Flight of the Lemmings

Beginning of a YA story, maybe middle grade

Flight of the Lemmings, by Kim Smith copyright 2008

 

 

The Mound of Alpinagard was a landmark throughout Huldaheim, excised

 

out of the frozen tundra from ages of the ebb and flow of melting and running snows.

 

During the Season, a time of year when the warm air blew and turned the stiff frozen

 

tundra into a maelstrom of color and smells, the rocks lost their mantle of white and small

 

tuffs of gray and green began to appear. The rhododendron and cranberries flourished

 

atop the Mound and its highly visible purple scarf was a herald to all as they arrived in  

 

the region.  

 

            The little village of Lemmingway, tucked away unnoticed beneath the Mound’s

 

overhang, was tranquil. The hordes of Lemmings who came for the Season had not yet

 

arrived, giving those who were butchers or bakers or candlestick makers all time to

 

prepare.

 

 Furnest of Lemmingway, the most well received inn in the region, was a

 

gathering place and hotbed for news of the wide world of Huldaheim. Located at the end

 

of the village and set at the outskirts of the natural springs of Bryndel, all the young

 

Lemmings came to stay there. They would frolic in the water all Season long and many

 

an hour would be spent basking in the warmth as everyone lay along its edge.

 

 Frey, a golden brown Lemming named for the Norse sun god, finished his last

 

official duty of the opening to the Season, hanging the Furnest sign. The sign clanged

 

loud and clear in the spring breezes as if it were calling to the soon-to-arrive.

 

Frey jumped down from the three-legged stool and was just about to go inside the

 

inn, when a shadow crossed overhead and caused him to look up.

 

“Toffe?” he asked, as a bundle of white and brown fluffed feathers came sailing

 

down. Then, the brilliant sun cleared the Mound, nearly blinding him. He stumbled over

 

the stool and rolled, pink nose over stubby tail.

           

“Toffe!” he sputtered, gathering himself upright and wiping off his whiskers.   

 

“The one and same!” she announced, proud of her landing on the Furnest sign.

 

“I was hoping you would make it, but goodness, give a guy a little warning will

 

you?” he grumped, inspecting his clothes for dirt, “Why do you always have to make an

 

entrance?”

 

“Oh, sorry about that. You don’t seem too roughed up,” she quipped, black eyes

 

twinkling at the imagined damages. He gave her a pained look.

 

 Changing the subject, Toffe asked, “Have you been in the village long? I just saw

 

a new forge on my way over.”

 

“Not long, only a few days, but we’re almost ready now,” he replied, watching

 

her as she settled on the ground beside him. Her feet made marks hardly bigger than

 

scratches in the still-frozen earth. “Do you know of anyone else coming back this year?”

 

“Why, Frey! Is there someone you’re expecting with that anxious look?” Let me

 

see, it couldn’t be Brigga?” she asked, feigning surprise. Frey wiggled his nose and

 

looked away. Toffe was too clever. Brigga was a pretty, silver-tipped Lemming, who had

 

shown a lot of attention to Frey last year.    

 

“Don’t be squirrelly. I was just asking,” he sniffed, as she began to laugh at his

 

retreat from the question.  

 

“You’re so wicked, Frey, wicked, wicked,” she twittered. At her words, he burst

 

out laughing. No one could make him laugh as hard as Toffe.

 

 “How about some welcoming food?” she asked flapping a wing in his face. He

 

opened the wooden door for her and she floated in on a draft of air.

 

            Furnest of Lemmingway, was full of aromas. The warm smell of bread baking,

 

the mustiness of earthen walls and floors, and the sharp tang of vegetables boiling in a

 

large kettle for supper sent their stomachs grumbling. Frey’s parents stocked the pantry

 

on the far side of the room behind a tall oak root that had a single, wide limb that served

 

as a bar.

 

“Furnest is not just an inn but also a watering hole for all Alpinagard,” they

 

overheard Frey’s father, Gizno, declare. He was a proud fourth generation ale master,

 

who had brews of renown throughout the region. Brew making was an ancient art,

 

handed down from father to son.  

 

“Frey knows that sooner or later he will have to get serious about his future and

 

learn the craft,” his mother Ruska replied, “he just can’t seem to keep his mind on it these

 

days.”

Gizno snorted and said, “The measuring and tending shouldn’t take forever and

 

all he ended up doing was taking a nap in the warmth of the brew room. When I found

 

him, he told me that he wanted to learn how to wield a sword not a stirring stick.” 

 

Frey looked apologetically at Toffe who winked at him. She loudly sang out,

 

“Can a bird get a little service in this place?”

 

Gizno stood up and peered over the Root, as it was known, “Well, blow me to

 

Articagard, it’s Miss Toffe!”

 

“Hello Toffe,” Ruska called from her place at the pantry, “I’ll be out in just a bit,

 

I’ve got to finish up in here.”

 

“No hurry, madam. I’ll be here all Season,” Toffe joked.

 

“Frey, you should have told us that you were here,” Gizno admonished,

 

“Eavesdroppers hear nothing good about themselves.”

 

Frey shrugged as he and Toffe seated themselves at a rough-hewn table, Gizno

 

brought large steaming bowls of the soup, complete with crusty brown bread. Ruska

 

appeared soon after with mugs of clear spring water to wash it all down with. She made

 

sure that Frey’s guest was comfortable and left them alone. The clink of spoon against

 

crockery was the only sound for some time.

 

            Finally, after sighing satisfactorily at her full stomach, Toffe began a new

 

conversation. “Did you really say that? About the swordplay, I mean? You know Heimel

 

was looking for recruits just last year. Not one single Lemming signed up either, and you

 

know your kin are supposed to be fierce fighters. At least that is what the history books

 

say about your great-great-great grandpa. How many great’s was he anyway?”

 

            “Four I think,” Frey replied, keeping his voice low, “Don’t think I would get a

 

chance to even go and ask old Heimel now. My dad is pretty undone about that ‘handing

 

down of the family business’ as you just heard. And my mother gets a sneezing fit every

 

time I ask about our ancestry. She’s funny about it for some reason.”

 

            “Too bad, because if the news that’s coming up the trail from Bryndel Bridge is

 

correct, we may have to have volunteers to set up a watch. They may even get to see

 

action with those swords,” she announced, quietly. Frey sat up straight and leaned closer

 

to her anxiously. “What news comes from the Bryndel?” 

 

            “Well,” she went on, happy to be able to share with someone, “apparently there

 

was a scare last fall, just as everyone was leaving Alpinagard to go home for the winter. I

 

stuck around here a while, hating that long flight home, and ran into Heimel over on the

 

timberline side. He had been hunting, he said, and came upon a vixen showing off her

 

new offspring. ”

 

            “Spawn of Hel!” Frey exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

 

Toffe raised her voice, getting equally excited, “And Trysto was there too. He found the

 

remains of some of her victims. Seems that a seal family came too far south last year and

 

she made a mess of them.”

 

            Gizno skidded to a halt just beside the doorway leading off to the rooms, as he

 

overheard the name of the ground squirrel. “What is this news? Dead seals?” His pot

 

belly swayed as he waddled over to the table.

 

            Toffe fluffed her feathers and Frey gave her a stern look, “ Yes sir, I’m sorry to

 

announce. You really should reconsider letting Frey join up with the border guards. They

 

could use a strong strapper like him, since a vixen was seen with young up here last fall.

 

You know what that means.”

 

            “Hmm…yes. She will most likely return this spring and her pups will for sure,”

 

he pondered, rubbing his whiskers and looking at Frey with renewed interest. “Has

 

anyone seen anything around the area lately?”

 

            “No, not that I have heard. However, I did just arrive. Maybe Trysto or Heimel

 

could tell you more. I will probably fly over that way tonight, do you want me to ask

 

them to come by?”

 

            Frey watched his father. Gizno was not fond of the roughnecks who guarded the

 

region. They had a tendency to drink too much ale, fall asleep in the great hall under the

 

Root, and slip out early in the morning without paying.

 

            “No, I think that this young strapper, as you called him, should go and inquire for

 

me,” he pulled on a whisker, “Maybe he needs to find out more about this guarding

 

thing.”

 

 Toffe and Frey exchanged looks. Then the Ptarmigan slapped the table with her

 

wing, “Just what I was about to suggest!” They rose from the table and started for the

 

door when sneezing was heard from the pantry. Then, Ruska yelled, “Wait a minute, you

 

scoundrels!” They froze in their places and looked at Gizno who only shrugged and

 

watched as she appeared, wiping her nose on a piece of cloth. She walked over and

 

hugged them. “Don’t come back here dirty and tired. I’ll be wantin’ assistance with

 

the customers out of the likes of you both.”

 

            “Yes, Mother,” Frey sang out, happier than he had ever been. Toffe saluted her.

 

And with a wave they were gone. 

Author's Note

Not edited yet.