The Griffin's Feather

by Cornelia Funke

Havelock Ellis, The Dance of Life

  Looking through bars for too long is bad for the heart. Even if those bars are only made of twigs. Ben realised he was forgetting what it felt like to be free. No, it was even worse – he began to think that he would never be free again. The griffins had put the cages down in a dark clearing where the shadows of the trees reached out, like black fingers, for everything that grew under them. In the middle of the clearing stood a huge statue of a griffin, carved from such precious tropical wood that, in spite of their unhappy situation, it drew a sigh of longing from Hothbrodd. The dish in its claws reminded Ben of the sacrificial vessels in which bloody gifts to the gods had once been left in ancient temples. Not a very reassuring sight. Nor were the beaked faces of griffins that looked down on them from the surrounding trees. They were high up on the trunks, with golden feathers, eyes made of red jewels, and beaks of shimmering mother-of-pearl. Hothbrodd scrutinised them as thoroughly as if his life depended on working out what tool The Hands had used to erect such an impressive monument to their masters. But it was good to see the troll showing an interest in something. Hothbrodd took captivity even worse than Ben. No wonder, when he could hardly move in the cramped space of the cage – and when he made a second attempt to persuade the twigs to let them go, the prisoners were first almost skewered, and then nearly suffocated. Since then, the troll had just looked darkly ahead in silence. Barnabas was the only one who still seemed unbroken. Even now, he was looking around with as much interest as if he were actually in a cage in the middle of the Indonesian jungle of his own free will.

  ‘Fascinating!’ he whispered, while Hothbrodd gazed grimly at the black macaques guarding them. ‘Those lorises are extraordinarily talented. I wonder if they were carving images of other creatures before the griffins arrived. I don’t know of any monkeys who do that, but maybe these are a different species. What do you think, Hothbrodd?’

  The troll uttered a morose grunt. ‘Yes, they’re not bad,’ he murmured. ‘But if I’d made that statue it would beat its wings!’

  Ben was sure it would. But Barnabas was already thinking of something else. He looked at the sacrificial vessels.

  ‘I’m surprised that Kraa’s flourishing trade with the poachers hasn’t yet brought anyone here to try catching him and the other griffins,’ he murmured. ‘On the other hand, maybe those skulls on the beach are all that’s left of those who did try!’

  ‘Probably,’ murmured Ben.

  He couldn’t think any more. The world was striped as long as he saw it through bars. And what would Vita and Guinevere be thinking by now? Would they think the griffins had eaten them? He took the photo of the eggs out of his pocket. It was crumpled and dirty, and soon, presumably, it would be the only remaining evidence of the last Pegasi. They’d never be able to keep the promise they had made to Ànemos, that was for sure. Even if, sometime or other, they could free themselves. Four days! That was all they had left. And they’d need two of those days just for the flight home!

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Barnabas put an arm around his shoulders. ‘I feel wretched for getting you and the others into this situation. There’s almost nothing more humiliating than being a prisoner. I hate to remember the four endless months I spent in the cave of a nocturnal troll. But for Hothbrodd’s help I’d probably still be there.’

  ‘No, he’d have eaten you by this time,’ growled the troll. ‘And I haven’t the faintest idea, skitten svinge av skjebene, how you didn’t go out of your mind in those four months!’

  ‘Master!’ called a little voice. Twigleg’s tiny cage hardly gave him room to stand up straight. ‘How are you and Professor Greenbloom? I’m terribly sorry! We didn’t do very well as rescuers!’

  ‘Nonsense! It was very brave of you and Lola to have a go!’ Ben called back. It went to his heart to see the homunculus imprisoned like that. Lola’s cage was just as small, but Ben wasn’t worried about her. He couldn’t imagine any cage that would hold Lola for long.

  ‘We had bad luck, humklupus, that’s all,’ said the rat as she forced her paws through the twigs to extract a few tasty-looking seeds from a plant. ‘It was a pretty hopeless mission, as I am sure all present will admit!’

  Berulu whispered something into Winston’s ear, and clung to him desperately. Winston could still hardly believe that he really could understand what the maki was saying. He would miss it when there was no fabulous creature still near him to decipher Berulu’s twittering by its mere presence. On the other hand, the way things looked just now there soon wouldn’t be any Berulu near him either. It was a heartbreaking thought.

  ‘Berulu says that makis don’t make good pets,’ he told the others. ‘And he needs the night and the forest and would be very unhappy in a house.’ He hugged Berulu. ‘I’ll protect you!’ he promised. ‘We won’t let them separate us!’

  Winston cast Ben a helpless glance. He knew he was promising more than he could perform.

  ‘There must be something we can do!’ Ben struck the twigs of his cage. ‘Something or other!’

  One of the black macaques bared his teeth and hit out at Ben’s hands with a stick. The leader of the macaques, who was sitting on the head of the griffin statue, brusquely called him off. His dark pelt was grey in many places, and he was blind in one eye. Awan Petir, as he called himself, had been serving the griffins for a very long time.

  ‘That’s Kraa’s property you’re damaging, Kachang!’ he snarled hoarsely. ‘Do you want me telling him that the boy fetched a lower price because of you?’

  The macaque who had been told off retreated, looking as intimidated as if Kraa himself had spoken to him harshly. Ben wondered whether there was anyone living on Pulau Bulu who wasn’t afraid of the king griffin. He was coming to admire Shrii’s courage in standing up to Kraa more and more. And not only his courage. It was so much easier simply to do what everyone else did without asking questions, instead of looking for new and better ways to act. Barnabas had a tale to tell about that himself. But the world would be so much darker and poorer without Shrii and without Barnabas Greenbloom. No one would say the same of Kraa. It was really difficult to go on believing that some miracle might yet save them. Yet nothing was more dangerous than losing hope. If your hope dies, Barnabas had once said to him, then you’ve given up the fight and there’s no going back.

  Ben looked at Winston. Had he given up hope? His face was buried in Berulu’s fur.

  ‘When do you think they’ll kill Shrii?’ Ben whispered.

  Winston raised his head. ‘As soon as Kraa gets the gold the poachers are paying for us,’ he whispered back. ‘He can’t wait to eat Shrii’s heart. Griffins think that their enemies’ strength passes to them like that. Our hearts are probably too small for Kraa. Or too frightened.’

  He tried a smile, but it wasn’t a great success.

  ‘I’m terribly worried about Berulu,’ he whispered, putting his hands over the tarsier’s ears. ‘They die in captivity! Suppose they put him on one of those ships that take half the ani—’ Winston interrupted himself. He was listening.

  They all heard it. Footsteps, voices, machetes cutting a way through the jungle.

  Barnabas put his arm around Ben’s shoulders, and Berulu hid under Winston’s T-shirt. Sorrel liked to say, ‘Humans make more noise than wild boar,’ and it was certainly true of these ones. English and Indonesian words came through the forest to their ears.

  ‘Will they really sell us as slaves?’ Ben whispered to Winston. Only Berulu’s tail was still in sight. ‘That’s ridiculous! I mean, this is the twenty-first century!’

  ‘So?’ Winston retorted. ‘Didn’t you hear Kraa? There are a great many mines on the nearby islands. They always need cheap labour there. And what comes cheaper than slaves?’

  Shrii’s monkeys set up a plaintive chattering.

  ‘Stop that!’ cried Patah. ‘Or do you want Kraa’s henchmen to tell him we were scared?’

  TerTaWa began singing softly. They had caught the gibbon as he was trying to r
each Shrii’s cage. If only one of them at least had escaped!

  Awan Petir smoothed down his greying coat with his hands, as if smartening himself up for the coming negotiations. Then, from the head of the griffin statue, he directed the other macaques to crouch beside the basketwork cages.

  Seven men emerged from the trees. They did not all come from this part of the world. Two were in such ragged clothes that Ben remembered what Barnabas had once said about the poachers of Africa. ‘Often they only want to feed their families, Ben. Hunger and poverty seldom teach people to feel compassion.’ The third poacher was almost as large as Hothbrodd, and looked even grimmer than the troll. The fourth had so many tattoos on his brown skin that you could probably have read his entire life history from them. The remaining three were the kind of hunters and trophy-collectors that Ben had met only too often by now: men who knew only one way of approaching other creatures; by showing them that they themselves were stronger. Men who felt considerably better in the presence of dead animals rather than those still living.

  The leader nodded to Awan Petir like an old acquaintance. He called himself Catcher, and had already done many deals with Kraa’s black macaques. Awan Petir nodded back as he stared down, with an expressionless face, at the troop of men. He wouldn’t have been able to say how many animals had already lost their lives and their freedom because of him. Awan Petir was interested solely in his own freedom, and he liked bargaining with Catcher, even if the latter always stank of sweat and onions, and made even crocodiles seem warm-hearted. But Catcher paid well, and had never tried to hunt in the mountains, which Kraa had declared his own preserve. Not all humans were as clever as that. Awan Petir used to take their skulls down to the beach in person.

  ‘No marbled cats today?’ Catcher was strolling past the cages as if inspecting the display in a supermarket. The skin of his fat face was peeling in the sunlight, and Ben could see neither hunger nor the thrill of the chase on it. Catcher was a salesman. Ben had learned that you had to fear those more than anyone else, and Winston could have confirmed it. He knew Catcher only too well.

  ‘My word, who do we have here? Winston Setiawan. I thought this island, at least, would be safe from you.’ Catcher spoke English with an Australian accent, but he didn’t say exactly where he came from. ‘Kamaharan! How many of our monkeys has this little imp of Satan already freed?’

  Not for nothing did the man whom Catcher beckoned over to his side bear the name of Kamaharan; it means ‘storm’ in Indonesian.

  ‘Thirty-seven.’ Winston got in first with the answer. His voice was shaking slightly, but you could hear how proud he was of the number.

  ‘And over a hundred birds. Let’s see if you can open the locks of cages so easily from the inside, sonny!’ Kamaharan kicked Winston’s basket so hard that he fell back against the bars, and Berulu’s horrified screech emerged from his T-shirt. ‘Very stupid of you to come to this island. Didn’t you know that the lion-birds allow only visitors who pay to come here, and are well-disposed to poachers? And how about the others – since when did you go around with humans? I thought all your friends were lousy monkeys and tarsiers.’

  He stepped back, with a curse, when Hothbrodd, in the next basket, pressed his face to the twigs with a threatening expression, and called them all follet feiltakelse fra Odin.

  The tattooed man went over to Kamaharan and stared incredulously at the troll.

  ‘Maybe we’d better let this one go,’ he murmured in awe. ‘Looks like a forest demon!’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Catcher examined Hothbrodd as if he was already counting the money he’d get for the troll. ‘Why, we could even offer him to a TV network. Or one of those crazy billionaires who’ll pay a fortune for a horror like this.’

  Hothbrodd spat in his sunburned face when Catcher thoughtlessly came close to his basket. Troll saliva is not at all appetising, and Catcher got so much of it that he looked as if he had been washing in stomach fluids stinking of fish. Barnabas hastily got in front of Hothbrodd when Kamaharan raised his shotgun, but Catcher reached for the barrel and pulled it roughly out of Kamaharan’s hands.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ he snapped at him, wiping the slimy saliva off his face with his sleeve. ‘D’you think he’ll make as much money dead and stuffed?’

  ‘Some time or other,’ growled Hothbrodd, ignoring Barnabas’s warning glance, ‘you’ll have to let us out of this basket, and then I’ll skin you all and make a fine big sail out of you. I’d think– ‘he added, pointing to the tattooed man – ‘your skin in particular will look just fabulous!’

  Kamaharan liked to boast of strangling crocodiles with his bare hands, but even he took a step back on hearing Hothbrodd’s grisly threat.

  ‘How about this one?’ asked another of the men, pointing to Barnabas. ‘I guess they’ll never take him off our hands for the mines. Looks like some kind of professor who’s lost his way in the jungle!’

  The others laughed, although they still kept a respectful distance away from Hothbrodd.

  ‘Some kind of professor?’ cried Winston.

  Ben gave him a warning look, but unfortunately Winston was so indignant that he didn’t notice.

  ‘You’d better let him go free if you value your lives. That’s Barnabas Greenbloom! He and his son are friends with sea serpents and dragons. And Great Krakens and centaurs!’

  With a sigh, Barnabas closed his eyes, and Winston realised his mistake when Catcher gave his men as triumphant a glance as if he had just caught the last white tiger.

  ‘Sea serpents, dragons, Great Krakens and centaurs,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve heard rumours that all those creatures still exist. And that there’s a conspiracy of crazy conservationists keeping the world in the dark about it. The name Greenbloom was mentioned more than once in that connection, if I remember correctly. Not a name you’d forget in a hurry. And now that green giant makes sense too…’

  ‘Dragons?’ growled Kamaharan doubtfully. ‘Great Krakens? Sounds to me like the kind of old wives’ tales that peasants tell!’

  ‘All the better. Then I won’t have to cut you idiots in on the price I get for these fairy-tale beings.’ Catcher hit out at a butterfly that had settled on his fat neck. ‘What do you think, Professor?’ he asked, giving Barnabas an unpleasant smile. ‘Will you introduce your fabulous friends to us if I spare you working in the mines in return?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ replied Barnabas casually. ‘My friend Winston is wrong, unfortunately, if he thinks I know such illustrious beings. I agree with your poacher colleagues. They exist only in fairy tales, sorry as I am to say so.’

  Catcher was about to answer back, but suddenly he was interrupted by one of the other poachers who had been inspecting the rest of the cages.

  ‘They caught a jenglot!’ he stammered, and to Ben’s horror he held up Twigleg’s cage.

  The poachers stepped back even faster than when Hothbrodd had lost his temper. Only Catcher scrutinised the homunculus and shook his sweaty head.

  ‘If that’s a jenglot, I’m an orang-utan!’ he said sarcastically. ‘What is it, Professor? Out with it! Some kind of hob or impet? This gets better and better!’ he whispered to Kamaharan. ‘A midget like this will bring in more than thirty monkeys, although,’ he added with a glance at the black macaques, ‘we’d better not say so to our trading partners.’

  ‘A hob?’ cried Twigleg. ‘Or an impet? Allow me to tell you that I’m a…’

  He stopped abruptly when Catcher gave Barnabas a triumphant look.

  ‘Yes, a what?’ asked Catcher. ‘Something else that lives only in fairy tales, Professor? No more lies. Kamaharan here is a master of persuasion, but maybe we won’t need his arts.’ He favoured Barnabas with a totally heartless smile. ‘If I understand correctly, this –’ he pointed to Ben – ‘is Greenbloom junior. And what kind of loving father condemns his son to a life of slavery in the mines just on account of a few animals?’

  Barnabas turned pale, and for t
he first time Ben saw something like fear on his adopted father’s usually fearless face. The sight of that was worse than his own fear.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thanked him for leaving me at home!’ he told the poachers. ‘He’s the best of all fathers! And you won’t learn anything from us! Not a single word!’

  Catcher seemed greatly amused by his angry outburst. ‘I very much doubt that,’ he said. ‘But we’ll carry on with this conversation someplace else. This island makes me sick to my stomach after dark. Take the cages down to the boats!’ he ordered the others.

  When they picked up the first basket, however, Awan Petir, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the poachers, pointed to the dish in the statue’s claws with a warning cry.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ called Catcher to the macaque. ‘Have I ever wriggled out of paying? And I’ll pay well too, as is only right for such good wares.’

  Kamaharan, the tattooed man, and the grim giant dragged two full sacks over to the dish. They tipped coins, jewellery and freshly mined nuggets of gold out of the first, and pale yellow seashells out of the second.

  ‘Oh, of course!’ Barnabas whispered to Ben. ‘Those are the shells that Shrii mentioned. Yes, indeed, a very rare species, and found only so deep in the sea that the griffins can’t get at them.’

  The black macaques were beginning to put the contents of the dish into bags that they could carry easily through the treetops, when their leader suddenly raised his head in annoyance. A red parrot flew over Awan Petir’s greying head, and then circled around the statue.

  Ben’s heart leaped up. Me-Rah! She’d had a bad time after Twigleg and Lola were caught, but the parrot hadn’t left her new friends in the lurch. She had watched despairingly as the black macaques sold her rescuers to the poachers, and then… then she had heard a rushing in the air above her, and had watched two shadows of a kind that she had never before seen falling on the treetops of Pulau Bulu.

  ‘To think that I have lived to see this day!’ squawked Me-Rah, as she deposited a large blob of parrot-droppings on the beak of the griffin statue. ‘In a hundred times a hundred years, they’ll still be celebrating it on Pulau Bulu! The day when justice came to this island. And as for you,’ she screeched down to the poachers, ‘at last you’ll all get what you deserve!’