinth and I have already guessed, and I’m sure you have, too. But since the owl has asked . . .

“It’s Mr. Baum,” Rascal replied.

10

“Is He Dead?”

With a frightened cry, the injured man struggled to push himself up, looking wildly at the three animals clustered around him. Then, coughing weakly, he fell back against the rocks and lay very still, as still as death. He was a heavyset fellow, of a substantial size and girth. His eyes were closed, and in the moonlight, his round face was pasty-white. A trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Is he dead?” the owl inquired anxiously, peering down.

Hyacinth bent closer, checking the man’s breathing. “No,” she said, “at least, not yet. But he’s very badly hurt.” She looked up