Forest of Wonders

by Linda Sue Park

  DEDICATION

  To Kathleen, Vaunda, Vicky, Junko, Gail, Ken, Deb,

  Roxanne, Lisa, Louise, Sharon, Patty, Jeri, Elizabeth,

  and JoAnn, who know why

  MAP

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Map

  Part I Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part II Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part III Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Wing & Claw #2: Cavern of Secrets

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Linda Sue Park

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  RAFFA hesitated at the head of the steep stairs, a lantern in his hand. There was nothing wrong with going into the cellar, he told himself firmly.

  His cousin, Garith, poked him from behind. “What are you waiting for?” he said. “We’re not going to do anything. We’re just having a look.”

  Easy for Garith to say—he wasn’t the one who would be in the most trouble if they were caught! But Raffa’s eagerness won out over his caution. He held the lantern higher, nerves tingling in anticipation.

  The stairwell was lined with shelves holding earthenware jars, each carefully labeled. As he descended, Raffa trailed his free hand along one row. A few jars were warm to the touch, and faint gleams of pale gold or green escaped from the edges of some of the cork stoppers. The wisps of scent in the air were intriguing—sweet, bitter, tantalizing, repulsive.

  In the dark of the cellar, the lantern’s glow illuminated more shelves. Chalked on one wall were the words FOR HEALING. These jars held dried and powdered botanicals to be made into poultices for rubbing on wounds and injuries. Another chalked sign read FOR CURING: jars containing plant essences for mixing into infusions and tonics to cure sickness. Raffa knew every one of them by heart.

  “Where is it?” Garith asked, his voice too loud.

  “Shussss,” Raffa hissed. His parents and Uncle Ansel were in the garden, well out of earshot, but considering what the boys were about to do, Raffa thought it much wiser to be disobedient in whispers rather than shouts.

  He swung the lantern toward the dark space under the stairs, where there was a small cabinet. In his father’s careful lettering, a sign on its door read: FOR YEARNINGS.

  Raffa had discovered the cabinet years earlier and had asked his parents about it several times. Mohan and Salima had always put aside these questions without answering, until finally, a few weeks ago, his father snapped at him, saying that it was no business for children.

  Stung, Raffa had told Garith about the cabinet, and they had begun watching for a chance to investigate. Now, with the adults outside planning a new herb bed, the boys jostled shoulders under the stairs.

  Garith had to crouch before the cabinet; a year older than Raffa, he was also more than a head taller. “There’s nothing like this at our place,” he said. “I mean, I’m allowed to use any botanical whenever I want.”

  Raffa did not reply. Unlike Garith, he was almost never allowed to work with botanicals unsupervised. They both knew this already, so why did Garith have to rub it in?

  Holding his breath, Raffa pulled open the cabinet door. Six small jars . . . ordinary, humdrum. But a thrill rippled down his spine, for he knew that they might well hold apothecarial wonders.

  Garith reached for one and uncorked it.

  “You said we were only going to look!” Raffa protested. He glanced up at the stairs, as if his father might suddenly appear there.

  “I am looking,” Garith said as he peered into the jar. He sniffed at its contents, then grinned. “All right, I lied—I’m smelling, too. Romarian, I think.” Then his eyes lit up with mischief. “Let’s make something!”

  “Did you leave your brain at home?” Raffa exclaimed. “If my da finds out—”

  “Look, it’ll be easy,” Garith cut in. “We’ll take one of the jars and make a poultice. Even if they come in before we’re done, we’ll make sure there are other jars around as decoys, and we can put it back later. They’ll never even know.”

  There was something about Garith that made it hard for people to say no to him, but beyond that, Raffa was more than a little tempted by the thought of doing apothecary work without Mohan watching over him. For the space of a single breath, he pitted the possibility of his father’s wrath against the certainty of Garith’s ridicule.

  No contest.

  “Just this once,” Raffa said.

  Back upstairs, the boys put several jars on the worktable. Each jar was labeled with the name of a single botanical, except for the one from the forbidden cabinet. In the bright daylight from the window, Raffa could now see the jar’s three initials.

  “C, R, D,” he read aloud. He removed the stopper and held the jar close to his nose. Green . . . piney . . . resiny. “You’re right about the romarian. But I can’t tell what else is in there.”

  “Califerium and dandelion,” Garith guessed.

  Raffa snorted. “Or coranthia and daynock. Or cressel and dill, or culpweed and dendra. What’s the use of guessing?”

  Garith shrugged. “You’re the baby genius—you figure it out.”

  Raffa flushed. “Don’t call me that!”

  “Why not? Everyone else does.”

  “They do not.”

  “Maybe not to your face. But it’s what they all think, and you know it. Besides, what’s the problem? I wouldn’t mind being called a genius.”

  It was the baby part that Raffa hated: He was all too aware of how much younger he looked than his twelve years. Round face, chubby cheeks. Big brown eyes and unruly curls. And he barely reached Garith’s shoulder in height.

  No one would ever call Garith a baby; he had grown so tall in the past year. Then again, it was true that no one would call him a genius, either.

  Raffa poured small amounts of the powder into two mortars and handed one to Garith. Each boy stirred in a little colza oil to form a paste. They were making a poultice to apply to the skin.

  Apothecaries always tried out new treatments on their own skin first. Raffa knew this from his lessons, but he had never done it himself. His stomach quivered a little. So much more exciting than making the usual everyday poultices!

  He turned the pestle rhythmically inside his mortar. The dull green paste thickened until it was almost like mud, then began belching big, slow bubbles. Raffa peered at the paste with interest; it wasn’t the first time he’d seen a combination bubble, but it didn’t happen often.

  The more he stirred, the smaller the bubbles became and the faster they popped. Was this what the paste was supposed to do?

  Then he heard a faint voice from outside; his head jerked up. Garith rushed to the window as Raffa snatched up the secret jar and looked around wildly for somewhere to hide it.

  “It’s okay—it was just my da laughing,” Garith said. “They’re still measuring. We’re fine for a whil
e yet.”

  The moment of panic had given Raffa an idea. Now that the powder was in their mortars, they didn’t need the jar any longer. So he returned it to its place in the cellar cabinet. Feeling a little more secure, he hurried up the stairs and focused his attention again on the paste in his mortar.

  Something didn’t seem quite right. The bubbles were still popping furiously, as if the paste were upset. In his mind, Raffa heard an unpleasant twang, and sensed somehow that the paste needed more liquid. The usual choices were water to dilute or oil to emulsify.

  Then it came to him. Both. Oil and water.

  His hand hovered for a moment between the oil cruet and the water jar, as if giving himself a last chance to choose one or the other. He banished his doubts and added a few more drops of oil plus a tiny spoonful of water.

  The paste grew smooth and silken. The twanging sound faded away.

  For as long as Raffa could remember, he had possessed a keen instinct for apothecary. At times, combining botanicals felt to him like mixing colors, adding ingredients until the hues in his mind matched or complemented each other. But he didn’t like to use the word visions, as some in the settlement did when speaking of him. It made him sound like a wobbler.

  Besides, it wasn’t always colors. Sometimes, like now, it was sounds. Or shapes, or light and darkness. He never knew quite how it would come to him, but the results were invariable: His botanical concoctions were pure and strong, clear or gleaming, as fine as those produced by apothecaries with decades of practice.

  Raffa’s instinctive abilities puzzled both his parents; his father, especially, seemed more troubled than pleased. Talent, Mohan said, was no substitute for experience, and he repeatedly cautioned Raffa about the danger of relying on instinct. But the intuitions had grown stronger over the years, and as hard as he tried to heed his father, Raffa found them impossible to ignore.

  “Mine’s ready,” Garith declared.

  Raffa took a furtive peek at Garith’s paste. It looked ill-stirred, with a rough, grainy texture. He sighed inwardly. Garith hated it when his pastes and tinctures didn’t turn out as well as Raffa’s, but he didn’t like to be corrected, either.

  “Good,” Raffa said, a fingertip poised above his mortar. “We should hurry—they might come in soon. On the backs of our hands first, okay?”

  “Boring,” Garith replied immediately. “Uncle Mohan wouldn’t have stored this combination unless he’d already tested it, right? Let’s try it on our faces. And the sign says ‘For Yearnings,’ so we should yearn for something.”

  Raffa shook his head doubtfully. Since his first glimpse of the cabinet, he had wondered about the word yearnings. It was a curious word for an apothecary to use. Contrary to what many city folk thought, apothecaries were not magicians with the ability to grant wishes.

  “Do you really think that’s what it means?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but what could it hurt?” Garith replied.

  “Fine,” Raffa said. “What should we yearn for?”

  After a quick discussion, it was decided that Raffa would yearn for less chubby cheeks, while Garith would yearn for the disappearance of the small mole above his right jawline.

  “Together,” Raffa said. Tense with both curiosity and anticipation, he rubbed some of the paste on his cheekbones as Garith did the same to his jaw.

  Nothing happened. No tingling or warmth or tightening. No stinging. No itch.

  “Huh,” Garith said after a few moments. “Maybe yearnings means combinations Uncle Mohan wishes would work when, really, they’re total duds.”

  Raffa knew his father better than that: Mohan would not have kept and hidden a useless combination. Why wasn’t it doing anything?

  “Well, that was a garble,” Garith said in disgust.

  They cleaned up the work area quickly, and a few moments later, when the adults came in, they found the boys sitting at the table studying apothecarial charts.

  “Earnestness and virtue!” Garith’s father, Ansel, exclaimed as he entered the cabin, followed by Raffa’s parents. He patted Raffa on the back heartily.

  Raffa’s mother, Salima, raised her eyebrows. “Yes, studying without being ordered to,” she said. “A welcome and wholly unexpected sign of maturity.”

  Everyone laughed—except Mohan. He looked first at Raffa, then at Garith, and back at Raffa again. In a quiet, cold voice, he asked, “What the shakes have you been doing?”

  Raffa felt his insides shrivel. He cast a quick look at Garith—and his heart missed a beat.

  Garith’s jaw on one side had suddenly swollen into a fist-sized lump that pulsed and quivered like a bullfrog’s throat. The lump was etched with blue veins. Raffa stared wide-eyed as Garith reached up to touch his jaw and uttered a gargled cry.

  The lump rippled and trembled as if it were made of jelly. It looked so odd that Raffa almost had to choke back a laugh. Then realization hit him: If Garith’s jaw is swollen, what does my own face look like?

  With a shiver of dread, he raised his hands to his cheeks. They felt . . . completely normal!

  But just as he began to exhale in relief, Salima’s hand flew to her mouth. “Raffa!”

  “Quake’s sake!” Uncle Ansel exclaimed.

  Raffa jumped to his feet and hurried to the mirror on the shelf near the door. Holding his breath, he forced himself to look in the glass—and cried out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE blood vessels in his cheeks were glowing bright blue!

  Raffa rubbed frantically at the blue veins, which made them glow even brighter. Salima led him back to the table, put a hand under his chin, and tilted his head to examine him more closely.

  “Stop rubbing,” she said. “No pain? Or warmth? And for you, Garith?”

  Both boys shook their heads.

  “I judge that your lives are not in danger,” Salima said. “Raffa, whatever were you thinking?”

  “The cabinet under the stairs,” Mohan said grimly. He turned to Ansel. “I keep a few combinations that Raffa is not allowed to work with. It seems that these two have gotten into them. What they did not realize is that I have not finished testing them—as the boys have plainly proved.”

  Raffa didn’t need to see his father’s glare; he could feel it like heat all around him.

  “Ah,” Ansel said. “What are these combinations intended for?”

  A brief silence. It was Salima who answered. “Mohan plans to work with them further to see if they might help with certain yearnings.”

  “Yearnings!” Ansel exclaimed. “Well, that is a surprise. What exactly—”

  “A conversation for another time,” Mohan cut in. “For the moment, we have two garblers to deal with.”

  Garblers were careless apothecaries, or poorly trained ones. Or worst of all, those who knowingly made false claims of miracle cures. Such shammers brought the very art of apothecary into disrepute. Raffa’s face reddened. He was no garbler! It was utterly unfair of his father to call him one.

  “A veraloe and willow-bark combination should take care of that,” Mohan said, indicating Garith’s jaw. “But it seems that Raffa used something different?”

  Raffa was too humiliated to speak.

  “It was the same jar,” Garith muttered. “He just added more oil and a little water.”

  Now it was Ansel who looked angry. “Will you never learn?” he said to Garith. “You are swollen; Raffa is not. It is precisely those kinds of small details that make a difference!”

  Salima addressed Mohan and Ansel. “I suggest that an appropriate punishment would be to cancel this afternoon’s outing.”

  Both boys groaned. They had been promised a trip to the market—the big one that took place only once every two months.

  “Agreed,” Ansel said. “I do not approve of the disobedience. But it seems to me that the curiosity and eagerness behind the disobedience ought to be . . . perhaps not applauded but at least addressed, wouldn’t you say?”

  “To be precise about thi
s,” Mohan said, “it was Raffa who disobeyed, even though Garith should have known better. Raffa, you will spend the next three mornings mucking the vegetable beds.”

  Raffa froze his expression. He would not give his father the satisfaction of a reaction.

  An uncomfortable silence. Ansel shrugged. “We had better be going.” With a quick wink at Raffa, he took Garith by the arm and departed.

  As Raffa sat, his head bowed glumly, Salima set about making an antidote paste. Neither she nor Mohan had ever seen anything quite like Raffa’s glowing veins, so she combined hazeltine and wortjon, the usual treatment for venous complaints.

  As she applied the paste to Raffa’s cheeks, she said, “So then. Yearnings.”

  Mohan grumbled something inaudible.

  “No, husband. Ansel is right. Raffa’s disobedience is a clear sign that we can no longer ignore his curiosity. Far better for him to learn the truth from us than falsehoods from others.”

  Another grumble from Mohan, but he said nothing more. Raffa leaned forward eagerly. At last he was to learn how apothecary could possibly have anything to do with yearnings.

  “Some people . . . Let’s see, how can I put it nicely? Some people are not fully aware of the true nature of our work,” Salima said. “They seek botanica to satisfy their hearts’ desires. Great wealth, love, power—things no infusion or paste can produce. But the truth might as well not exist to those who refuse to believe it.”

  “There are even some who suspect us of keeping such potions to ourselves out of selfishness,” Mohan said, his voice a low growl. “The stupidity! What are they thinking—that we have made ourselves fabulously wealthy but are hiding all evidence of it?”

  Salima went on, “People’s yearnings are as varied as their imaginations. I remember a young poet”—she rolled her eyes—“demanding a paste that could be applied to the hand, to produce better poems!”

  “Over the years, we turned them all away,” said Mohan, who seemed a good deal calmer now. “They finally learned to take their idiocies elsewhere—to garblers.”

  “I understand about silly requests like that,” Raffa said. “But then, why the cabinet?”