by Zizou Corder
‘Animal. Dealers,’ he mouthed. ‘Market. Animals.’ He made an animal noise, just to be clear.
Leila, like most Africans, in fact had phrases of many languages, and she soon worked out what the crazy foreigner was on about. Later that day she led Rafi down some nasty alleys to the nasty little home of Majid the Lioncatcher – the very man from whom Maccomo had bought the Oldest Lion and the Lionesses in the first place, years before.
The Lioncatcher, a scraggly dark little man as crooked as a thuja tree and just as tough, sent a small boy for mint tea, and crouched down, gesturing Rafi to sit. Leila stood quietly at the back, taking in what was going on. If her foreigner was engaging in business, she might want a part of it.
‘So,’ said the Lioncatcher, after many formalities which made Rafi rather impatient – greetings, enquiries after health, waiting for the tea and so on. ‘How can I help you? Do you need animals? Reptiles, birds, eggs – or my own speciality, Lions?’
‘Not Lions,’ said Rafi. ‘I need … a Liontrainer.’
The Lioncatcher’s eyes sparked. ‘Anyone in particular?’ he asked.
‘You know which one,’ Rafi said. ‘The one that was here recently.’
The Lioncatcher grinned. ‘Liontrainers are very expensive,’ he said. ‘But I will make you a good price …’
Rafi jumped up and in one movement took the skinny little man by the throat. ‘I want him,’ he said quietly, ‘and he wants me. It would be foolish to stand between us.’
He let Majid down to the ground again. The man blinked at him.
‘Do not make me your enemy,’ Majid said calmly. ‘You have enough enemies already. Go to the ship in the harbour called Old Yeller. Speak there to Capitaine Drutzel. Go now and your Liontrainer will come to you.’
Moments after Rafi left, Maccomo appeared from Majid’s other room. His wrists were still raw where the ropes had been cut away, but all traces of Liondroppings had been washed off him, and a decent dinner of lamb and oranges and couscous had strengthened him.
‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘How very interesting.’
He looked up. Leila was still standing in the corner. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I brought business,’ she said. ‘I seek my share.’
Majid laughed, and handed her a coin. ‘Go away,’ he said, and she pulled her cloth over her head and left.
‘So,’ said Maccomo. His eyes were bright and his languor fell off him like a robe slipping from his shoulders. ‘So, Majid, how soon can Old Yeller be ready? I shall go to Capitaine Drutzel later. You go back to the Riad el Amira. Sooner or later they have to come out. Go, and bring them to me: either three, or two, or one – it matters not. If I have only one the others will follow. Go!’
Majid smiled, and took down his sack and his long fork with two prongs, good for pinning something down by the neck; his small grey gun for shooting darts with; the darts themselves, long and nasty and containing drugs that, when they pierce the skin, send a creature to sleep; his ropes, his chains, his big whip.
He was officially a Lioncatcher, but he wasn’t fussy. He’d catch anything if the money was right. And, though Maccomo might not have had money now, he’d always been a good customer. And even Majid had heard of the Corporacy.
There was no chance really of Primo leaving Venice quietly. Claudio handled it: he put the word out through the gondoliers and their mothers, and all the Venetians quite understood that their beloved winged Lion had to go home. They turned out in droves across to the Lido, to wave him off, and to see the great scarlet and pink hot-air balloon in which Claudio would take him away. A small band came too, to serenade the departure of the beloved Lion of San Marco.
The huge balloon lay on the long white beach, flexing and writhing like an animal as the hot air from its blowers filled it up. If Charlie had been there, he would have wanted to run inside the balloon, and feel the warm wind in the strange translucent cavern of silk.
‘It’s cold up there,’ said King Boris, busily unloading from the back of his rickshaw several cashmere blankets for Primo to be swathed in. ‘The wind is good. Shouldn’t take you more than a day or two. Supplies are all on board – rather good supplies too – and the navigation system has just been serviced so you shouldn’t have any trouble.’
Suddenly, the balloon whipcracked, and whipcracked again, and then, in a great swooping movement as the hot air stiffened it, it leapt upright. The crowd gasped. The whole contraption – the quivering balloon and the compact and luxurious covered basket hanging beneath it, in which the voyagers would ride – was securely tethered to the ground. Even so, it looked as if it might fly off any time it chose. The basket looked tiny against the vastness of the balloon, let alone the sky above and the journey ahead of them.
‘In you get,’ commanded King Boris.
Claudio carefully led Primo up the special little stairs into the basket. King Boris stared southward, down towards the grey, flustered Adriatic Sea. He took a big breath of sea air.
Primo was inside now, nestled in his blankets. Claudio was standing on the edge of the hatch through which one entered the basket, awaiting instructions for take-off. The musicians were craning their necks as they played their special sad Bulgarian farewell tune in honour of King Boris’s generosity to Primo.
King Boris had a look on his face.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll come too.’ And with a dashing grin he leapt up the stairs and into his favourite spot by the pilot’s controls – it was quite a surprising feat for so stout a gentleman. Then he pulled some levers, pushed some buttons and steadied himself against a rail. ‘Hold on!’ he called to Claudio above the roar of the blowers.
The ropes and the staircase fell away beneath them as the great glowing balloon rose slowly and beautifully into the air, lurching a little in the freedom of the wind before it righted itself. It was a magnificent sight. The music fell away too and the crowd gasped once more – especially Edward.
‘But, Your Majesty!’ he called.
King Boris was not listening, or he couldn’t hear. ‘Come on, Claudio!’ he cried, his shiny black eyes beaming enthusiasm. ‘Come, my fellow balloonatic! Let’s go and help that foolish boy!’
When the Lions realized that Maccomo had escaped, all hell broke loose.
‘Who was watching over him!’ howled the Young Lion. ‘How could this have happened! All the help that Charlie gave us, and he only ever asked us to do one thing for him, and now we have failed!’ He was overwrought.
‘Calm down,’ said the Oldest Lion. ‘The mothers have already given chase.’
And indeed they had. Without a word to anyone, the three Lionesses had set off through the forest, long and swift and silent, trying to catch Maccomo’s scent, trying to track him. But they were confused: just as in Paris the Yellow Lioness had peed to disguise Charlie’s scent and confuse Rafi’s dog, Troy, so the Liondroppings with which Maccomo had smeared himself now confused them. When for a moment they thought they had caught his track, they were then filled with doubt by smelling – themselves. They ran hither and thither, following now one of their brothers, now one of each other, but never – quite – Maccomo.
The Wild Lions – those who had never been in captivity – looked on, a little puzzled at all the fuss. They understood that their ex-captive brothers and sisters felt a debt to the human Catspeaking boy, but it would have been a darn sight easier just to have eaten this Maccomo in the first place – it would have avoided all sorts of trouble. If he’d gone, good riddance to him. Someone would eat him soon enough anyway.
The Oldest Lion, though it took him longer to come round to it, somewhat shared this point of view. Maccomo could hardly survive in the forest. The mothers would catch him. Charlie would be long gone by now anyway. There was nothing they could do, if they failed to find him now. They would keep looking, of course.
‘Keep looking for how long?’ asked the Young Lion. ‘And in the meantime – what if Charlie
has not left? And even if he has – he believes that he is safe from Maccomo. He will go out into the world believing that we are protecting him by keeping Maccomo prisoner, and not only are we not protecting him, we haven’t even told him that we’re not. Let me go after him, Father – after Charlie – to tell him what has happened.’
‘I’ll go too,’ said Elsina.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said her brother. ‘Father, let me go.’
The Oldest Lion looked down at his son with great affection. ‘No,’ he said.
‘But I must,’ said the Young Lion. ‘I must – I mean, I must. I have to.’
‘No,’ said the Oldest Lion.
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll die. You’ll be caught. You won’t find him. You’ll be alone and helpless. You’ll be taken back to the Circus, or to a zoo, or killed for your fur, or so someone can eat your flesh.’
‘You mean I am too young –’
‘I mean you are too Lion – you are too animal. Only humans and birds can travel around without protection nowadays. I have not brought you out of captivity to lose you again.’
‘Charlie brought us out of captivity, Father,’ said the Young Lion quietly.
The Oldest Lion turned away. ‘Do not think I am happy about this!’ he snapped. ‘You are not going. Anyway, the man is drugged and weak. The mothers will find him soon and bring him back.’
The Young Lion was not convinced. He had a reason of his own for knowing better: he had checked the medicine bottle, rolling dusty by the wide old tree. Dusty, forgotten, and not much emptier than it had been when they took it off Maccomo in the first place. Maccomo was not drugged and weak. He was strong, determined and full of plots. No way could he be left to go after Charlie, and Charlie not be warned.
A day or two later, the goats and lizards and Wild Lions of the Argan Forests were astounded by the sight, just before dawn, of an enormous scarlet globe with what looked like a giant nest slung beneath it sliding slowly across the pearly sky, roaring softly as it went.
‘What on earth is that?’ wondered Elsina, lifting her head from drinking at one of the forest’s few streams.
‘It looks like the Bucintoro,’ said the Young Lion. ‘Like the glories of Venice …’
For a moment he and Elsina silently remembered their curious past: King Boris’s palazzo, the Doge’s great scarlet and golden boat, the murky canals and elegant black gondolas of Venice.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Elsina.
‘It’s nothing special,’ said one of the Wild Lions, irritated by talk of things he knew nothing about. ‘It’s just some big bird.’
The Young Lion and Elsina exchanged glances. This always happened when they mentioned human stuff. That’s why they usually kept quiet about it. Silently they lowered their heads and turned back to their drinking.
And that is why they did not notice when, about five miles on, the balloon began to descend, nor when it landed, with a thud and a lurch like a huge octopus swaying on the tide. The bright silk collapsed sideways over a thicket of thorns, bouncing slightly. A long mottled snake shook and slithered swiftly away. Lizards skittered. Birds rose in clouds from the thuja trees, cackling and twittering in fear.
Within moments, one brave little goat had hopped up on to a branch of thuja and was trying to nibble the silk. Seconds after that, King Boris appeared at the hatch, calling, ‘Dear goat, desist! This is a mode of transport, not dinner! For goodness’ sake, foolish beast, go and dine elsewhere!’ The goat, too stupid to be alarmed, gave King Boris a friendly look and went back to nibbling.
Claudio appeared behind King Boris and peered out. Together they emerged and clambered to the not-very-high top of the tree.
‘There is the town,’ said Claudio, pointing off to the west, where Essaouira was beginning to show up, a smudge on the flat horizon in the early light. ‘I shall go and find Charlie. He’ll be able to take Primo safe to the Lions.’
‘And I shall stay and guard the balloon,’ said King Boris. It had started to flex and sway as if it were thinking of taking off again. ‘From goats.’
‘Ciao!’ called Claudio. ‘I be quick as I can!’
Chapter Four
That very morning, Aneba and Magdalen had to go to the Consulate to sign for papers permitting them all to cross into Algeria and Mali and Burkina Faso. No, they couldn’t have the papers sent to the hotel. Yes, they both had to come. No, there was no other way. Sorry, madame. Sorry, monsieur.
Aneba, aware of how recognizable they looked together – the huge African and the red-haired woman – decided they should go separately, but at the same time, keeping an eye on each other. He wore a burnoose, a long Moroccan robe, its hood pulled up over his head. She wore a hat and sunglasses. Charlie was instructed to STAY PUT.
Moments after they left, he scurried out to look for his friends. Freedom at last! Where was Sergei? If he were around, Charlie wouldn’t even have to go out. No sign of him.
He wanted to talk to Sergei about Rafi being his cousin. He hadn’t told Magdalen and Aneba. Why not? Because he knew, in some deep and inexplicable way, that the news would really hurt them. He also knew they’d find out in the end. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but he didn’t want to be the one to tell them. Or Mabel. But he was desperate to confide in someone. So where was Sergei?
Charlie swiftly headed down towards the harbour. He was pretty sure that was where he would find Sergei or Omar – any cat, basically. He took the back alleys, wary of being seen. He had to come out by the café, though, and as he passed he looked for Ninu.
Of course he couldn’t see him – Ninu was a chameleon, after all. But then a tiny voice called out, ‘Hey, boy!’
Charlie ducked into the shadow of Ninu’s creeper.
‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Have you seen Sergei?’
‘Headed down to the harbour about ten minutes ago,’ said Ninu. ‘Why? What’s up?’
Ninu liked to be involved in things. He liked to help, if he could. He liked to feel helpful.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Charlie. ‘Going down to Ghana – crossing the Sahara! My parents have gone to get the papers now; that’s why I could get out.’
‘Oh,’ said Ninu. His eyes turned down. He looked sad.
Charlie stroked him under the chin. ‘What’s the matter, Ninu?’ he asked.
‘You’re the only one who replies when I talk,’ whispered the chameleon. ‘I like you … and I want to tell you –’
‘I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve got to go now. Got to find Sergei. I’ll come back, though!’
Charlie gave Ninu a grin and ran on down towards the harbour.
He was just approaching the quiet, empty corner by the disused bathhouse, near the fishmarket dump, where no doubt Sergei would be, when he realized just how big a mistake he had made.
Out of the blue – out of the bright shining seaside day, full of sun and gulls and surf – a rough-textured smelly darkness descended on him. He was grabbed. He was bundled. Now he was lying squashed in a restricted space, with a sense of quick trundling beneath him.
It only took seconds.
He fought, he struggled, he yelled.
It made no difference. The rough cloth was almost in his mouth. It was tight and he couldn’t move his hands to brush it away. It smelt horrible. Tasted horrible. Trundle, trundle, trundle, busily along an uneven road. It hurt, bang-bang-bang on his elbows and hips and head.
He hadn’t even found Sergei.
He was all alone.
Oh, god. What were his parents going to say?
He’d been a fool. He knew it immediately – he’d been a fool.
Ninu liked the café. He enjoyed watching humans come and go, trying to guess by their hair and their clothes which human language they would speak – Arabic or French, Riffi or Tamazight or Tashelhait, or English or German, Japanese, Italian or Spanish, plus the African languages, of course, Bambara or Dioula, Fon or Hausa, Wolof, Hassaniya, Malinké, Tamashek,
Crioulu … not that it made any difference. Any language that came by, human or animal, Ninu slipped into as easily as he slipped into a different colour when he sat in a different place.
But what was the point of knowing all the languages, and hearing all the conversations, when no one would talk to him? Most of the time, they didn’t see him, they didn’t hear him … Ninu was used to being ignored. Especially by adults.
He was sorry the boy who responded was going away. He had chatted a bit with that scruffy cat friend of his. He wanted to talk to him about the wicked Lioncatcher and the man with the hood who had waited for weeks for a boy, an unusual boy, to arrive on a ship … He had wanted to tell him about the conversations he had overheard between them. He wanted to know if it were true what the cats said, that the boy had brought back the captive Lions who had returned to the forest, and to tell him what a passing sparrow had just told him, about the gigantic red thing that had arrived in the forest that morning, which breathed fire and hot air like a dragon and had foreign humans aboard …
He sat in his plant (green for the leaves, turning a bit purple on one leg for the flowers) and watched. Who was this fellow now? Tall and blond, northern-looking, and speaking English, though with a very funny accent, chatting with the waiter.
He was asking about the boy.
Ninu cocked his scaly green ear.
‘An English African boy,’ he was saying. ‘Brown, maybe have a cat with him …’
‘The hungry boy!’ said the caféguy. ‘The boy who wanted to buy all my raw meat.’
Claudio smiled. ‘That’s him!’ he cried. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Don’t know,’ said the caféguy. ‘Some days since I see him. Maybe he is gone.’
‘Where did he stay, do you know?’ asked the blond man.
‘I don’t know,’ said the caféguy. ‘Sorry.’
Actually, he did know. But he’d grown to like Charlie, and he didn’t like Maccomo or the Lioncatcher, and he didn’t know who this new guy was, and so he wasn’t going to say anything any more to any of these guys who came asking about that boy.