As if reading her thoughts, Cyril turned his eyes to hers, and the heat of his expression warmed her to her toes. His desire was obvious, but more, she saw comfort there, and concern for her. She tried to smile.
Several yards away, Captain Spat’s angry voice made her jump. “Wake up, Norman! You’re on guard. There might be fairrier cats or rogue Cinnans out there.” He poked Norman in the chest.
“I wasn’t sleeping, Captain, honest. Just thinking about Alliana. I was trying to remember the marketplace—the bright colors of the cloth sellers, the crowds, the different smells. I was wondering what it’ll be like to buy food instead of hunting for every bite.”
“If you want to make it to Alliana you’d best think about where you are right now. Shame to get eaten when we’re this close to leaving Cinna.”
“Yes, Captain. Sorry, Captain.”
Captain Spat wandered past him around the camp, pausing here and there to look out into the blackness that surrounded them. He carried his spear, which served as much as a walking stick as a weapon. Catherine sat outside the tent where Bessie and Mekrita were already snoring and watched him stride back and forth as if he were pacing the deck of a ship. When her head began to nod, she forced herself to her feet and withdrew to the tent. The thought of Spat’s vigilance gave her comfort as she finally closed her eyes.
In the morning the Cinnans lifted Pokos in the air upon his pinebough litter and began to march south toward the giant yew tree where they would begin their descent. The great fairrier cat did not move or open his eyes, only the rhythmic expansion of his huge chest showing that he lived. Catherine turned away from the sight. Mekrita touched Catherine’s shoulder and held her gaze for several long moments. Catherine felt a soothing comfort enfold her. Mekrita took Catherine’s hand and squeezed it, then ran to catch up with Quor.
Norman cast them a long look as he and the rest of the Allianans marched after Spelopokos. “Fare thee well!” he yelled back to them with his hand raised.
Bessie raised her hand slowly and waved good-bye.
The six Cinnans worked with confident ease, tying ropes and hammering in the bronze pins that would support their descent into the great chasm of All Souls Ravine. Quor shouted out orders, which Spat repeated to his men, as if only he could understand the Cinnan’s words. Norman, who had climbed the rigging of the Fortune many a time, was not particularly afraid of heights, but every time he looked down it made him sick. The unfamiliar climbing gear the Cinnans had given him didn’t make him feel any more confident.
Each of the Allianans was given a harness that fit around their hips and thighs, which were fitted with metal rings through which the ropes were tied. Spelopokos was suspended by ropes and pulleys that were anchored directly into the rock in several places with metal stakes.
As Quor gave the order to begin the descent, a great shout of anguish rolled through the chasm. No one moved. All eyes turned toward Spat, who stood with his back to the canyon, his spear raised high.
“CINNA, YOU FORSAKEN LAND, WE SHAKE OUR FEET OF YOUR DUST! YOU’VE TAKEN TWENTY-THREE OF MY MEN! WE’LL NOT LOOK BACK! IF WE PERISH IN OUR ESCAPE IT WILL BE A BETTER DEATH THAN OLD AGE IN YOUR FROZEN HELL!”
With a great yell, Spat threw his spear as hard as he could at the yew tree, where it stuck fast.
The words of the captain echoed over the ravine and down the spines of the listeners. Then Spat began to laugh. He clutched his sides and stomped his foot. He laughed and the ravine laughed back until the sound of his laughter seemed to surround them. The other Allianans joined in and the chasm became a maelstrom of sardonic Allianan humor.
Spat wiped his eyes. He held up his now empty fist, shouting, “Come on, mates, look sharp. We’re going home! Let’s show these Cinnans that we can handle a rope or two! Beatty, take up the slack. Lefford, look lively, there’s a Cinnan passing you a supply pack. Shem, tighten up Norman’s knot, he’s gone and tied it wrong.”
Someone began to sing.
Heave ho, the anchor’s up,
Time to work until we sup
The ditty was taken up heartily by the rest of the Fortune’s crew as they worked their way down the steep walls of the ravine.
Norman looked again at the empty space below and wondered how the ropes could possibly reach to the bottom. Just as they neared the end of the lines, though, the Cinnans showed them how to anchor into the rock walls. Then Quor and the others removed the upper stakes and shuttled the ropes downward to begin the whole process again.
Lowering Spelopokos was a different matter. A Cinnan and an Allianan would steady his floating bed until two other Cinnans worked the ropes through a second set of fasteners. Once those were pulled taut, they would remove the first ropes and gently ease him down, the Allianan and the Cinnan moving with the great cat as he descended.
It was Quor’s task to give water to Spelopokos whenever they stopped to rest for food and drink.
Finally, as the sun began to cast a golden light on the steep rock bluffs and the other side was drenched in purple shadows, Quor bade the men to form a horizontal line across the wall, with Pokos suspended just below them.
Norman watched in fascination as the Cinnans moved to attach cocoon-like sheets of linen into the wall. Each one had four or five long metal pins to anchor it to the cliff. Quor swung over, created one for Norman, and told him how to fold himself inside to sleep. At last, Quor anchored his own linen hammock to the wall. The voices of the Allianans drifted with the wind.
Norman looked up out of an opening to the stars above, glad for the warmth of the fairrier cat fur hat that he had kept in his food bag and now wore. Except for the hard rock on one side, he felt like he was in a ship’s hammock. Eventually exhaustion overtook him.
A forceful wind that morning made their progress difficult. The Allianans had to shout to be heard. Around noon the temperature soared as the sun baked the rock walls. Every time Norman opened his mouth, it felt parched. His water skin was empty. At mid-afternoon he looked below and saw treetops for the first time and gave a whoop of joy. The sailors took up a sea chantey and the work flowed smoothly for the next few hours.
By dusk, Norman put his feet on solid ground. He sunk to his knees and gratefully breathed in the organic scent of fallen pine needles and moist soil. They had finally reached the cold, shady bottom of the ravine. Huge trees grew straight up to catch whatever light they could, their trunks as large as thirty feet in diameter. Moss of all kinds padded the rocks and the tree bark, and hung like lacy green curtains from the branches.
The gorge was filled with the roar of white water as it rushed violently through granite boulders. Norman staggered to the bank, broke through the thin layer of ice that covered the river’s edge, and took a long drink. He watched the water flow in gentle swirls around the rocks near his feet and then remembered to fill his water skin.
To the surprise of the Cinnans, who rarely had fires, the Allianans lit a roaring blaze that night. At dawn, Quor led them to a fallen tree that crossed the ravine about a mile upstream. Its huge roots were tilted into the air, still clinging in vain to the giant clump of upturned earth that had come with them when the tree toppled over. Its gigantic trunk leaned precariously against the far side of the ravine. Norman scrambled up on its top. Stepping on the mossy trunk, he slipped and landed hard on his side. It was worse than ice.
Quor scowled at him and said, “We will use the ropes, Norman.” Captain Spat looked over and scowled too, as if one scowl was not enough. Norman got up and climbed down off the trunk, his face flushed.
They made their way across the tree trunk to the other side. The hardest part was lifting the fairrier cat up the steeply angled incline of the trunk. It took three hours to move him eighty yards, six men pushing and eight men pulling. Once Spelopokos shifted his weight suddenly and sent several men flying off the log. If it weren’t for the ropes, they would have plunged into the violent rapids beneath.
They stopped to rest once they crossed over, sitting
on the huge branches of the tree with the river far below. Norman looked at the motionless bulk of Spelopokos, who was securely tied to many tree branches. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and, while the others were busy eating the last of the food, eased himself closer, careful of the moss. He could hear the fairrier cat breathing. He poked his head into the stretcher’s opening and stared down at Spelopokos.
The cat’s eyes were shut and his breathing steady. He was bigger than the cats Norman had witnessed in Cinna. Norman reached down and stroked the cat lightly on the top of the head. Spelopokos still wore the same linen bandage around his neck that the two girls had put on him and remained still, except for his rhythmic breathing. Norman reached in farther to touch the soft fur above the bandage.
“What would it be like to ride you?” he whispered to the cat. Norman brushed his head against the top of Spelopokos’s linen enclosure and felt his hat fall past his ear and shoulder, landing right on Spelopokos’s face. He froze. The cat twitched but did not awaken. Very slowly Norman lifted the hat off of the cat, holding his breath. The cat’s eyelids fluttered. Norman carefully backed out of Spelopokos’s bed, looking through the tree branches to see if anyone had been watching. No one seemed to have noticed.
Catherine sat on a rock, facing All Souls Ravine. It was just the four of them now. Quor had assured her that the prophecy would not fail her. Trust the prophecy, he had said. Fine, Quor. What if the prophecy is correct, but I’m not the right Catherine? What then?
Dusk was settling in long, alternating purple and blue shadows. Peach-colored patches of rock caught the last, bright glancing rays of the sun. Two nights had passed with no sign of fairrier cats. Perhaps they are still following Magnus and his Cinnans.
The pendant now seemed to weigh as much as a castle. Perhaps even several castles. Catherine was tempted to take it off and throw it into the abyss in front of her. Then no one could expect anything of her. She could go back to being regular old Catherine, who had no prophecy to fulfill. I could perish with Lackanay. I don’t care.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and dripped, cold and unnoticed, on the ground at her feet. She hardly bothered to wipe them away. I have failed. In choosing to go after Magnus I put Pokos’s life at risk. Some queen I’ll make. She couldn’t get the image of Pulquin out of her mind—how he had calmly and deliberately shot Pokos—how that one arrow had changed everything.
Before he left, Quor had told her that Pokos had awakened and was in a half-dream state, much like the moments before sleep. He could hear, but not necessarily listen, and he couldn’t speak aloud because it hurt and took too much energy. At least Quor can communicate with him, find out if he’s thirsty...
Numb, she watched as Bessie now busied herself with preparing the evening meal. Since there were fairrier cats all around they had decided to stay right where they were. Menard had collected enough firewood to burn for a whole week. Everyone was especially cheerful and obliging, leaving Catherine alone to concentrate. Her only job was to solve the mystery of the pendant.
Maybe if I were completely Cinnan I would know what to do. Julia used it at the Duray Principas. Anger welled up in Catherine, sharpening her thoughts and bringing her to her feet. She started to pace, thinking all the while about everything she had ever heard about the pendant. It’s not what it’s made of that makes it special. Seven perfect onyx stones. Silver that doesn’t tarnish. Principles of balance and harmony. More love than can be felt in one lifetime. Catherine’s mind seemed to chase itself in circles.
Pokos said that the fairrier cats used to love living in Tabrek. If it weren’t for Kallik they might still live there. Did the fairrier cats come from Cinna along with the Ancient Onyxes? Catherine plopped down on the rock again and cradled her chin in her hands, looking out through her splayed fingers. Her thoughts tumbled over one another in her effort to find some kind of logic and order in the pendant. Something to point her in the right direction.
Catherine took off the necklace and looked at it for the hundredth time. You guard your secrets well. Why would Elsath give these stones to the Tabrekians? Was that the beginning of the prophecy? Or did the prophecy come later?
Catherine fingered the onyx stones, as if by touching them she could absorb their significance. Somehow all of this has to do with Lackanay. Seven small stones, one large central stone. But there are only four kingdoms in the land of Lackanay—Tabrek, Crystallia, Alliana and Candlewax.
Every now and then, Bessie, Cyril, or Menard would glance over at her, but they kept their distance. Her mind drifted. Now Bessie was lighting the fire and Cyril and Menard were talking in quiet voices. No one spoke about the hungry fairrier cats that were likely to come visiting. If the cat that attacked Pokos was any indication, they were in for a long, dangerous night. My friends are counting on me.
Catherine turned her attention back to the pendant in her hands. It gave her no help. The dark had come again and with it a cold breeze from across the canyon. By now Quor has taken Pokos down into All Souls Ravine. Catherine drew the necklace over her head and rested her thumb in the familiar indentation, the weight of her hand making the chain tug gently on the back of her neck. Farewell, Pokos. I wish I could have spoken with you before we parted.
Suddenly the pendant grew warmer in her grasp. Catherine dropped it in surprise. Her hand tingled slightly. Frantically she grabbed it again.
“Pokos?”
“Catherine.”
Catherine gasped. It was Pokos in her thoughts, as if he were speaking aloud, and yet her ears had heard no sound.
“Pokos?” she said again in her thoughts. She listened a long time, trying hard not to breathe too loudly, all the while her heart beating fast. There was no answer. The pendant grew cool. I couldn’t have imagined that!
Catherine thought about telling the others, but she wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. She walked over to the fire and warmed her hands, reliving her exchange with Pokos.
Next to her, Menard fidgeted, peering into the shadows. “It’s getting dark and it won’t be long before those fairrier cats come nosing around,” he warned.
“I wish we had some deer meat to offer them,” grumbled Cyril.
“Aye. I don’t think they would care for these Cinnan provisions. No meat here,” said Menard dismally.
“Is there any time to hunt?” Bessie asked.
“Wouldn’t matter much if there were. Not much game here in Cinna. That is why those cats are so thin.” Cyril was pacing.
“Do you think they will remember us from before?” asked Bessie.
Cyril stopped and Menard’s head jerked up.
“I mean, they might hold it against us that we killed five of them that first night...” Bessie’s voice trailed off in trepidation.
“It wasn’t like we had a choice,” said Cyril, peering into the forest.
That night they tried to sleep in shifts. The firelight threw their shadows dancing to the outer fringes of the darkness. The Cinnan gear kept the night chill off of them and the huge fire was scorching hot. Catherine saw that Bessie was finally nodding off during her time to sleep. It made her feel tired too. She yawned and blinked hard. Menard and Cyril stood with their backs to the fire on either side of the girls.
Catherine heard the growl before she saw the cat. It stood brazenly at the edge of the camp. She shook Bessie awake and got to her feet. Her hands went to the pendant. They all stood and faced the cat in alarm. It stared back at them, waiting.
Out of the corner of her eye Catherine saw a flash. A white streak flew like a tongue of fire, hitting Cyril and knocking him down. A third cat leaped at Menard and sent him tumbling in a heap. Bessie screamed. A fourth cat had her by the boot and was dragging her toward the forest on her back.
“STOP!” thought Catherine, her thumb pressed into the back of the pendant. The cat dragging Bessie let go of her boot and jumped away in surprise. Menard scrambled from the fire, rolling right into the legs of the fairrier cat next to him, who
had spun around to face Catherine. The cat pinning Cyril to the ground looked up, stunned.
“Stop, I tell you! Leave them alone,” thought Catherine. The silver felt as if it had fused itself to her thumb and fingers. “We are not your enemies.”
The largest cat looked down at Cyril, pinned under his huge paws. Slowly he raised his head and glared at Catherine. His shoulder had five long bloody gashes in it. This is the same cat that attacked Pokos! Catherine focused all of her attention on him. Her hand was tingling.
“Friends. We are your friends. That man you are standing on is someone I love. Please get off of him.”
The cat eyed her suspiciously and then looked at Cyril with a snarl. His weight looked as if it were crushing Cyril’s chest.
“Meat.” The cat’s hunger entwined with thoughts of blood and sinew.
Catherine felt nauseous, her fear nearly overwhelming her. She swallowed and focused. “NO! NOT MEAT!”
Menard cast a quick glance at Cyril, not daring to take his attention off of the cat in front of him. “Cyril! Don’t move!” he urged out of the side of his mouth.
The cat eyed Catherine malevolently. “As I told the intruder, I am Zekkarados. How do you speak to us?” he asked. His voice in her thoughts was proud and disdainful. Catherine felt a shiver go down her spine. There was no mercy in those eyes.
She mustered her own pride and straightened her shoulders. “I am Catherine of the Ancient Onyxes, and these are the Onyxes!” She moved her hand back and forth, careful not to lose her grip on the pendant. The cat’s yellow eyes fastened on her face.
Zekkarados growled. “You should have told us before! Why did you not reveal yourself when you entered Cinna?” The cat had not moved from Cyril’s chest and his claws were beginning to draw blood.
Candlewax Page 27