by Erin Hunter
The wound. It’s just like Rush’s. Instinctively, Sky flinched back.
The cubs were bounding after her, their eyes wide, but at the corner of her vision Sky was aware of much larger, creeping shadows. The hyenas were recovering their nerve and prowling closer.
“Those look delicious,” growled one of them.
“Mmmm. Cubs,” agreed another. “Little ones.”
“Mouthfuls, but such tender flesh.”
Hurriedly, Sky beckoned the cubs under the protection of her shadow, pulling them close with her trunk. “Stay away!” she commanded the hyenas.
“They’d be nicer than that buffalo corpse,” murmured another. “It tasted funny.”
“Even the vultures wouldn’t touch it,” yowled a big female, shaking her head and smacking her jaws as if to dislodge the taste. “Little cat-cubs would be better.”
“I said stay away!” trumpeted Sky, flapping her ears in warning.
Yet they stalked cautiously closer, their eyes bright with hunger. Sky turned, jerking her tusks to drive back a pair that were sneaking up from behind.
“That buffalo does smell funny,” chirped Nimble from between her legs. “I don’t think we can eat it anyway.”
“Nimble’s right,” agreed Lively. “I don’t think it’s good, Sky.”
Sky was inclined to think the same. There was something wrong and sinister about this death, just as Rush’s fatal wound had made her skin prickle. Nodding to the cubs, Sky brushed their fluffy heads with her trunk-tip, then raised it once more in angry challenge to the hyenas. “We won’t touch your carrion. Just get away from us. Leave these cubs alone!”
But as she swung her head to threaten one group, another four charged in from her flank. Their jaws hung wide, tongues lolling with anticipation, drool flying from their fangs. Urgently, Sky thrust out her trunk toward the twisting, panicking cubs. “Quick. Up here!”
Nimble leaped, digging his tiny claws into her skin as he scrambled up; Lively was right behind him. Their scratches were no worse than a prickly twig, and Sky let the two cubs run right up her trunk and over her face till they were crouched on top of her head, peering out between her ears. Turning once again to the hyenas at her flank, Sky lifted a foot and stamped it down, hard enough to make the ground tremble.
“Get back!”
Thwarted, the hyenas prowled in a circle, glowering at her. “Not fair,” snarled a big male who seemed to be their leader.
“Too bad,” harrumphed Sky, her heartbeat slowing at last. “Go back to your rot-flesh. You’re not getting these cubs.”
Grumbling, the hyenas drew back. Sky could hear their muttered insults—“Great lumbering brute” being one of the kinder ones—but she ignored them all and trudged away, letting the pack slink back sulkily to the dead buffalo.
When they were out of earshot and the cubs had shuffled to a more secure perch between her shoulders, she murmured gently to them, “Stay there, you two. We have to press on, and you’ll be safer on my back.”
“Sky!” squeaked Lively, and Sky felt the cub’s tiny body stiffen with excitement. “Look!”
Her steps faltering, Sky cocked her ears and peered ahead. Sand was blown into a layer of dust, and heat distorted the far hills, but something large was definitely visible in the distance: a dark, swaying shape. That was no dead buffalo.
She swallowed hard. “Hold tight, cubs,” she rasped as she broke into a trot.
She couldn’t let her hopes rise again, only to be dashed in the arid dust. It might not be him. It’s too much to hope for—
But that tall form was so distinctive, and as she drew closer, so was his unusually dark hide, even though it was stained and mottled with yellow sand. Sky lifted her trunk and blared, then called his name desperately through her dry throat.
“Rock!”
And as the elephant hesitated and turned, she saw his long, creamy tusks, and their recognizable, slightly uneven curve.
“Rock!”
“Sky?” His astonished cry drifted to her across the desolate landscape.
Sky broke into a canter, and Rock ran toward her. They met in a swirling cloud of sand, entwining their trunks, butting their heads gently together. Sky let herself lean into his strong body, feeling the warmth of his skin and the thud of his excited heartbeat.
“Rock! We’ve found you at last!”
“Sky,” he rumbled, caressing her shoulder with his trunk. “I thought I heard you cry out. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Is this him?” squeaked a voice from Sky’s back. “Is this the elephant you were looking for, Sky?”
Startled, Rock stepped back, peering at the two cubs who were clambering up onto Sky’s head once again. “Who are—”
“These are Rush’s cubs,” said Sky softly, curling her trunk up to stroke them. “Do you remember our cheetah friend, Rock?”
“Of course I do.” His green eyes grew troubled. “So, Rush—?”
“Rush has gone to run among the stars,” murmured Sky. She lowered her voice still further, so that the excited cubs would not hear her soft-pitched rumble. “She was killed, Rock. But no flesh-eater devoured her. Her chest was torn—”
He swung his trunk in agitation. “Another one? Sky, I came across a jackal with the same death-wound. She wasn’t eaten either. Except—” He glanced anxiously at the cubs.
“The heart,” whispered Sky.
“Yes.” Rock’s murmur was so deep, it was like a distant rumble of falling boulders.
On Sky’s head, she could feel the cubs bouncing and rolling, reenergized by the appearance of this strange and mighty friend of Sky. They aren’t even listening, Sky realized. Thank the Great Spirit.
“Who is making these dreadful kills, Rock?” she murmured. “It isn’t natural.”
“It certainly breaks the Code,” he rumbled quietly. “And to mutilate the bodies like that? What creature would do such a thing?”
“A creature living in a land without a Great Parent,” she whispered sadly. “Something isn’t right, Rock. It disturbs me.”
“Things have been wrong in Bravelands since we lost Great Mother,” he said grimly.
Sky twitched her trunk in silent agreement. On her head, the cubs had quieted once again. “Where are you heading, Rock?” she asked, in a more normal voice.
“Nowhere in particular.” He nuzzled her brow with his trunk-tip. “I don’t especially want to rejoin my brothers, not yet. I’d rather keep company with you, Sky Strider.”
Her heart soared. It was what she had hoped for, and more. “You’ll stay with us?”
“I’ll follow you, wherever you go,” he said. “These cubs look a heavy responsibility, for such little things.”
“I won’t keep them with me forever,” said Sky, feeling an odd sadness. “I’m going to find a guardian for them—one more suitable than me.”
“Then I’ll help you.” Rock watched Nimble and Lively with amusement as they scrambled and hopped down Sky’s trunk. Bouncing onto the ground, they capered around his enormous feet, unafraid, and he stayed very still for a moment. Then, tentatively, he swatted gently at them with his trunk, and they batted him back, flopping onto the ground, rolling and dodging.
“They’re sweet,” he chuckled.
“They are,” agreed Sky warmly. “You look less tired, cubs. Shall we go on?”
“Let’s!” they chorused, with enthusiastic squeals.
“Then climb back onto me, Lively. Nimble, perhaps you can ride on Rock? We’ll move faster that way.” Sky glanced questioningly at Rock, and he nodded swiftly.
As they trudged on toward the horizon, Sky felt her heart lighten with every step. Rock was a strong, reassuring presence, it was true, but it wasn’t just safety she felt: it was happiness, and a deep and calm contentment.
The Great Spirit might have left them, she thought. Bravelands might be without its eternal protector and heart.
But perhaps those of us who live here can still find happiness.
CHAPTER 11
The Great Spirit was wasting its time, thought Thorn; worse, it was wasting all its power and benevolence. What was it doing, nestling uselessly inside a baboon who didn’t even want it? Anxious and angry, he limped on across the savannah, dragging branches aside, scrambling exhaustedly up rocky slopes, and sliding clumsily down again.
His fur was clogged with sand and dried mud, and his paws were scuffed and raw from the hard stone of the mountain. Those wretched vultures might at least have flown me down. His leg was able to bear weight, but a constant, throbbing ache pulsed through the limb, and whenever he paused to rest it stiffened, making it even sorer to walk on again.
None of that mattered as much as his fear for his troop. If the vultures had had any way of discovering how the battle against Tendril had ended, they hadn’t made an effort to find out. And if they had heard, they certainly hadn’t let him know. Now Thorn struggled home across jagged stone and hard-packed earth without even knowing if his friends would be alive to greet him.
Maybe he should have done as the vultures had asked. If I’d drunk from that stinking pool, they’d have flown me home.
Instead, the stuck-up, self-important, petulant feather-flappers had left him to find his own way. Even from high on the mountain’s slopes, Tall Trees had been beyond the reach of Thorn’s vision; now, in the barren foothills, it seemed to Thorn that he’d never see it again. The Bravelands savannah stretched in a pale, dry expanse to a faraway horizon blurred by heat haze. The only trees in sight were spiky lone acacias, their tops flattened by sun and wind. What wouldn’t he give right now for the verdant, humid greenness of a proper forest?
I hate vultures.
“Murderer! Savage!”
The high trilling shrieks shocked him to a frozen standstill.
“Killer! We hate you!”
Whoever it was, they weren’t talking to Thorn. The chittering and jabbering came from just beyond the next rocky slope; the creatures sounded too small to be really dangerous, and Thorn’s curiosity was piqued. In a limping lope he climbed up and peered over the ridge. His eyes widened.
A mob of some twenty meerkats were clustered around a hollow, tall and skinny, balanced on their ridiculous stiff tails. They were all sharp little noses and even sharper teeth, and their big black eyes glittered with fury. Peering harder, Thorn could see the object of their anger; they were harrying some poor creature on the ground, a huddled shape of patchy brown fur. The meerkats reared upright on their hind legs, then dashed in to scratch and bite before scuttling back to let the next rank have their go. The smaller and more timid ones darted between the others to chitter and snap at the cowering animal. A chorus of piping filled the air: “Killer! Killer! Rotten brute!”
Thorn peeled back his upper lip and sniffed the air. The creature on the ground was a lot bigger than the meerkats, but it wasn’t fighting back, and given their numbers and the sheer violent rage on their little faces, Thorn didn’t blame it. It seemed concerned only with curling into as small a ball as possible, to protect its face and belly. Taking a careful pace forward and narrowing his eyes, Thorn at last made out what it was.
A baboon!
It was a stranger of course, not one of his own troop, but instinctive protectiveness seized him. Bounding over the ridge, Thorn plowed in among the meerkat clan, swiping left and right, sending them tumbling and fleeing. Baring his teeth, he snarled at the ones who hesitated, until they too squealed and bolted.
“Another! Another killer!” they shrieked and babbled. “Brute, nasty brute!”
At last Thorn stood alone beside the huddled baboon, a circle of wary meerkats staring at him. He turned a slow circle, glowering.
“What is going on here?”
“This!” squeaked the biggest meerkat and the likely leader, pointing at the huddled baboon. “This is going on!”
“Stay out of it!” A smaller meerkat bounded forward, emboldened, though at the last moment it ducked and half hid behind its leader.
“A murderer!”
“Nasty!”
“Mean!”
“Not acceptable!”
“KILLER BABOON!” A dramatic, high-pitched wail rose above the rest, and every meerkat turned to gape at the screamer. It was a ridiculously tiny meerkat. Realizing suddenly that his friends were staring, he shuffled backward, looking embarrassed.
“Nasty mean baboon?” echoed Thorn, turning back in perplexity to the leader. “That’s just an insult. It doesn’t explain anything.”
The big meerkat only shrugged, but his whole mob started squealing again.
“That thing attacked us!”
“Attack one, you attack us all!”
“Killer killer killer!”
Thorn clenched his jaw, sympathetic but exasperated. If the meerkats would just calm down and explain properly, he might be able to help, but they were wound up to a hysterical pitch of rage. And their big leader simply stood there, looking self-righteous, letting his mob do all the shrieking.
“Let me try to understand,” sighed Thorn patiently. “I take it this baboon killed one of your mob?”
The big meerkat still didn’t utter a word. He gave a single, emphatic nod, and the whole clan erupted once again.
“Yes!” they chorused. “Well said, Skip!”
“You tell him, boss!”
“We’re right behind you!”
At Thorn’s feet, the bundle of scabby fur stirred. A baboon’s eyes appeared, peering out cautiously between his paws.
“Not me,” he rasped. “Not me, no indeed. Spider is innocent.”
“And who’s Spider?” demanded Thorn, bewildered.
“Me. I’m Spider and I didn’t do it.”
Thorn stared down at him. This Spider was an odd-looking creature. His matted fur was patched with bare spots, his fingers scabbed and mottled with strange, pale-pink scars. His huge eyes peered up into Thorn’s, pleading but somehow pessimistic.
“I really didn’t,” he added.
“It was you!” Skip the meerkat leader reared up tall and pointed a miniature claw in accusation. “You’ve been stalking us!”
“Stalking us!” echoed the chorus behind him.
“Prowling around our burrows!”
“Prowling!”
“Maybe I have.” The scabby-looking baboon lurched to his paws, suddenly indignant. “But what’s wrong with watching, eh? I was just looking.”
“Looking!” accused the mob, scandalized. “Looking!”
“There you are.” Skip nodded firmly to Thorn, as if Spider’s confession clinched it.
“See here, you tiny rat-monkey-things,” said Spider, sounding offended. “I’m not a Codeless killer.”
Thorn rubbed his head hard with a paw. “I don’t understand any of this,” he muttered. “Who was killed?”
“We’ll show you,” declared Skip. “Then you’ll see.” He sniffed and muttered, “Rat-monkey-things, eh? We’re going to kill him right back.”
Rather wishing he’d never got involved, Thorn followed the big meerkat anyway, around a slope that was pockmarked with burrows and down into a shallow rocky dip. Spider followed him, and behind the mangy baboon came the whole clan of meerkats, bobbing and bounding and squeaking.
“There,” said Skip, flinging out a paw with an air of satisfaction.
Cautiously, Thorn padded down to the limp form at the bottom of the hollow. The dead meerkat lay on its back, paws splayed, staring up at the sky with an expression that was more startled than terrified. In the sky above the corpse, pied crows flapped and swooped, waiting.
Thorn crouched and gently touched the little creature’s chest. It was ripped down the breastbone, its rib cage cavity exposed, the blood clotting and drying in the sun.
“But nobody has eaten it,” he muttered, half to himself.
“No, Bad Baboon wasn’t hungry,” declared Skip. “You see now? Broke the Code!”
“Of course he doesn’t see!” exploded Spider. “He doesn’t see
because it isn’t true and it makes no sense, rat-monkey.”
“Why you—” Skip drew himself up, raising his tiny claws.
“Calm down, will you?” Thorn glared at them both, exasperated. “Skip, just wait and think. Does Spider look as if he eats well?” He spread his paws questioningly, then gestured at Spider’s jutting ribs. “No. Come on, Skip. If he’d killed your friend, he’d have eaten him.”
“Too right,” muttered Spider.
He wasn’t helping, Thorn thought, as he took a deep, patient breath. “I really think you’ve got the wrong culprit,” he told the meerkat gently. “Your friend was quite small, Skip. Any flesh-eater could have done this to him. A—a bird; one of those crows, even. Or a jackal, or a hyena—” He stopped. That reminded him. The meerkat’s wound looked a bit like what had been done to the hyena back at Tall Trees. “Any creature, really. It’s not Spider’s fault he was around at the wrong time.”
“Well.” Skip drew himself up to his full height, looking furious and offended. “Well. I suppose you might be right.”
“Might be right.” The disappointed murmur rippled around the mob.
“What’s more,” added Spider, “I don’t even like meerkat. Give me a good crunchy locust. Locusts are better than meerkats in every way.”
“Meerkats are better than locusts!” cried Skip, enraged. He hunched his back, coiling his muscles to attack, and behind him his mob crouched to pounce.
“All right,” said Thorn hastily, flapping his paws. He didn’t know Spider, but he certainly couldn’t believe the scrawny baboon would kill a juicy meerkat and leave it uneaten in the sun. “I’ll tell you what, Skip.” Thorn dipped his head respectfully. “I shall take this Spider back to my troop at Tall Trees, and together we will get to the bottom of this. If we judge that he’s guilty, we’ll give him baboon justice. Will that satisfy you?”
Skip hesitated, narrowing his eyes, while Spider eyed him with misgiving. When the meerkat finally gave a jerky, slightly pompous nod, the baboon’s breath rushed out in relief.
“Well, aren’t I glad you came along, stranger.” Spider patted Thorn’s shoulder. “That would have been a really humiliating way to die.”