Forest of Wonders

by Linda Sue Park

  “Enough of such talk. Come now, appletip for everyone!” he boomed out. He poured for the adults, and then, with a wink at Salima, trickled the merest thread of appletip into the boys’ water tumblers.

  Then he stood and raised his drink. “To all of us . . .” He paused dramatically. “Soon to be residents of the Commons!”

  “What?” Garith exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

  Raffa glanced quickly at Mohan and Salima. His mother looked calm and unruffled, as she usually did, and his father’s face was unreadable.

  “An announcement today,” Ansel said, “by two Commoners.”

  That explained the gathering in the square.

  The Commoners were, logically enough, the people who held important jobs in the Commons, where the seat of Obsidia’s government was located. Ansel sat down again but leaned toward the group, his voice growing louder and more excited with each word.

  “They’ve decided to appoint official apothecaries—and both of our families have received invitations! Others will follow, but they wish us to be the first. We will live on the grounds of the Commons, and gardens will be planted exactly as we order.”

  His face was flushed with excitement. “A laboratory. And a glasshouse! Imagine being able to grow the tenderest plants the year round!”

  “We’d live at the Commons?” Garith asked, his eyes glowing.

  “In Gilden itself?” Raffa exclaimed.

  His only visit to the city, two summers earlier, had been by far the most exciting few days of his life. With his parents and Garith’s family, he had helped out at the apothecary booth of a grand summer fete. The fete itself was a raucous delight, with games and hawkers and performing troupes, but he had been even more impressed by the city’s youngsters. They moved easily through the confusion of lanes and alleys and buildings and squares—on their own, with what seemed to be complete freedom from adult interference.

  How small and quiet the settlement had seemed on their return! For weeks afterward, Raffa and Garith talked longingly of Gilden.

  And now they would be going there to live!

  “Truly?” Raffa squeaked in excitement.

  Ansel laughed. “Well, I don’t think your bed will be in the Advocate’s quarters,” he said. “But, yes, we will be housed in comfort, with all our meals provided.”

  Garith held his hands out toward Raffa, palms flat and together, and Raffa clapped his own hands with his cousin’s between them, the usual gesture for celebration.

  His mind raced ahead. Maybe he and Garith could have their own corner of the glasshouse. Maybe even a workspace in the laboratory, all to themselves! Raffa could already see himself in those splendid surroundings, and in that instant he knew exactly what he wanted to do there.

  Experiment!

  He could try out scores of new combinations. The possibilities were numberless. . . . Who knew what cures he might discover with everything he needed at hand, and the freedom to use it all?

  Then Mohan cleared his throat, pulling Raffa out of his reverie. “Ansel, Garith,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Salima and I are glad in your gladness, and we did not wish to spoil the celebration. But I have changed my mind. We will not be joining you. I have decided that we will remain here, in our home.”

  Silence fell over them like a shroud. Raffa sucked in his breath as his first feelings of bewilderment and disappointment dissolved into anger. How could Da have made such an important decision on his own? He should have talked it over with them—they should have decided as a family!

  Raffa’s anger grew thick as smoke, choking off any possibility of speech. He could feel Garith looking at him but refused to meet his gaze; he was angry at Garith, too. Which was unfair, but he couldn’t help it. Why did Garith always get everything he wanted?

  Uncle Ansel was on his feet again. “Mohan, I cannot believe it. How can it suit you to have your time taken up with every case of—of—boils and sore feet and reeking flatulence for miles around? With the resources of the Commons, you could achieve great good. Not just for a few patients, but for the world!”

  He drew a breath in an attempt to calm himself. “And if you will not think of yourself, then think of your son.”

  At these words, Raffa found himself wanting to duck under the table, as everyone’s eyes were suddenly trained on him.

  Ansel went on, “We all know of his abilities. Does he not deserve the best chance to hone his skills? His talent is wasted here!”

  Raffa felt a great wave of warmth toward his uncle. But from the way Mohan was sitting, with his spine straight and his head proud, Raffa knew that Uncle Ansel had not swayed him.

  “I do not think it ever a waste to help those in need of help,” Mohan said at last. “Raffa will learn that here perhaps better than he could in Gilden.”

  Ansel turned to Salima. He was her older brother, but by little more than a year, and Raffa had always thought that his mother acted like the elder. “Sister, I beg you,” he said, his voice quieter. He reached across the table for her hand. “I truly believe that this is our calling—what we are meant to do in this life. The chance to raise our art to its highest levels. How can we refuse?”

  Raffa was watching his mother closely. When she lowered her eyes and did not speak, he dared to hope that her silence was because she did not want to take up against Mohan. If she wanted to go to the Commons, too—if they were all allied against him, maybe there was a chance. . . .

  Ansel tried one last tactic. “Think of Garith,” he said to Salima. “How could he do without you?”

  Raffa saw his mother’s eyes widen in hurt. Ansel had scratched at a scab that never truly healed: the death of Aunt Fleuria. Since Garith’s birth, Salima had been the only mother figure he had ever known, and Raffa knew that she loved him as if he were her own son.

  Then Salima’s eyes narrowed. “It is your choice to take him away from here,” she said. “Is it the best thing for him, do you think?” She did not raise her voice, but the words held a keen edge.

  A few long moments of stillness. Then Garith burst out, “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m a baby or anything.”

  His words seemed to bring them back to themselves, the tension loosening all at once.

  “It’s getting late,” Salima said, “and perhaps we’ve had more drink than is wise for serious talk. We can speak of this again another time.”

  Mohan went to see to the barn animals for the night. Ansel doused the fire in the pit. Raffa and Garith began to clear the table while Salima put the food away. The boys spoke in low tones.

  “We need a plan,” Raffa said, still envious of his cousin but no longer angry at him.

  “To get him to change his mind,” Garith agreed. “Let’s both think on it. We’ll figure something out. It might take a while, but sure upon certain we’ll both be living in Gilden!”

  Spurred by Garith’s optimism, Raffa felt his spirits rise a tiny bit. Mohan had not returned by the time Ansel and Garith departed, and Raffa suspected it was deliberate avoidance on his father’s part. Before getting ready for bed, he checked on the bat. It might have been his imagination or his hopes, but the bat now seemed to be asleep rather than unconscious, its breathing easier and more even.

  Salima knelt for a moment by Raffa’s pallet.

  “Mam—”

  “Not tonight,” she said, her kiss to his forehead as firm as her voice. “It’s been a long day.”

  Raffa expected to be kept awake by a welter of thoughts on everything that had happened. Instead, he fell asleep even before his mother left his side.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “SKEE . . . skeeeee . . .”

  Raffa was dreaming—a gray, shapeless dream. Out of the grayness came a single sound repeated over and over.

  “Skeeee. Skeeee. SKEEEE!”

  He sat up so suddenly that for a moment he felt dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was early morning. He was alone in the cabin, his parents already up and about. Then—


  “SKEETO! SKEEEETO! SKEEEEETOOOO!”

  It wasn’t a dream. It sounded almost like words, in a voice between a rasp and a whisper. Not loud, but urgent, maybe even desperate. And it was coming from the box holding the bat.

  Bats didn’t sound like that. They squeaked and chittered, like mice. Raffa shook his head hard, trying to clear the fuzziness of sleep from his brain.

  He waded on his knees to the end of his pallet. In the gloom of dawn it was hard to see, but he could make out the box on the corner shelf, same as it had been for two days now.

  A tiny head popped up and peered over the edge of the box. Raffa let out a squawk of surprise and delight. A furry head with enormous ears. A little face with enormous eyes, which were fixed on him with a gaze steady as a moonbeam.

  Raffa moved slowly, so as not to startle the little creature, and picked up the box, trying not to jar it. The bat’s voice dropped again to a raspy whisper. “Skeeto, skeeto, skeeto . . .” This was followed by a few chitters and clicks.

  Raffa carried the box to the table, then opened the cabin door for more light. Holding his breath, he looked inside the box.

  The poultice was working! He could see that the bindings were clean and dry, which meant that no further blood or pus had seeped out during the night. After but a single application! It was truly astounding. His first thought was that he could hardly wait to show his father—but then he scowled. He was still angry at Mohan over his decision not to move to Gilden.

  “Skeeto?”

  Raffa shook his head, utterly bewildered. There was no question about it: The strange sound was definitely coming from the bat’s mouth, but it wasn’t a normal bat noise. Was it possible . . . Could the bat be talking to him?

  “Nonsense,” he said aloud, and forced his thoughts in a more practical direction. What should he do next? Water—it must be thirsty. He would give the bat a drink.

  He bustled around the cabin, gathering up a hollow reed and a tumbler, pouring water from the kettle on the stove.

  The bat had to be hungry, too, having not eaten in almost two days. He would need to catch some insects for it—

  Insects?

  Raffa dropped the kettle, which clattered to the floor. Eyes wide, he turned slowly to look at the bat again.

  “Skeeto?” he whispered. “Are you trying to say . . . mosquito?”

  The bat seemed delighted. Eyes gleaming, it bobbed up and down excitedly. “M’skeeee! M’skee—m’skee—m’skeeeeeto!” Then, apparently exhausted by the effort, it fell back onto its bed of milkweed fluff.

  Raffa stood frozen before the table. Surely he wasn’t hearing things quite right. Somehow his brain was all mixed up, making the bat’s squeaks sound like words.

  Steady on, he told himself. Back to the task at hand. The bat needed to eat, and that meant insects.

  He draped the rag loosely over the top of the box, then went out into the yard. There would be flies in the shed around Dobbles, their tricolored cart horse, but catching crawling bugs would be quicker.

  It took only a few minutes to gather several ants, some wood lice, and a beetle that looked to be bigger than the bat’s mouth. To make it easier to feed the bat, he crushed each bug as he caught it.

  Back inside, he pinched a single ant between his thumb and forefinger, then uncovered the box again. The bat was as he had left it, on its back and moving its legs feebly. It raised its head and opened its mouth eagerly.

  “Here you go,” Raffa said. “A nice juicy ant.” He dropped it into the bat’s mouth.

  The bat chewed once, swallowed, and immediately opened its mouth again. It ate seven ants and ten wood lice with barely a breath in between.

  There was only one insect left.

  “It’s pretty big, this beetle,” Raffa muttered, wondering if maybe he should feed it to the bat in smaller pieces. But before he could decide, the bat lunged for it and gulped it down.

  Then it peered up at Raffa.

  “Beetle,” it said. “Big. Juicy.”

  Raffa felt as if he’d been sleepwalking and was now wide awake. The full realization of what was happening hit him like a cold slap. He backed away from the table slowly, then turned and ran out the door.

  “Da!” he shouted. “DA, COME QUICKLY!”

  Mohan stood beside Raffa looking down at the bat in its box. With what seemed to be equal curiosity, the bat stared up at them.

  Mohan bent over for a closer look. The bat opened its mouth and—

  Squeak. Chitter chitter click squeak.

  Perfectly normal bat sounds. Raffa felt his face growing hot. “What do you mean, ‘Squeak’?” he said to the bat. “You—you weren’t squeaking a few minutes ago. You were talking about the beetle!” He turned to Mohan. “Da, I swear I wasn’t imagining things.”

  “Healers often develop very close bonds with their patients,” Mohan said. “It would not surprise me at all if that is what has happened here.”

  Raffa felt a pulse of pleasure at his father calling him a healer. It was almost the opposite of being called a garbler. At the same time, it was clear that Mohan hadn’t believed him. “I know what you mean, Da, but it really was talking.”

  Mohan looked at him sternly. “Too much imagination can be dangerous in a healer,” he said.

  The heat of frustration rose in Raffa’s face. He hated making a fool of himself in front of his father. He knew he hadn’t imagined it, but if the bat wouldn’t talk now, how could he prove it?

  “Just say one word,” he begged the bat. “Say ‘beetle.’ Or ‘mosquito.’ Remember? ‘Skeeto’?”

  “Never mind,” Mohan said. “What is important is the healing.” He reached into the box and gently fanned out the bat’s left wing, the one that had been so badly torn. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  For the moment, Raffa stifled his dismay. When Mohan tried to open the other wing, still bound with matchsticks, the bat hissed and bared its teeth.

  “I didn’t put any poultice on that wing,” Raffa said, “only on the other one. Do you think it might also help heal bone breaks?”

  “It is worth the attempt,” Mohan answered. “If nothing else, it might ease the pain there.”

  Raffa fetched the remaining vine paste, scooped up a bit on his fingertip, then bent over the box.

  The bat opened its wing.

  Mohan smiled. “It seems you’ve made a friend. Or at least, as I said, a strong connection to the creature.”

  As Raffa gently applied the poultice, the bat half-closed its eyes and made a low purring sound.

  Mohan was watching closely. “We’ll be wanting to work with that vine,” he said. “We must see to the care of the clippings.”

  Raffa picked up the rag coverlet. “You should sleep now, little bat,” he said. “It will help you get better faster.”

  “S-s-sleep.”

  Raffa’s mouth fell open. Mohan’s head jerked up in surprise.

  The bat gazed at them, then focused squarely on Raffa.

  “Sleep,” it said clearly. And then, “Perch?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WITH the bat asleep, Mohan called Salima from her work in the garden. She joined them at the table. Mohan was hunched over, his elbows on his knees. He nodded at Raffa.

  “Mam, the bat—” Raffa paused, aware of how improbable his next words would sound. “The bat talked.”

  Salima cast a quick look at him, then at Mohan. It was readily apparent from their expressions that Raffa had spoken the truth. She glanced briefly at the bat’s box before returning her gaze to Raffa.

  “The bat . . . talked,” she repeated slowly.

  A long moment of silence. Long enough that Raffa began to feel itchy.

  “So,” Salima said at last, “what did it say?”

  Raffa let out a bark of laughter; he couldn’t help it. Even Mohan’s lips twitched a little.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Salima objected.

  “Sorry,” Raffa said. “He asked for mosq
uitoes. He said other things as well, like perch and—and I can’t remember what else.”

  He could feel excitement bubbling through him. This was surely the most astounding thing that had ever happened—not just to him or his family but to any apothecary anywhere!

  His thoughts whirled with possibilities. Talking pets! Farm animals that could tell their owners helpful things! Working beasts, like horses and sheepdogs . . . if they could talk, how much easier to train and direct them!

  And beyond that, there was the vine itself. If indeed it had made the bat talk, what else might it be capable of? Raffa could hardly wait to test it in various combinations—to unlock what was sure to be its amazing potential.

  But Mohan was staring down at his hands, clearly not feeling even a shred of excitement. “I do not know what this is, Raffa,” he said gravely.

  Raffa was bewildered by his father’s gloom. He turned to Salima, who held up her hand in anticipation of his question.

  “It’s . . . impossible,” she said. “And yet it happened. When people hear of it—I’m afraid—”

  “Your mother is right,” Mohan snapped. “If word spreads that an infusion is responsible, there will be no end to the ridiculous demands that will besiege us. And the garblers will multiply like flies.”

  He stood and jabbed at the fire with the poker. “There is too much we do not know. Was it even the infusion in the first place? If it was, will there be unwanted effects, and can we create an antidote? Would it have the same result with all creatures? How will it affect humans?”

  He raised the poker in warning. “I truly fear what might happen if someone without scruples were to discover this. Knowledge without wisdom can be worse than dangerous. Tell no one, Raffa, about the vine, and especially about the bat, until we’ve had a chance to study further.”

  Raffa nodded solemnly. It made him feel important, to be guarding an apothecarial secret. At the same time, he chafed at his father’s caution. But at least Mohan saw the importance of experimenting with the vine.

  “One more thing, Raffa,” his mother said. “You should take care with your little bat. There are those who would think to profit from such a wonder. They would not hesitate to take him from you by stealth or even by force.”