Lionboy (10 page)

“If I choose,” he said.

He stared at Charlie.

“Yes,” he said. “Come each day. I see you can learn.”

Then the intent look vanished, and he smiled and said: “Sigismondo Lucidi, of the Famiglia Lucidi. Call me Sigi.” The rest of his family was in the rigging. He gestured to them vaguely.

“Are you practicing?” said Charlie.

“Every day,” said Sigi. “To keep bendy and strong.” He lifted his left leg, placed it vertically up the side of the mast, and moved his right foot close in to the bottom of the mast so he was doing a split, with his body sticking out sideways. “And the other side,” he said, putting his left leg down again, turning and putting his right one up.

“You do,” said Sigi.

Charlie tried. He could do a split on the floor, but not up the mast.

“You certainly are bendy,” said Charlie.

“Have you seen Bendy Ben, the India Rubber Boy?” asked Sigi. Charlie hadn’t.

“Ties himself in knots,” said Sigi. “Gets stuck sometimes. Used to do an act with this big strong sailor, Beppe, and Beppe would tie him in a knot, then pretend he couldn’t undo him and get his knife out, saying he just had to cut it, there was no other way.”

“Yuck,” said Charlie, absolutely fascinated.

“Got to go,” said Sigi, and with a bend and a breath he jumped back into the forest of rigging. “Come tomorrow at six. Before eating. You learn.”

 

After breakfast, Charlie found himself staring at his telephone mistrustfully. He’d turned it off after yesterday’s message. Now he kind of wanted to turn it on again. And he kind of didn’t.

He turned it on.

The little envelope icon flashed.

Charlie screwed up his face for a moment, and then he called up the message.

At first the voice was civil and gentle. “Charlie. Rafi Sadler here. Sorry I was a bit impolite yesterday. Hasty of me. But have no fear I mean what I say, you presumptuous little brat, I’m on my way and you’ll be sorry when I arrive, sorry in ways you can’t even begin to imagine . . .”

Charlie cut off the message. He didn’t need to hear what he was to get ready for. He’d slept badly enough the night before.

He felt shaky again.

Next time he wouldn’t listen at all. There was no point.

He was glad when Bikabhai told him to clean out the monkey-cage, which was grubby but not bad. He refilled the monkeys’ water bottles and bowls of nuts, and gave them each a banana. The work eased his mind. Then it seemed he was off duty again. He decided to explore: There were zebras, horses, doves, and a Learned Pig to find, and, above all, there were lions. That should keep his mind off Rafi Sadler.

Charlie knew the story about the leopard cub, and the snake, and the jab from the needle and the slashing scratch from the cub’s claw. He still had the scar: a thin, pale swooped line on his upper arm. Sometimes he told himself that he remembered the occasion: tottering over on his baby legs to the cuddly little cub, the sharp pain of the slash, and the sting of the leopard’s blood in the wound. Sometimes he thought he remembered thinking about his own blood on the jab in the leopard’s soft leg, wondering if it stung him too. He knew he remembered the sudden clarity and friendliness of calling out to the leopard, and the leopard calling back. Not that they had said anything in particular. Just that they had understood each other. Baby talk.

Charlie knew that this accidental gift of some drops of leopard blood was why he could talk to the cats. But he knew cats well enough to know that you can’t take them for granted, ever. And he was downright nervous about the lions. Lions are different. Lions are wild—even if they are trained. Lions are big. Lions are the King of the Jungle, the King of Beasts. And then there was Maccomo, the unnaturally calm lion tamer. Sorry, trainer. He was quite unnerving, too. Charlie could not keep away from the lionchamber, but he approached it with respect and trepidation.

And that is one reason why he was so surprised to find one of the lions—a male, quite young though no longer a cub—just standing on the deck behind the lionchamber, not far from the door, all alone, gazing out to sea with his whiskers down and a strange expression on his face. Surely the lions would be locked up? Surely the trainer wasn’t so powerfully calm that he could let his lions wander about the ship?

Without thinking, Charlie came up beside the lion and said, in Cat: “Hello.”

The lion turned swiftly to him, his sad expression changed in an instant to amazement and—yes—fear. How could a lion be scared of me? thought Charlie. I’m just a kid. But the lion was scared of him.

“What?” said the lion.

“I said hello,” said Charlie.

“I heard you,” said the lion. “It’s just—you’re talking Cat.”

“I know,” said Charlie.

“Humans don’t talk Cat,” said the lion.

Charlie had never come across this before. All the cats he knew at home knew him and knew about his peculiar ability. He’d learned not to mention it to human strangers; but he hadn’t thought that a cat stranger—a lion stranger—would be just as surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve always known Cat.”

But his friendly words had the opposite effect. The lion folded his front legs down, lowered his head, and looked as if he were about to cry. Charlie was appalled—“Oh, look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He bent down and stroked the lion’s sad head while murmuring kind words, and after a moment the lion raised his head and said: “Sorry. Haven’t heard anyone else speak my language for a long time.” But suddenly his voice changed. “Oh, no. Oh, no . . .” he muttered urgently, and began to scowl and growl. Charlie looked up.

They were being watched by an audience of amazed and silent sailors and circusguys, their mouths open, their faces filled with disbelief.

The lion growled a bit more and pawed the ground a little—for show, Charlie thought, but the audience seemed frightened enough.

“I only came out for a second,” hissed the lion. “Didn’t mean to stay so long. Now they’ll think I’ve escaped, and it’ll all be horrible.”

“What can we do?” said Charlie quietly.

“Don’t know,” said the lion. “I have to carry on being threatening or they’ll think I’m weak. GRRRROOAAAWWWWLL!”

“Tell you what,” said Charlie, seeing Major Tib forging his way through the crowd. “Let me calm you. I’ll take you back in and make something up. Come on, just pretend. I know I couldn’t calm you really, unless you wanted me to.”

The lion, who had been beginning to enjoy his show of fearsomeness, shot Charlie a sideways look, then said: “All right—in a minute.” And he gave a roar—a huge roar, which made everybody jump back and Maccomo, who had just come running up from the hold having heard of the drama, raise his long whip. Then the lion turned to Charlie, laid his head at his feet, and started to purr. A lion’s purr is quite something, and for a moment Charlie so enjoyed the heavy, rhythmic reverberations through his feet that he didn’t want to move. Then he remembered himself, and put his hand gently first on the lion’s head, then on his thick chain collar.

“Come on,” he said softly in Cat, too soft for anyone but the lion to hear. “Back inside. Come along. Come along.”

The audience, Major Tib and Maccomo included, were dumbstruck. In silence they watched Charlie lead the big cat back to the chamber, in silence they saw the lion padding gently and obediently after him.

Major Maurice stared.

Maccomo rubbed his mouth slowly.

Madame Barbue fainted. (Pirouette grabbed a bucket of water that Hans had been taking to the Learned Pig and threw it over her.) The little Italians burst into cheers—but only once the lion was safely inside the lionchamber.

Maccomo burst through the crowd, into the chamber and right up to Charlie. The moment the lion was through the door of his cage, Maccomo slammed the door shut, locked it, and turned to the boy.

He stared at Charlie. “Explain,” he said softly, his eyes dangerous in the dim light.

Charlie, intoxicated by the excitement of the moment, the sweet musty smell of the cabin, and the knowledge that all around him were lions he could talk to, could not think of a single intelligent thing to say.

“Um . . .” he said.

“Not good enough,” whispered Maccomo. “Why was my lion obeying you?”

His
lion?

“Oh, he didn’t, sir, no, not at all,” said Charlie quickly. “He, um, I was just there and I saw him, and, er, it didn’t seem he should be out there, so he, er, didn’t like the crowd I suppose, so, er, he, er . . . went back in.” Charlie tried to smile up at Maccomo, but his smile was wobbly. He could feel it wobbling from inside. Maccomo was scary.

The lion trainer didn’t answer. He took the two steps that brought him back to the gate of the lions’ cage, and stood there, his whip still in his hand. He stared at the young lion, but the young lion did not stare back; instead he lowered his head and laid it on the floor, in a very submissive pose, and made a little mewing noise.

Charlie was worried about this lion. He was behaving so strangely—as if he were confused and upset. Every cat Charlie had ever known had been dignified; had known who and what it was, and had felt all right about it. Even the fattest, laziest, greediest housecat had an attitude that said: “Yes, I am fat, lazy, and greedy, and rather good at it too, don’t you think?” But this lion was sad and confused. Charlie didn’t like it. It made him feel sad and confused too.

Maccomo made a little noise in his throat, and turned back to Charlie.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“London,” said Charlie.

“No,” said Maccomo. “London people are white.”

Charlie had heard this said before, and knew that only an ignorant person could say it. Maybe Maccomo just didn’t know about London.

“London people are all colors,” said Charlie. “People have always come to London from everywhere, so now we are all colors.”

“Where is your brown skin from?” said Maccomo.

“My brown skin is from London like the rest of me,” said Charlie, trying not to get annoyed. “My father, if that is what you want to know, is African.”

“His name and country,” said Maccomo.

Perhaps it was Maccomo’s rude way of asking, or perhaps it was a natural carefulness, but Charlie didn’t want to say. And he didn’t have to, because at that moment Major Tib burst in.

“What d’ya think, Maccomo?” he said. “He’s got it, don’t ya think? I never saw anything like it, and I knew Van Amburgh and Cooper—ya want him? He’s got the knack—you should take him on. You’ve got to.”

Maccomo turned his great black eyes on Charlie, and once again Charlie saw the flash of light reflected in their depths. “I will take him on,” he said. “Of course.”

“Fine,” said Major Tib. “Charlie, you’re not the monkeyboy anymore—you’re the lionboy.”

CHAPTER 9

C
harlie was absolutely terrified by the idea of being the lionboy—and at the same time he was delighted and excited and amazed. Lionboy—how cool was that! But working for Maccomo—how frightening was that! And lions . . . real, big, beautiful, strong, wild, golden lions. Charlie’s breath came a little short when he thought about it. Remember your big cat blood, he said to himself. Your leopard blood. He imagined that he could feel it hurtling through the tunnels of his veins: strong, brave, agile leopard blood.

“Thank you, Major, sir,” he said. And to Maccomo: “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my very best for you, sir.”

Maccomo’s eyes narrowed. He suspected Charlie of something, and Charlie could tell. But he didn’t know what Maccomo suspected him of—and nor, if truth be told, did Maccomo know. And actually, Charlie suspected Maccomo too, and he didn’t know what of either. So between them was an air of unexplained fear and mistrust: not the best air to have around when starting a new job or taking on a new helper. But funnily enough, each of them resolved to deal with it the same way; in fact, almost exactly the same sentence went through both their heads: “I don’t know what’s going on with this character, so I’m just going to keep an eye on him and see what happens.”

As a boss, Maccomo was extremely civil. For the first three days, Charlie’s only work was to fetch water, carry straw, and sweep, and Maccomo always asked him politely to do these chores, and thanked him. His voice was silky and soft: “Thank you, Sharlie,” he would say.

There were six lions: the young one, whom Charlie had already met; three lionesses, one very yellow, one silvery, and one bronze-colored, all three calm and silent. There was a younger girl, not much more than a cub, who was restless and bounced around, climbing on her mother’s yellow back and nibbling her ears. The leader of the group, father of the youngsters, was an older male with a magnificent mane who sat in silence in his own cage at the back of the chamber, ignoring everyone and everything. The adults were all too quiet and still. As he moved around the cabin, cleaning and tidying under Maccomo’s stern eyes, Charlie worried about these poor beasts, stuck in the dark, at sea, when they should be bounding around the plains of Africa, leaping and hunting, or basking under trees among grasses as golden as themselves.