“Fox say . . .” Echo paused. “Fox say, red spring.”
Kuma swallowed a smile. Raffa rolled his eyes and tried again. “Thank you, Echo, I heard what he said. Do you know what he means by that?”
“Fox red,” Echo replied.
Raffa took a breath to tighten his grip on his patience, which was beginning to feel quite slippery. “That’s right. He’s a red fox.”
Echo clicked, a sign that he was annoyed. “Bat Echo,” he said. “Fox Red.”
“His name!” Kuma exclaimed. “Echo, are you saying that Red is his name?”
“Kuma good!” Echo squeaked.
Red, spring.
Raffa frowned, thinking hard. The phrase reminded him of something. . . . What was it? He gnawed on a knuckle—why wouldn’t it come to him?
The smell of supper cooking drifted out into the yard. Raffa blinked.
Food. It had something to do with food.
Then he knew.
Months earlier. Dinner in Gilden with the Chancellor, where she had demonstrated the results of the first attempts to train the animals.
“It’s a command!” he exclaimed. “The Chancellor at dinner—when she called the chickadees, she said, ‘Beak, deliver!’ And the crows, ‘Ink, deliver!’ All of them have the same name—”
In Kuma’s eyes, he saw what he was feeling: a terrible moment of understanding.
Spring—at the throats of the sheep. And at the chickens on their roosts.
Red, spring!
It was the command that had sent the foxes to attack.
The fox was now trying to get out of the box. “Red spring, red spring, red spring red spring red—”
In a spate of frenzy, his front paws scrabbled desperately at nothing. Then he began jerking his head back and forth while at the same time snapping his jaws.
“Why is he doing that?” Kuma said in distress. She picked up the sacking and tried to wrap the fox in it. “Shusss, shusss.”
The fox let out a single yap so sharp and desperate that it was more like a scream. Then his eyes glazed over and he fell back, unconscious.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KUMA gasped. “What’s the matter with him?”
Raffa was as puzzled as she was. The fox’s jerky twitching seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Now that the animal had lost consciousness, Raffa was able to examine him carefully. “It looks like the puncture is a flesh wound. I don’t think any of the organs got damaged.”
The bleeding had stopped, and both wounds were clean and dry. The scarlet vine had again worked its miracle. Two of them: the healing, and the speaking.
Raffa narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate. Hundreds of animals in the Chancellor’s secret compound had been dosed with a combination containing the vine, yet, as far as he knew, none of them could speak. Only four had gained that ability—
The ones he himself had treated.
Raffa’s heart thumped in his chest. Can it be . . . Is it because of me?
Ever since Raffa was a small child, people had regarded his apothecarial talent with awe. In fact, many in the pother settlement called him “the baby genius,” which he had always hated. Now he found himself wondering if they might have been right all along.
A bat, two raccoons, and a fox.
He had treated them.
Raffa’s pride swelled as his thoughts raced. He had known from the start that the scarlet vine was special, but now it seemed that it wasn’t just the vine itself.
It was him.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. It would be a great responsibility: He alone would have the power to decide which animals were to be given the gift of speech. Perhaps working animals should take priority over pets. His parents would surely help him make these kinds of decisions at first. . . .
His parents.
He heard their voices in his head, reminding him what it meant to be an honorable apothecary, whose first duty was always to heal.
And the sentence shifted.
He had treated them.
Raffa froze as realization pushed its way through his bloated pride.
Each of the four animals had been badly injured. Somehow, when given to a wounded animal, the scarlet vine had the wondrous consequence of enabling it to speak. None of the creatures in the secret shed compound could talk . . . because they had been dosed while healthy.
Raffa knew in his bones that this was the truth, and he had to close his eyes for a moment in utter embarrassment, beyond grateful that he’d spoken none of his thoughts aloud.
It wasn’t him at all.
Chastened, he returned his attention to the fox. He was now completely limp, not asleep, but in a deep state of torpor.
Kuma hovered over the box, her face tight with worry. “He . . . It reminds me of when Echo was sick, remember?”
How could he forget? Raffa reached for the perch to stroke Echo with a fingertip, with silent thanks for the bat’s recovery.
Haddie came out to the yard to announce that supper would be late. All hands were needed to erect torch stands throughout the common area. Elson and the other settlement leaders were hoping that torches burning through the night would discourage any further attacks.
Raffa wanted to help, but once again Elson thought it best that he stay out of sight and mind of the other steaders. Elson had met with the heads of the settlement families that afternoon to tell them of the Chancellor’s plot. As expected, the responses ranged from skepticism to downright disbelief, but all were agreed on the importance of stopping another attack.
“I couldn’t leave your name out of the telling,” Elson said. “I’m afraid Bantan is all the more suspicious now. I’d rather not have to worry about you getting into trouble with anyone tonight.”
Raffa had to concede that Elson was speaking sense. Besides, staying behind would give him a chance to work on trying to cure the fox.
With Haddie’s permission, he used one end of the table as a workspace. As he cleared the table, he thought about the fox, his state of torpor so like that which had afflicted Echo.
Suddenly a brilliant white light filled his mind, so strong that he blinked against its brightness. It lasted only a few moments, and as it faded, Raffa realized why it had come to him.
The cavern plant! I’ll make a stimulant, with the cavern plant added!
Missum Yuli had given him some mellia and dried ranagua berries. He also had the panax root he had found that afternoon. He would combine those three botanicals with the cavern plant. If it worked, it would be an important step toward confirming that the cavern plant did indeed have healing properties.
The plant’s twiggy growth had a smooth surface that felt slightly waxy to the touch. Raffa knew of other water plants with this quality—lily pads, sea-celery, bubbleweed. Useful water plants were boiled to extract their essences, and then the solution was boiled further until only a residue remained.
It was a tricky procedure. There was nothing quite as mind-numbingly tedious as watching a liquid boil. In a single moment of inattentiveness, the solution could go from boil to burn, ruining the residue.
Raffa came up with a way to attend to the solution while keeping boredom at bay. He played a game with Echo, the bat’s favorite. It was very simple: They took turns naming insects. The first one to repeat an insect named earlier was the loser.
“Skeeto,” Echo said.
“Midge.”
“Mayfly.”
Raffa set up a pattern: Each time he named an insect, he checked the solution. “Katydid.”
“Wasp.”
“Skimmer.”
“Moonwing.”
“Moonwing?” Raffa shook his head. “I’ve never heard of that—are you making it up?”
Then he checked himself. Of course Echo would know insects that Raffa himself wasn’t familiar with. Besides, was it even possible for the bat to make things up? Animals were capable of deception, he knew; they could hide from predators or feign injury. But that�
�s different from . . . from inventing things. Or lying.
Only humans, it seemed, had that dubious ability.
“Moonwing tasty,” Echo chirped.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Raffa replied. He wondered what a moonwing looked like.
The game went on for a surprisingly long time. It never failed to amaze Raffa, the number of flying insects Echo could name.
It was Raffa’s turn. “Mayfly.”
“Raffa no! Echo mayfly! Echo win! Echo good!”
Echo always won. Fair and square, too—Raffa never “let” him win. The bat was surprised and delighted when he triumphed, no matter how many times it happened.
After three rounds of the game—with Echo winning all three—the solution had nearly boiled dry. Raffa took the pot from the stove; the last of the liquid evaporated from the heat of the pot alone. He let the pot cool a little, then carefully scraped a portion of the residue into his mortar.
He pounded the ingredients together until they were powdered. He added a few drops of colza oil, then began working the pestle with a circular motion. So familiar, this action . . . taking him to a place that was somehow apart from the rest of the world, a place where he could empty his troubled mind of everything except the work. It was here, in this state, that he had experienced his strongest moments of intuition. Would it happen this time?
Soon he had a smooth paste; he stopped moving the pestle to take a closer look.
To his amazement, the paste continued to spin!
Quickly he lifted the mortar off the tabletop. Untouched, the paste was still swirling and spinning, a hollow in its center, like a tiny, perfect whirlpool. He stared at it, mesmerized.
And in his mind, he heard a humming noise whose cadence was round and even and steady upon solid.
Raffa took the infusion out to the shed, along with a lantern, which he hung from a nail in the wall. He placed two fingers on the fox’s chest. The beats of his heart were far apart, just as Echo’s had been. But his wounds had healed so well that Raffa decided to remove the bindings.
He dosed the fox with the cavern-plant infusion. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Echo flitted off to hunt. Raffa spent the next couple of hours cleaning and sorting the botanicals he had collected that afternoon. Then Kuma arrived, her face smeared with soot. “The torches are ready,” she said. “And we’re divided into two shifts, to stand watch. Elson and Haddie and I are on the second shift.”
Raffa hoped that Elson would allow him to help stand watch; maybe he could be posted where Bantan wouldn’t see him.
“I dosed him earlier,” he said, nodding toward the fox. “I might have to give him more than one—”
“Raffa, look!”
The fox was awake. He pawed at the sacking until it fell off. Then he stood up in the box. Kuma took a step toward him; he growled and bared his teeth.
She moved no closer, but spoke quietly to Raffa. “His eyes,” she said.
Raffa looked at the fox’s face. His eyes were completely black, without the faintest trace of purple.
The animal drew back from them, growling and bristling. Whatever he did seemed natural and normal; his movements were no longer jerky or manic.
“Stand up, slowly,” Kuma said. “I think he can get to the floor by jumping down on that crate. I’m going to open the door. Be prepared for him to bolt.” She backed away, the fox watching her every move.
Raffa rose and edged toward the wall. Kuma threw open the door. The fox jumped out of the box. He leapt from the shelf to the crate, then practically flew through the door, a rust-colored blur.
They rushed outside the shed and watched as the fox dashed across the field and disappeared from sight.
Kuma’s eyes were shining. “Did you see that?” she exclaimed. She held out her hands toward Raffa, palms flat and together, and he clapped her hands between his.
“You did it!” she said. “He’s his lovely wild self again!”
They returned to the house. Kuma chattered on about the fox; Raffa didn’t think he’d ever seen her so animated. He finally cut in; he had something important to discuss with her.
“. . . and the injuries all healed, too—”
“You heard him growl, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, he sounded completely normal!”
“Do you think that means he can’t talk now?”
She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t think of that,” she said. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Raffa nodded slowly. It did make sense—which was why he couldn’t bring himself to voice his next thoughts. Given what had happened to the fox, could Echo likewise lose his ability to speak?
Maybe . . . I could give him a tiny dose of the scarlet-vine infusion. To keep him talking. Raffa felt the wrongness of this impulse like a pebble in his shoe, but he couldn’t help thinking about it.
Kuma’s eyes widened. “You’re worried about Echo, aren’t you,” she said in a near-whisper. “You’re afraid that he might stop talking, too.”
“I don’t understand it,” Raffa said. “He ate those insects in the cavern two days ago, but he can still speak.”
Kuma wrinkled her forehead. “Listen to what you just said. Echo ate the insects. The fox had the infusion. Maybe that’s the difference.”
Raffa lifted his head in sudden hope. That, too, made sense. The essence distilled from the cavern plant and then combined with the other botanicals might well have a different effect from the insects. He shouldn’t assume that Echo would stop talking; for the time being, he should watch and wait.
But what if Echo wants to stop talking—and doesn’t want to stay with me anymore?
Raffa recalled that Echo had clearly enjoyed meeting the bats in the cavern, and had once spoken wistfully about the companionship of other bats.
He’s not a prisoner, Raffa thought stubbornly. He can leave anytime. He’s staying with me because he wants to.
Kuma was studying his face. “It could be like with me and Roo,” she said, “her living in the wild, but I can still see her whenever I want.”
Once again she had seemingly read his mind, and he understood what she had left unsaid. She would far rather that Echo reverted entirely to his natural, wild, nonspeaking self.
Raffa couldn’t bring himself to think about life without Echo’s daily companionship. To his relief, Kuma changed the subject.
“Haddie says we’re to eat,” she said. “They’re still working. They’ll come home when they can.”
He was grateful for the change in subject, and gave her a silent nod of thanks.
She dished out corn mush. Raffa ate quickly, not really noticing the food, his mind on the fox again.
He had finally remembered where he had seen something like the fox’s twitchiness: in a very few patients treated by his parents. Patients who had misused their botanical combinations, by taking them for too long a time or in too great a quantity. They became addicted. Their hands shook; their movements were jerky; they developed facial tics. They took more and more of the infusion but gained less and less relief. It was a terrible, crippling cycle.
Raffa was reminded of a conversation with Uncle Ansel about the dosing of the animals. It wears off. . . . They have to be dosed for every training session.
So perhaps the fox had been given the vine infusion over and over. Echo had not shown any signs of addiction, but he had been dosed only a few times.
The symptoms of addiction . . . the state of torpor. Could both be caused by the vine, the one from overuse, the other a long-term repercussion? The vine was such an unknown botanical, and Raffa’s father, Mohan, had cautioned him about it from the very beginning. There is too much we do not know, Mohan had said.
While still not a certainty, it seemed highly likely that the cavern plant had the ability to counteract the negative effects of the scarlet vine: Just as eating the insects had cured Echo, the combination with the cavern plant had cured the fox and returned him to
his natural state. For a brief moment, Raffa wished that they hadn’t released the fox; he would have liked to observe him for a few days, to see if the cure was permanent.
But besides the fact that Kuma wouldn’t have stood for it, the idea of keeping the fox in captivity made Raffa think once again of the hundreds of trapped animals in the secret shed compound. . . .
A flash of realization made him sit up straighter. Releasing the animals in the compound would accomplish two things in one shake: It would stop the Chancellor’s project, and it would give the animals their freedom.
But Raffa knew that he couldn’t uncage them as they were now, dosed with the vine. It made them docile and obedient, and suppressed many of their natural instincts.
If he could somehow manage to feed the antidote to all the animals in the shed compound, so that they would return to their normal state, and then free them—that was the answer!
“Kuma,” he said, his voice low and tense. “I think the scarlet-vine infusion might be producing bad effects as well as good ones. But the cavern plant could be an antidote. What I want to do now is to make a whole lot of the antidote, and then—”
“Wait,” she said. “You think the vine might be what made Echo sick? And the fox as well?”
“I can’t be sure, but it seems likely—”
“So it could be that any animal dosed with the vine might get sick?”
“There’s no way of knowing,” Raffa said, shaking his head, “without examining them. Two cases—that’s not enough to be certain.”
“But . . .” Her forehead creased in worry. “Don’t you see what that means, for Twig? If it’s true, then she might be sick now, too!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
RAFFA immediately tried to reassure Kuma. “She wasn’t dosed anywhere near as many times as the fox,” he said.
“Neither was Echo,” she retorted. “Raffa, she’s barely more than a baby! It might affect her differently. I have to go back and see how she is. And take some of the antidote with me.”
He argued a little longer, but nothing he said alleviated her fears. She insisted that they immediately begin work on the antidote. Raffa agreed; he wanted to do this anyway.
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