by Erin Hunter
“Please,” said the matriarch, halting before her. Comet’s gray eyes were huge and anxious. “Sky, please won’t you come? You’re always so helpful, and I’m sure your advice would be useful. . . .”
“I can’t, Comet. I’m sorry.” Sky looked away, unable to bear the hurt expression on her leader’s face.
“But we’ll miss you so,” lamented Cloud.
“Oh, leave her,” snapped Timber. “She’s made her decision.”
“Quite,” agreed Mirage with a haughty glare. “We know how stubborn Sky can be, and we’ve no time to waste. She’s chosen her mud hole, let her roll in it.”
Mirage and Timber set off again without a backward glance, their rumps swaying, their sharply flicking tails betraying their irritation. Comet looked agonized, but she turned and hurried back to her place at the head of the line. Cloud gave Sky a brief, sad nod before joining the others; a couple of the young ones looked miserable, and they strained their little trunks toward Sky.
But the herd was moving again, in an inexorable rhythmic sway, and soon Sky stood alone as she watched her family recede into the hazy distance. Her throat constricted, and her heart wrenched painfully, but she didn’t move.
The herd’s ponderous tread took them away from her with unnerving speed. Before long they were a wobbling blur, their individual shapes lost. Then they were a smear of thin shadow, only just visible. As the quivering horizon finally swallowed them, Sky gave a mournful, longing cry that none of her herd would ever hear.
Her path was aimless; Sky knew Rock would help with whatever the Great Spirit wanted from her, but she didn’t know where to start looking for him. She trudged across parched grass, barely raising her head to check the landscape or the position of the sun. A herd of gazelles drifted past in the middle distance, browsing, their tails flickering in constant motion; their leader called out a polite greeting, but she barely heard him. A little farther away she caught sight of a rhino and an adolescent calf, grooming each other, and for a moment her heart skipped, but when she peered more carefully she sighed. Neither of them was her friend Silverhorn. It felt as if she didn’t have a friend left in Bravelands.
I thought I might have come across Rock by now. Perhaps my aunts scared him off for good.
That thought was too sad to contemplate. Sky shook her ears and tore listlessly at an acacia branch with her trunk. The leaves tasted dry and bitter on her tongue.
Where is Rock? Sky had no more idea where to look for him than Comet had had about the migration path.
Exhausted, she stopped beside a copse of dense thorn scrub. It looked no more enticing than the acacia, but she had to eat. Reaching out her trunk, she curled it around a clump of twigs and yanked.
The bush stretched, snapped, and sprang back. Sky’s trunk-tip went still, the clump of leaves tickling her mouth. It had been only a momentary glimpse, but surely she hadn’t imagined what she’d just seen?
Dropping the twigs, she parted the foliage again and peered down. The sun was high and very bright above her, and the green shade beneath the bush was dappled with sparkling sunspots. No wonder she hadn’t been sure.
The two cheetah cubs gaped up at her, trembling. Against the sandy earth, their spotted yellow coats and fluffy heads were blurred and indistinct, but their eyes were huge and bright and unmistakable. They nestled tightly against their mother’s flank; she sprawled with her limbs outstretched, her eyes slitted open, her flanks hollow and unmoving. And she, like the cubs, was instantly recognizable.
“Rush,” breathed Sky, her heart clenching. “Oh, Rush.”
The elegant cheetah had been so swift and so brave; she’d been one of Sky’s first allies in the war against Stinger, and she’d fought courageously with the Great Herd. Sky, Rock, and Silverhorn had met Rush on their journey from the mountains, when they rescued her from Titanpride; the brutish lions would have torn the young cheetah apart even though she was pregnant.
And it turns out we didn’t save her after all. Sky gave a deep rumble of grief.
“Mother’s asleep,” chirped a scared, small voice. “She should be waking up now.”
“Oh, Nimble.” Sky stroked his fluffy head with her trunk, then moved it to caress his sister, Lively.
“How do you know my name?” The cub’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m Sky. You’re too young to remember me, but I was—I’m your mother’s friend. I was there when you were born.”
“Oh,” he said. “Hello, Sky.”
Lively only swallowed, nervously.
Sky’s heart ached for them. “Nimble, Lively . . . What happened?”
Nimble gulped and glanced at his sister. “Mother went hunting and she didn’t come back, so we came to find her.”
“It must have been a hard hunt,” whispered Lively, “because she’s rested for ever so long.”
Sky’s throat dried. “Cubs,” she croaked gently. “You must be hungry. Why don’t you look for some beetles on the other side of the bush? I’ll take care of your mother for a moment.”
Warily, they glanced at each other, but at last they rose and padded a little way off through the tangled branches. Sky could still make out their dark eyes as they turned to watch her doubtfully, but she couldn’t bear to send them farther away. Closing her eyes, she turned back to Rush. Then, very gently, she turned the stiff body over with her trunk.
Hunting. Turning, running. Being hunted.
Sky could no longer read the living, but like all elephants she could still read the dead. The images were more broken sensations than clear memories, and they didn’t explain how the cheetah had died. Rush, Sky thought, what happened to you?
The cheetah’s slender rib cage was broken at the breastbone, a single ugly puncture crusted with dried blood. Tensing, summoning all her nerve, Sky pressed her trunk to the wound.
The flashes that raced through her mind were too swift, too blurred and confused to make any sense: they were all color and noise and fear. Sky squeezed her eyes tight shut to focus, but it was no good: blood and pain and shapeless terrors. With a sad, shaking breath, she pulled away.
If the Great Mother or Father were here . . . they might understand this. They could help me see how Rush died. Her own grandmother, the wisest Great Parent of all, would have known what had happened here, Sky was sure of it.
But Great Mother isn’t here. Like Rush, she never will be again.
What did cheetahs do with their dead? Sky had no idea. Uncertainly, she peered around, then began to tear down more of the scrubby thorn branches. In the silence of the afternoon, the crack and snap sounded horribly loud, but Rush’s body was small and lithe, and it did not take Sky long to cover it.
She stepped back, then tugged down another clump of twigs to fill in a few last spaces. It was the elephant custom, but it was the only way she knew to honor Rush. The way the sunbeams speckled the leaves reminded her of Rush’s beautiful fur.
Sky did not know the cheetah words, either, but she hoped she could do Rush justice. “May you run forever free among the stars, Rush.”
“What are you doing, Sky?”
She looked up, her heart plummeting. The two cubs stood watching her, and Lively sniffed hesitantly at the pile of branches that covered her mother.
“Nimble. Lively.” Sky curled her trunk tightly. “Your mother . . . she can’t wake up. She has gone to run with your ancestors.”
Nimble tilted his head, staring at the branches. “She’s gone to the sky?”
“Yes,” said Sky hoarsely. “Cheetahs run and run there, and never get tired. And the hunting is always good.” Was that the right thing to say? She hoped so.
“That sounds . . . nice,” said Lively.
“Your mother will be safe and happy, but she’ll miss you until she sees you again.” Once again Sky wrapped her trunk around both the small furred bodies. “You’ll have to be strong for her and make her proud.”
Nimble nodded. “We will.”
Lively peered up through the tang
le of scrub. “Good-bye, Mother.”
Nimble turned to his sister. “We’ll have to look after ourselves now, Lively. Till we’re grown-up cats. I’m sure we can hunt like Mother taught us.”
Sky stared at them both, aghast. I can’t let them fend for themselves. They’ll be hyena-food in days! “Not just yet, Nimble,” she said hurriedly. “I won’t leave you alone. You can stay with me for now.”
“Can we?” Lively brightened.
“Yes.” Sky nodded. “Though I can’t hunt, you know.”
Nimble screwed up his nose. “But you’re enormous.” He shut one eye and studied her tusks. “And you have massive fangs.”
Sky couldn’t help laughing. “It’s true, Nimble, I’m sorry. I’ve never hunted a single animal. But I think your mother had litter-sisters?” She could remember Rush describing them one night soon after they’d met. “Far beyond that dry stream with the mgunga trees, and then to the west? I can take you there, if you like.”
“We’ve never met our aunts,” said Nimble with trepidation. “Mother said they lived ever so far away.”
“That would be lovely,” said Lively, giving her brother a stern look. “And we can walk a long way.”
Sky blew gently at their ears. She had no idea if cheetahs would even look after another’s young, but she had to try. And her own journey could be delayed, she told herself firmly. She did not know what the Great Spirit wanted of her, after all. And her own heart’s desire was not as important as these helpless cubs: her search for Rock could wait until she had found them safety with their mother’s family.
Perhaps this was penance, she thought, glancing toward the sky. Perhaps the Great Spirit wanted her to make amends for killing Stinger.
“Come along, you two,” she murmured, and turned to begin her ponderous trek across the grassland and the dry streambed.
Her progress was slow; she had to let the little cheetahs keep up, and at first they kept hesitating, turning to throw longing glances back at Rush’s resting place. The sun was drifting westward, its arc now lowering toward the horizon, and Sky felt a nip of anxiety in her belly. This felt like a tremendous responsibility, and she knew the weight of it would be even heavier in the dark hours of night. It would be good to reach a thick patch of forest before the three of them stopped to rest.
Once again, Nimble had paused to give a forlorn mew at the now-distant thorn scrub. Wanting to distract him from his unhappiness, Sky raked on the earth for a stone and tossed it ahead.
“Would you like to play, Nimble?” she called cheerfully.
He and Lively twisted, their ears pricking up. As the stone rolled and bounced, they both shot suddenly after it. Lively reached it first, pouncing and clutching it, kicking her small legs as if to disembowel it. Nimble collapsed on top of her, and they wrestled in the dust until Sky caught up.
They peered up at her eagerly. Smiling, Sky snatched up the stone with her trunk and threw it again.
It was fun watching them play, and chasing the stone was certainly making their progress faster. Sky found herself feeling far happier as she walked. The two of them must miss their mother terribly already, but they were still only cubs, and she was glad they could have fun to lighten their grief. Ahead of her, Nimble shot up stiffly into the air on all four paws, then landed on his sister, who squealed in delight and scrabbled at his belly with her tiny claws.
But abruptly, Nimble tumbled away from her, his face serious as he sniffed at the ground. As Lively grabbed his rump, he batted her away.
“What is it, Nimble?” called Sky, breaking into an anxious trot.
He turned, his eyes bright. Lively was sniffing now, too, the stone and the scrap forgotten.
“Elephant!” they both chirped together. “We smell another elephant!”
Sky took a breath. Letting the tip of her trunk stroke the ground, she realized the cubs were right. The trail was going in the same direction as they were. And what was more, she could see tracks now, faint in the dust but identifiable: the marks of huge and heavy feet.
Rock!
CHAPTER 7
The warthog gave a screeching squeal, stumbling onto its knees as it turned, but it never had a chance. Fearless struck, sinking his fangs deep into its face, suffocating it with his jaws, bearing down with his full weight. The stocky creature kicked and thrashed, but at last it went limp and collapsed.
Fearless stood over it, panting. It hadn’t been a long chase: he’d surprised the warthog where it browsed. But he was still short of breath with fury.
At least he’d taken it out on his prey and not on Valor. The argument with his sister still rankled, especially since part of his anger was rooted in guilt. He might not be Gallant’s son, but he was still her brother—at least, half of him was. They had had the same mother. They were both Swiftcubs.
But I can’t help being angry. She’s the cub of Gallant, and I’m not. Valor’s always thought she’s better than me.
No, that wasn’t fair. Glaring at the warthog, Fearless admitted it to himself.
The trouble is, I’ve always thought she’s better than me.
It was the revelation that Loyal was his real father that had made everything worse. He’d always believed he was Fearless Gallantpride, destined to take Gallant’s place at the head of the best pride in Bravelands.
No, that’s not fair either. It wasn’t Loyal’s fault, and it wasn’t Valor’s, and it wasn’t Fearless’s either. It was Titan’s. He had shattered Fearless’s shining future on the day he killed Gallant.
The little warthog wasn’t exactly the prize a buffalo calf would have been, but it would do—and he’d caught it without the help of his pride. He couldn’t have taken down a swift-moving grass-eater alone. Gripping it in his jaws, Fearless dragged it across the grassland as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Ahead of him, clear now that the heat haze had given way to the cool evening, a rocky kopje rose out of the plain, its stone glowing gold in the sun’s slanting rays.
Grunting with his burden, Fearless leaped up the ridges of rock, then crossed the small barren plateau and slunk behind the blade of rock that hid Loyal’s den. My father’s den.
Lichen and straggling thorn had grown down over the den mouth; Fearless pawed the vegetation aside and wriggled into the cool darkness within. Dropping the warthog, he stood and inhaled Loyal’s lingering scent.
It was growing stale now, and fading, like his memories of his father’s face. One day I’ll forget Loyal, Fearless realized with a stab of grief. Because I never really got to know him.
Loyal had been his friend, his mentor, his protector. But Fearless hadn’t known until it was too late that the great, scarred, prideless lion had sired him. I loved him, but I should have been allowed to love him as a father.
Opening his jaws, he gave a roar of sadness and regret. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tell me. Tell me. The echoes rebounded from the cold stone, finally dying away.
He knew why, of course. If he thought about it with his head and not his heart, he understood. Loyal had been an oath-breaker, even if the breach had been unintentional. The great lion had taken Swift as a mate when he had believed Gallant dead. But it had still been a betrayal of the vow he’d made to his friend and pride leader, and Loyal’s shame had left him no choice but to go into exile alone.
Frustration rose within Fearless, mixed with sadness and anger—and a searing, sudden loneliness.
I miss him.
It was Loyal who had taught him everything he knew, because Gallant had been killed before he could guide Fearless to adulthood. Loyal Prideless had hunted with him when Fearless’s incompetence meant he was almost starving. When Fearless was in one of those angry, impulsive moods that could have gotten him killed, Loyal had counseled him and calmed him. The crooked-tailed lion had given him a home, friendship, and, true to his name, unswerving loyalty.
And Fearless hadn’t always shown his gratitude. Sometimes, he thought now with a shudder, he’d been unspeak
ably mean to Loyal.
Yet he still kept on loving me. When he looked back on it, Fearless could hardly believe he’d missed the clues. Loyal had been his father in everything but name—and then it had turned out he was that, too.
The straggling creepers at the den mouth rustled, and paws pattered against stone. Fearless stiffened, turning, but the face that appeared in the gloom was friendly and familiar—and it was the one he’d been expecting.
“Ruthless,” he rumbled, pacing forward to lick the cub’s muzzle. “You’ve grown!”
Titan’s son gave him a mischievous look. “Fearless! You say that every single time you see me!”
“It’s true, though.” Fearless studied the young lion. He was rangy now, his legs too long for his body and his paws too big for his legs. Ruthless would never become a massive, imposing male like his father—but he would never become such a murderous brute, either. And he had none of the sly malevolence of his mother, Artful. “You’ll soon be growing into those enormous paws, I promise.”
“Too slowly,” moaned Ruthless dramatically.
Fearless laughed. “But you are. You’re going to be tall.”
“And skinny.” The cub gave a loud and mournful sigh.
Fearless rolled his eyes in amused exasperation. “Lean and fast, Ruthless, lean and fast. But that’s enough about you. What news of Titanpride?”
Ruthless flopped to the earthen floor, looking entirely at home. He’d developed a useful habit of sneaking away from his father now and again, to meet up with Fearless and let him know what Titan was up to. All Fearless had to do was check the baobab on the plain for Ruthless’s scent mark—or leave his own as a signal. And Loyal’s abandoned den was the perfect secret rendezvous point.
“Titanpride is as boring as ever,” growled Ruthless. “Is that a warthog? Is it for me?”
“You know it is. Let’s eat.”
Settling down, the two lions began to tear companionably at the warthog’s tough hide. Ruthless was a noisy eater, and for a while there was no sound but the gulping and chewing of two hungry lions. At last the cub slowed down a little and began to chew before he swallowed. He licked his bloodied jaws and glanced at Fearless beside him.