by Erin Hunter
Cold water spurted over her face, and she gasped.
“Got you back for yesterday!” Moon shrieked, capering away.
Sky shook the water from her ears, grinning. Filling up her own trunk, she gave chase. Moon cantered away, his trunk swinging, and Sky pretended to miss, splattering water over the grass.
“I win!” cried Moon.
“You win,” agreed Sky, grabbing him and curling her trunk around his.
When they’d eaten enough grass and green twigs and leaves, Sky gathered up the tusk fragment and they set off back up to the track. If anything, the wind seemed stronger than ever; out on the open savannah Sky had to lean into it, battling its force, and protecting Moon as best she could with her rump. Dust swirled into her eyes; it did not help that the track was rising now. She heard that bull elephant’s blare again, but distantly. And the faint odor of lions still drifted occasionally to her trunk, but in this wind they could be miles away.
It was hard to judge the passing of time when the sun was obscured by that layer of scudding gray cloud. All the two elephants could do was plod on, one heavy footstep after another; the verdant green bank and the sweet taste of water began to feel like a distant memory. Poor Moon, Sky thought. This must be so hard for him.
Her throat was too dry to ask him how tired he was; she simply halted to let him rest. As he sagged against her rump, Sky stared back along the track, trying to judge how far they had come.
A stocky form shimmered in the distance, trotting briskly toward them.
Sky felt a shock, as if a hoof had struck her gut. “What?”
Moon turned wearily to follow her gaze, and his eyes widened. “The rhino,” he gasped. “Why is it following us?”
“I don’t know.” Sky felt her fear rising. Moon looked on the verge of panic: Calm down, she told herself sternly, and she tickled his ear. “Don’t worry. It’s just going the same way as us.”
They hurried on, trying to make faster headway against the wind. The well-worn migration track was long and straight, and the marker stone was easy enough to spot; when they turned off, the new track tapered into a blue distance and vanished into hazy hills. When Sky glanced back, she saw that the rhino, too, had turned at the marker stone.
Why would it do that? What does it want?
The track rose steeply and narrowed. Walls of rock pressed in, finally forcing them to walk in single file. At least that protected Moon a little from the blowing grit and the dislodged shingle that whirled past. The howl of wind and the clatter of falling stones echoed unnervingly from the sheer rock walls, yet there were sharp sounds behind them that were even louder. Sky heard rocks rattle, and they sounded too big to be blown even by this storm; there was a rhythmic crunching that was definitely footsteps.
Anxiety gnawed at Sky, and she picked up speed.
Mist gathered as they climbed, a gray dampness that clung to the folds of their skin. At last, after many false summits, the rocky path reached what Sky knew was the true crest. She halted.
Beyond this point, Sky remembered, the path dipped, and the walls of stone would broaden suddenly, opening out into wide, flat grassland strewn with scattered bones: the Plain of Our Ancestors. Was it possible the rhino was going there too? The ground was sacred to elephants; what business of the rhino’s were the bones of dead elephants? Yet as far as Sky knew, the track led nowhere else.
Squaring her shoulders, she nudged Moon, urging him to squeeze ahead of her.
“Moon, keep going,” she said. “I’ll wait here for a minute, but you follow the path and keep going to the valley. You remember it? You’ll be safe there.”
Moon nodded. He glanced back past her, and she knew he’d heard the rhino too.
“Be careful, Sky,” he whispered, then trudged on upward.
Sky waited as the bleak wind moaned and howled. Her heart felt like an oxpecker bird fluttering in her chest. Below her, the path angled behind a blade of rock, and she couldn’t see beyond it. But she heard a grunt and the tread of heavy feet.
The rhinoceros emerged, ploughing upward. It was a female, breathing noisily, her eyes fixed on the ground as she hauled her hefty body up the steep track. Sky had been right—the rhino was no bigger and probably no older than Sky was. But she still looked dangerous, with her massive body and sharp horn. Give me courage, Great Mother.
Now or never, Sky realized, stepping forward to confront the rhino. Angrily she raised her trunk and spread her ears.
“Why are you following us?”
The rhino halted, her black eyes glittering. She raised her head, and her long horn gleamed in the pale light.
CHAPTER 13
The rock of the escarpment was already weather-smoothed, but it seemed to Thorn as if these gales might wear it away altogether. The wind howled across the slope, flattening the few tufts of vegetation on its barren face; it made an eerie wailing sound in the tunnels where the troop sheltered. The small cavern near the entrance was as far as they’d ventured for now, and capricious flurries of breeze gusted in to rumple their fur.
Brightforest Troop had found the abandoned den by chance, and despite the constant, unsettling howling of the gale, Thorn knew they were lucky. The floor of the cave was damp with pools that lingered from the rainstorms, but at least they were out of the worst of the blast. The Strongbranches and some of the fitter baboons had gathered branches and wedged them as tightly as they could across the tunnel’s opening; the foliage rattled and shook, but the screen was holding. The tunnel itself receded farther into the hillside, but no one wanted to probe deeper to see what was down there. A faint odor of rot-meat, which no baboon chose to mention, seeped from the depths.
They had enough problems of their own.
Berry was in a hollow off the small cavern. She lay motionless on a bed of soft leaves, her face slack in feverish sleep. The Goodleaves bustled around her, bringing cool water and poultices, but Thorn could only crouch, staring at her beautiful face, willing her to wake up.
Beneath her closed lids, her eyes twitched rapidly. She must be dreaming, thought Thorn. I hope they’re not bad dreams. I hope she isn’t living through the attack again.
“This is my fault,” he whispered to her. “Berry, I’m so sorry.”
She’d been attacked right after their argument at the Lightning Tree, by the same monkeys he and Nut had eluded. A foraging party of Middleleaves had heard her cries and driven the monkeys off, but by the time they found Berry she was battered and semiconscious from bites and scratches. But worst of all . . .
Thorn looked down at the stump of Berry’s severed tail, the bloody mess hidden by the Goodleaves’ dressings.
If only we hadn’t argued. If only I hadn’t let her walk away alone. The thought raced around his mind, over and over again.
“I . . . I haven’t seen it,” Berry mumbled.
“What, Berry? What do you need?” begged Thorn, leaning closer.
But Berry went still again. Blossom Goodleaf touched her cheek. “She’s very warm,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Petal, come help me.”
The other Goodleaf hurried to her side with a handful of fresh leaves, and together they carefully unwrapped Berry’s tail stump. “More honey, Petal,” said Blossom. “We have to stop the wound from going bad.”
Berry struggled feebly as the Goodleaves uncovered her wound, as raw and bloody as a half-eaten carcass. Thorn winced.
“She’s so weak,” Petal murmured, carefully rewrapping the stump as Berry whimpered and twitched. Thorn wished he could hold her paw and comfort her—but he couldn’t, not in front of the Goodleaves.
“When will she be healed?” he croaked.
Petal and Blossom exchanged sorrowful looks. Blossom shook her head.
Terror clawed at Thorn’s throat. They’re wrong, he thought. She will get better. She has to!
The Goodleaves wrapped the last jackalberry leaves around Berry’s tail stump, then Blossom hurried away to tend to baboons who had been injured by the fallin
g tree. “You can’t stay long,” Petal warned Thorn before following Blossom. “Berry needs rest more than anything.”
As soon as they were alone and unobserved, Thorn reached out to stroke Berry’s cheek. She lay very still now, but her usually sweet mouth was twisted into a grimace. “Berry,” he whispered. “Berry, can you hear me at all?”
He craned over her, his breath in his throat, but she didn’t even twitch.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered at last, clasping her paw. “So sorry. I wish I’d come with you. I could have helped you fight off the monkeys, or hidden with you.” He shut his eyes tightly. “You were right, Berry. There is something wrong, and I wish I’d told you the truth. . . .” He squeezed her fingers. “It’s your father, Berry. He’s done terrible things.”
Berry didn’t react. She couldn’t hear him, Thorn knew. She lay right before him, yet she was so far away.
“I’ll tell you everything when you’re better. I promise.” With one last caress of her face, Thorn padded reluctantly back into the main cave.
Mud was crouched in the shadows against the wall, talking in a low voice to the other baboons, but when he spotted Thorn his eyes widened. He hurried to meet him. “How’s Berry? Is she going to be all right?”
“I don’t know.” Thorn realized his voice was trembling.
“Oh, Thorn.” Mud touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I . . .” Thorn hesitated. While Berry lay drifting in and out of consciousness, did it really matter how he felt?
He was spared having to finish his answer; a bark of summons came from the Strongbranches, who were emerging from the deeper tunnels. “Thorn,” called Worm. “Help us bring the food out.”
The healthy members of the troop turned as one to the Strongbranches, but eager glances faded quickly to grimaces of distaste. Thorn suppressed a shudder as he helped Frog carry a greasy, blackened thigh to the center of the cave.
“We investigated the rest of the tunnels,” Frog said with a shrug. “They’re full of dead hyenas.”
“It’s food, isn’t it?” snapped Grass. “Stop making those faces, all of you.”
It was true that in the high winds, and with many flesh-eaters prowling, hunting outside was hard. This pungent rot-meat would have to satisfy the troop, thought Thorn as he helped distribute the dismembered corpses. Still, as Starleaf took a rotten foreleg from his paws with a smile of gratitude, he felt a pang of shame. The Strongbranches, their duty done, were gathering around a small pile of berries, insects, and dead rodents; they’d managed to forage a few tasty things near the den entrance, but they were keeping them strictly to themselves. As Starleaf called Mud over to share her chunk of carrion, Frog hailed Thorn from the Strongbranch corner.
“Thorn, come and eat with us.”
Reluctantly, Thorn sat down with his fellow Strongbranches. He couldn’t deny that his lizard tasted better than dead hyena, but guilt gnawed at him.
“Stinger!” Grass brightened as the Crownleaf padded over. “Here, we’ve saved you a scorpion.”
“And we found some grewia bushes,” added Fly eagerly. “These are delicious, Stinger.”
Stinger eyed the orange fruits and popped one into his mouth. “Save some of these for Berry,” he ordered. “And the tamarinds. She likes those.”
Yes, Berry did love tamarinds. She’d suck the tangy flesh off the seeds, her eyes bright with delight. Thorn stared at the remains of his lizard, his appetite gone.
“Come on, Thorn.” Stinger slapped his back. “Eat up. You’re a protector of the troop now—it’s your duty to keep up your strength.”
“Hey, you,” Worm barked at a passing Deeproot. The little baboon started, and turned with wary eyes. “Bring me some leaves. I need to rest this foot. It got bitten by that tarantula I killed, remember?”
The Deeproot darted to his store, rushing back with an armful of date palm leaves.
Worm growled, “No, softer ones! I want solanum. Why haven’t you got any of that? Yes, yes, leave those for now, but get me some solanum before the day’s out.”
What a bully, Thorn thought. They all are, apart from Frog.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fang lob a bone at Mud. It was small, but it smacked him right between the shoulder blades.
Mud spun around, glaring at the Strongbranches, and Fang pointed at Thorn.
“It was him!” he hooted.
Mud’s eyes flicked to Thorn, full of disbelief and hurt. Thorn, startled, opened his jaws to protest, but his friend had already turned away, his shoulders hunched.
“Right,” said Stinger, gulping down a fat caterpillar. “Stop messing around. We need to talk about those monkeys and what we’re going to do about them.”
“We’re going to chase them down and massacre them,” growled Worm.
“Yes. Teach them a lesson about tangling with baboons.” Fly’s snout twisted.
“Wait,” put in Thorn. “Is that wise? We can’t rush into anything.”
“They bit Berry’s tail off,” snapped Worm. With a sly glance at Stinger, she added, “Doesn’t that bother you, Thorn?”
“I’m furious about what they did to Berry!” he retorted angrily. “And the others! But we’ve seen how dangerous the monkeys are.”
“And there are an awful lot of them,” said Frog. “I agree with Thorn.”
“And so, as it happens, do I.” Stinger stared through narrowed eyes at Worm, who flinched in surprise.
“I don’t understand. . . .” Fly licked his jaws. “Stinger, don’t you want to get revenge?”
“I want to,” said Stinger. “I want to punish the monkeys just as much as you brave baboons, and I’m grateful that you want to avenge my daughter.” He picked at his teeth. “But Bravelands has a Great Father for a reason.”
Fly, Grass, Worm, and Fang gaped at him.
“But, Stinger—” yelped Fang.
“We can’t let them get away with this,” growled Worm.
“What would that rhino know about this?” whined Fly.
Stinger turned to him with a glare that froze him to silence, and Fly bit nervously on his lip. Frog looked shocked to the bone.
“Sorry,” muttered Fly.
“Quiet, all of you.” Stinger held up a paw. “And never let me hear you question the Great Parent again. We are better than the monkeys. Do not ever forget that.” He shot another withering glance at Fly. “We will go to our Great Father, and we shall ask him for justice.”
“Stinger Crownleaf! A word, if I may!”
As old Beetle Highleaf hobbled forward, the Strongbranches turned to stare. The grizzled baboon was huffing and puffing as he stopped in front of Stinger, his jaw working in agitation.
“Speak, dear Beetle.” Stinger extended an encouraging paw.
“I am here to represent the Council, Stinger,” said Beetle. “I must make that clear first, because there has been a meeting in your absence. While you were, er . . . busy.”
“A meeting?” asked Stinger silkily. “In my absence?”
“Yes, indeed. Well, you know, the Council rules do allow for such a thing.” Beetle scratched nervously at his neck fur. “There was some, ah—concern. About the way the troop is being run.”
“Go on, my wise friend.” Stinger dipped his head.
Beetle seemed more sure of himself now. He nodded back politely at Stinger. “Some baboons are not happy, Stinger. You see, there’s a feeling that the Strongbranches are perhaps—well, throwing their weight around a little.”
“My Strongbranches?” Stinger looked wounded. “But their purpose is to protect the troop, not to harm it.”
“Just so, just so. But there’s been a tendency to, shall we say—to tell the other ranks what to do. To take the best food for themselves. It doesn’t seem entirely proper.”
Stinger nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate your coming to me, Beetle. My Strongbranches do need to keep their strength up, of course, but I have made it very clear to them that they
are here to serve the troop, not to command it.”
Grass opened his mouth as if to contradict him, and Thorn distinctly saw Stinger elbow him in the chest.
“Good, good.” Beetle looked relieved. “Perhaps a little reminder would be appropriate, Stinger? Just to make sure the ways of the troop are respected?” He glanced nervously at Worm and Fly. “After all, it’s a very new idea. There were no Strongbranches in my day.”
“Quite.” Stinger gave him a broad smile, his fangs exposed. “I am glad you brought this up, and I’ll deal with it straightaway. Grass, Fly: go with Beetle, please. Take him outside the den where you can discuss this properly, will you?”
Grass grinned, and Fly jumped to his feet. Beetle’s eyes shot from one to the other. “Well, indeed, I—”
“Come along, old baboon,” said Grass, taking his arm. Fly seized the other, and they began to march him away.
Uh-oh. Thorn leaped to his paws, ready to follow as Grass and Fly escorted Beetle swiftly from the cave. But he felt claws grip his shoulder and dig in.
“Now, Thorn, what did I tell you?” Stinger smiled into his eyes as he pushed him firmly back down. “You need to eat so you can be a good Strongbranch. Carry on with your meal, please.”
Thorn swallowed. Stinger’s eyes were locked on his, and he was still wearing that brilliant, intimidating grin.
Defeated, Thorn went limp. He picked up a fig and tried to chew on it, though it tasted like dust. Frog caught his gaze; she looked deeply disturbed.
As he forced the fig into his mouth, piece by tasteless piece, Thorn strained his ears, but no sound reached him from beyond the tunnel. Whatever was happening outside, it was drowned out by the wailing howls of the wind.
Great Father stood on the wind-scoured bank of the watering hole, his thick gray legs stained up to the knees with mud. His tail flicked impatiently as three golden-brown gazelles pleaded with him.
“Titanpride has been slaughtering our kind, and the grass-eaters all across Bravelands,” said the tallest gazelle, tossing his slender horns in agitation. “They’re not killing to survive—they aren’t even eating those they kill!”