The Only

by Katherine Applegate; Michael Grant

  The air we breathe comes from trees.

  It seemed like a quaint notion. Trees making air? But, I supposed, people were free to believe what they wanted.

  “My people, the dairnes, often build nests in trees,” I said.

  The raggler seemed to like that. But then he asked, Why do you carry a sword and shield?

  I smiled. “Because I have no spikes, my friend.”

  I was rewarded with a silent song that I somehow knew was a wave of laughter. It was a relief to know the ragglers had a sense of humor.

  At first light we will guide you on your way.

  “I believe, Tobble, that they have just, in the politest way possible, told us that in the morning we must move on.”

  “Indeed,” Tobble said, nodding his approval. “Very polite and proper.”

  The glowing spokesman returned to the treetops, raised by vine. Tobble and I laid out our bedrolls, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt secure in the knowledge that, for this one night at least, we were safe.

  Warm, fully fed, and with time to think, I lay awake brooding about my friends. I was concerned for all of them, but it was Khara who worried me most. She had such a crushing weight of responsibility on her young shoulders.

  In time I drifted into a deep sleep. I dreamed of war and bloodshed and death, and of decency and forgiveness and peace. I dreamed of my first family, the one I would never see again, and of my second family, the one I desperately hoped to see again soon.

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was startled to see hundreds of ragglers in the tree above me. It was daylight, so they no longer glowed, though they were still tinted in golds and violets. Next to me, Tobble was just waking up.

  Tobble blinked at me. “Did you hear what they’re singing?”

  I frowned. Did I . . . yes. I did. But it seemed absurd. “Are they saying they might help us stop the war?”

  Tobble nodded.

  “But we never asked them. And anyway, what could they do?”

  “We didn’t need to ask them. They heard our dreams.”

  “They . . . what, now?” It was an alarming thought. Most of the time I didn’t remember my own dreams upon waking. These spiky little creatures were not only seeing them, but discussing them?

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’m very sorry, how inconsiderate of me. Yes, one of the things that’s so interesting about ragglers is the way they can hear thoughts. In fact, they don’t hear sounds at all. Just the music of your mind.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “It’s probably better that I didn’t know.”

  I looked up at the treetops. I didn’t understand how to send thoughts, so I simply asked, “Friends, how can you help?”

  The answer was again wordless and lyrical, pictures that simply unfolded in my brain.

  I gasped, grabbing for Tobble’s arm.

  “Tobble,” I whispered.

  “Yes, Byx?”

  “I think this might be an important thing.”

  “Very important.”

  “We’ll need to convince your people. And Sabito and Stimball will have to persuade the raptidons. But if those things happen . . .”

  I couldn’t finish my thought. It was too hopeful, and if I’d learned anything, it was that hope wasn’t always enough.

  And yet, as we packed up our gear and saddled Havoc, that was all I heard in my head. A tuneless, voiceless song that somehow resolved into a single thought: There is still hope.

  19

  A Wobbyk Reunion

  After leaving the ragglers, we’d planned on a three-day ride to Bossyp. But the first snow of the year began to fall, a light dusting at first, soon followed by fat flakes. We ended up spending most of the second day sheltering in an abandoned lean-to.

  The crude shack must have belonged to a shepherd, because we found rusted shearing scissors and a stack of burlap bags used to carry fleece to market. We were atop a low hill, not too far from the water’s edge. To our great delight, we discovered a small shed, well stocked with firewood and kindling. We made a little fire in the simple hearth and watched half a dozen different types of birds wading along the rocky shore, while eagles circled overhead, using their amazing eyes to spot tasty fish in the shallow waters.

  Tobble was obviously excited to be so close to his homeland. He spent hours telling me about how he’d learned to fish with his father and uncle, and regaled me with stories about his many siblings. How he could keep them all straight was beyond me.

  It felt wonderful to see my dear friend full of such anticipation, but in truth, I had a pang of sadness, even jealousy, as I listened to Tobble. I knew it was wrong, and I berated myself for being so small and selfish. But he had a family, a home, a village to return to. And I did not.

  Tobble must have sensed my feelings, because that evening he said, “Byx, I wish you could be doing what I’m about to do. If only you could go home, too.”

  “Thank you, friend.” I paused, listening to windblown snow skimming the roof. “But I try to remind myself that at least I’m alive. Unlike . . . everyone else.” I reached for his paw. “And truly, Tobble, I am so happy for you.”

  We fell asleep, huddled side by side. It helped us both stay warm. But I knew, for me at least, that it was comforting to have Tobble’s steady snoring so close.

  The next morning we shoved open the shed door to find endless sheets of sparkling white. The snow was up to my waist, and head-high for Tobble. We decided to push on, and Havoc managed well enough. But in the afternoon, storm clouds rolled in, and this time the snow was not playing games. It fell all night without pause, and we found ourselves longing for the little shed. We spread blankets over low branches to serve as a roof, then shivered through the night and into a gloomy morning.

  “Havoc can’t handle this much snow,” I said. “We could be stuck here for a few days until the snow melts, but if the weather stays cold, it could be until next spring.”

  “I certainly hope not!” Tobble exclaimed. “We’ll starve. Or freeze. Or starve and then freeze. We’re trapped! Stuck!”

  He paced back and forth on the narrow patch of muddy ground beneath our “tent.”

  “I cannot let Khara down,” I muttered. “She’s counting on us to recruit your people.”

  “We’re so close,” Tobble cried. “It’s not fair!”

  “Look! Ships,” I said, pointing, mostly to distract Tobble from his growing panic.

  “Ships?” he asked, startled. He shaded his eyes and looked out to sea. “Those aren’t ships, just fishing boats. They’re low in the water, so they must have a good catch. Soon they’ll head for harbor. They could carry us, if only they knew we wished it.”

  “Too bad they can’t hear us,” I mused. “I suppose we could wave our hands frantically.” I heaved a sigh. Then an idea took hold. “Tobble, did you pack some of the dry kindling from that little shed?”

  He understood immediately and unbundled the sticks and grass, while I set to work with steel and flint. It took several tries, but finally we had a fire going.

  A small fire that would not last long.

  Tobble craned his head back and looked up at the smoke rising from the fire. “More smoke,” he said. “The fire’s too small, but they might notice smoke. Gather some damp grass from under the snow!”

  We both fell to our knees, sticking freezing hands into the snow to yank up fistfuls of grass. It worked. The fire acting on the damp grass made a satisfying pillar of smoke.

  To add to our chances, we each grabbed a burning kindling stick and waved it in the air.

  “They’ll see the smoke, and if they squint hard enough, they’ll see us,” Tobble said. “They’re fishermen. They keep a sharp lookout.”

  The boat took an hour to draw near, and it came no closer than a quarter league. But to our relief, a longboat was launched from it. And not just any longboat.

  “They’re two of my brothers!” Tobble cried. “Helloooo, Piddlecombe! Helloooo, Horgle!”

>   Piddlecombe and Horgle leapt out into the surf, yanked the boat onto the wet sand, and dashed up the snowy embankment toward Tobble. Both wobbyks were taller than Tobble, but they shared my friend’s huge ears, long whiskers, and protruding tummy.

  The three of them embraced as one, sobbing and laughing and shouting all at once. It made my heart swell to see Tobble’s elated smile.

  “Wait!” the tallest brother cried. He pointed to Tobble’s three carefully braided tails, tied with a leather cord. “You . . . what . . . how?” Dumbstruck, he pointed to his own three loose tails.

  The other brother, whose tails were also unbraided, was more direct. “Who gave you permission to braid your tails? And why?”

  I couldn’t believe it. I knew that the tail-braiding ceremony wobbyks called a “stibillary” was an important rite of passage. Still and all, the brothers hadn’t seen Tobble in months. They might well have presumed him dead. Yet his braid was what they focused on?

  Tobble puffed out his chest. “I may have performed certain admirable acts.”

  “Acts of bravery and selflessness,” I added.

  “As for who gave me permission,” Tobble continued, “why, it was the Lady of Nedarra herself, leader of the Army of Peace.”

  The brothers went speechless, mouths agape. They turned to me for confirmation.

  “Yes,” I said. “Your brother Tobble is quite important now. In fact, we’re here on the Lady’s business.”

  Talking up my faithful friend gave me great pleasure. But not as much pleasure as it gave Tobble himself. I could have sworn he grew an inch taller while I watched.

  “Piddlecombe, Horgle, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Byx of the dairnes.”

  Horgle, the taller of the two, gave a bow, and Piddlecombe followed suit. “A dairne,” Piddlecombe marveled. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “And you know the Lady of Nedarra?” Horgle asked. “You’ve actually met her?”

  Tobble tilted his chin. “Indeed, I count myself as both her loyal servant and her friend.”

  “We thought you were . . . you know,” said Piddlecombe. “A goner.”

  “He’s come close.” I patted Tobble on the back. “But your brother, as I’m sure you know, is a fierce warrior when he needs to be.”

  The brothers gave nervous nods. Tobble was practically floating on air, he was so enjoying the moment.

  “If you would be so kind, Brothers,” he said. “As you heard, we’re on a mission of the greatest importance, a matter of life and death. Take us to Bossyp at once!”

  He was clearly enjoying his new authority, but being a wobbyk, he had to add, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  20

  Making an Entrance

  The wind was against us through that night, so we crowded together. The sound of Tobble and his brothers, snoring in near-unison, was soothing music to my weary ears. In the morning we boarded the longboat and returned to the offshore fishing vessel. It was a cramped and unsettling, if brief, trip for Havoc, but he’d grown used to being unsettled. He clambered up a ramp with ease, and soon an offshore breeze filled the fishing boat’s sail and we skimmed away.

  The land reeled by, mostly fallow pastures dotted with stands of snow-blanketed trees. It looked like gentle, pleasant country. A countryside kept gentle and pleasant, at least in part, because the ragglers blocked much of the land route.

  Tobble had tried to describe a wobbyk village to me, but as we tacked northwest and his little town came into view, I realized he hadn’t begun to do it justice. It was like something out of a child’s dream.

  Wobbyks live underground for the most part, so I knew that the village was crisscrossed by a vast network of tunnels. What I hadn’t realized was that wobbyks also build above-ground huts in the shape of cones. From the centers of most cones rose a tree, sometimes a thin birch sapling, sometimes a massive oak. The bigger the tree, the taller the cone hut. Some of the huts were easily six times my own height.

  Each hut was painted in one of six bright colors: purple, gold, turquoise, spring green, pink, or ocean blue. Bossyp extended up the side of a small slope, revealing patterns in the hut colors: a streak of purple, a circle of gold, a jagged lightning bolt of pink. Each color was distinct, occupying a specific area, a bit like a neighborhood in a city.

  “It’s delightful!” I exclaimed. “When you said wobbyks built tunnels, you never mentioned all the rest of this.”

  Tobble frowned. “Didn’t I? Surely you didn’t think we lived like moles or rabbits. You can’t very well have a proper tunnel without a hut to shield the opening from rain and snow.”

  “True enough. But what about the trees?”

  “Well, Byx, we don’t want rain pouring in, but we do want water. So when it rains—and mind you, it rains frequently in Bossyp—water runs down the bark in little streams. It collects in underground pools, then funnels into channels that we use for drinking and washing. My goodness, we wouldn’t want a tunnel without running water!”

  “I suppose not,” I allowed, though running water was almost unheard of, even in great cities or the Murdano’s palace. “And the wonderful colors?”

  “Oh, that. Each family has its own color. There are six families, six colors.”

  “And how many wobbyks in a family?”

  He shrugged. “I have five hundred direct relatives, and another thousand or so who are relatives by marriage or adoption. We’re a small family. The turquoise is us. The pinks have ten thousand members, the purples, twice that number. In all, we number the population of Bossyp at sixty-one thousand. At least, that’s what it was when I was last here.”

  Our boat had to pass Bossyp, turn due north, and then veer east in order to come around to the north side of the village. The harbor was filled with dozens of wobbyk boats in many shapes and sizes, either moored with anchors or drawn up onto the small beach.

  We docked at a long, low pier with scarcely a bump. “There’s a crowd waiting for us,” I said.

  “Certainly there’s a crowd. It would be terribly impolite if no one was there to greet us.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  “Come, Byx, let me show you off,” said Tobble. “I mean, show you around.”

  He led the way across a short gangplank to the pier. It was a relief to step foot back on dry land, as I’d been feeling a bit seasick. But it was odd, too. For one thing, while I was small and insignificant in a human village, I was a giant in Bossyp. Tiny wobbyk kits, no bigger than puppies, shyly touched my fur.

  “Well, hello,” I said. The kits giggled. One of them tossed me a little ball made of woven reeds, and I lobbed it back.

  An older wobbyk came running up and shooed the kits away. “Don’t bother our important guest!”

  I began to say that I wasn’t at all bothered—in fact, the kits had reminded me how long it had been since I’d been playful—but I was interrupted by a joyous shout from Tobble. He was in the tight embrace of two elderly wobbyks, a male and a female, both of whom were sobbing.

  “My baby,” cried the female, her gray-tipped ears trembling. “My teeny-tiny Tobble the Terrible.”

  She glanced at me through shining eyes. “This little guy had quite a temper as a kit.”

  “He still does,” I said with a laugh.

  Tobble managed to extricate himself from their paws. “Mibs and Pobs,” he said, “allow me to introduce you to my dearest friend in the whole wide world, Byx of the dairnes. I mean Ambassador Byx.” He grinned. “Byx, these are my parents, Ollywink and Rosegirdle.”

  “But you must call us Mibs and Pobs!” exclaimed Ollywink, and instantly I was wrapped in the arms of Tobble’s father and mother.

  I wiped away tears. It had been so long since I’d been hugged by my own parents. I’d forgotten how sweet and comforting it felt to be held.

  “Your tails, my son!” Ollywink exclaimed, pointing to Tobble’s braid.

  “I’ve much to tell you both,” said Tobble, “but first, I have work to d
o.” He nodded at me. “Ambassador Byx,” he said with sudden, stiff formality, “I would take you to the bileraka.”

  “The what?”

  “The bileraka, is our, um . . .” Tobble scrunched up his face, trying to find the right word. “You know how there’s a Murdano and a Kazar and mayors and village elders and all that sort of thing?” He waved a hand. “Important people who make decisions and such.”

  “I see,” I said uncertainly.

  “We have six elders in the bileraka,” said Ollywink. “And our newest member is none other than your very own mibs, Tobble!”

  “Mibs! I’m so proud of you!” Tobble exclaimed, and she beamed at his praise.

  “She won by a landslide,” Ollywink added. He winked at Tobble. “Seems I have two influential family members these days.”

  With Ollywink and Rosegirdle on either side of me, I followed Tobble, who strutted quite boldly through the crowd. We came to one of the larger cones surrounding a thick-limbed evergreen. The cone featured a low door, high enough for a wobbyk to walk through, but so small that I had to drop to all fours.

  Once inside, I discovered that the cone covered a hole. The tree grew up in the center, but with space all around. The sides of the hole had been chiseled into winding stairs, but the steps were awfully narrow for my big feet.

  “Come, there’s another way,” said Tobble, after I nearly slid down the steps on my tail. He raised his voice. “A line! A line for Ambassador Byx!”

  As if by magic, a vine curled down from within the tree branches. With a wink at Tobble, I said, “I have another idea.”

  The hole went straight down for perhaps thirty feet, with the tree trunk in the center. That left me enough room.

  I spread my arms and extended my glissaires. With easy grace, I tipped forward and glided around and around the tree, descending slowly as warm air from below gave me lift.

  It was a silly thing to do, perhaps. But fun, too. I’d almost forgotten what fun was like.

  I landed on all fours and stood, only to find that I’d dropped onto a sort of platform shaped like a semicircle around the roots of the great tree. I was in an underground amphitheater.