Quest for the Sun (21 page)

‘I'm going to help him.'

‘Are you crazy, Adam? You can't! He's wild — he'd kill you as soon as look at you!'

‘Nah, he's more scared of us than we are of him.' But for once Rich didn't sound very sure.

‘The boys are both right,' said Kenta. ‘He wouldn't let you near him, Adam, and even if he did, we don't have any healing potion.'

‘But we do have something else.' I turned towards my bag, but Blue-bum had beaten me to it. He was already holding it up, leaves withered, pods shrunken and crinkly: the fire-tongue we'd found for Blade.

I found a clean tin mug, snapped off a pod and crushed it between my fingers. It crumbled easily to a fine, slightly gritty powder. ‘A few more of these, then a trickle of water and we'll have a paste as good as any antiseptic.' Grinning, I held up my finger, covered in fine red dust. ‘Anyone for a taste?'

‘Adam, will you be serious?' said Gen. ‘What about our quest,
and the future of Karazan? What about Lyulf and Blade? She needs that fire-tongue more than anyone. You can't waste time chasing round after a wild horse when what we need to do is find a way down that cliff!'

Without thinking I licked my finger and instantly wished I hadn't. ‘OK, guys,' I said, once I could talk again, ‘here's a plan: you head off in pairs and hunt in both directions for a way down. I'll stay here and see if I can get near enough to put some of this on the colt's leg. There's plenty left for Blade. If I haven't managed it by lunchtime I'll give up, I promise. I can't just leave him.'

‘Well, for goodness' sake be careful,' said Jamie as they headed off, Blue-bum an invisible rustle like a cane-rat in the long grass.

‘You too,' I called after them. ‘Don't fall over the edge!'

 

It felt wonderful to be alone under the pale bowl of sky.

I hunkered down and crushed half-a-dozen more seedpods, whistling between my teeth and trying to remember to keep my fingers out of my mouth; then tipped a few of our remaining drops of water onto the powder, mixing it carefully to the consistency of toothpaste. There was only about a tablespoonful — hopefully it'd be enough.

I rubbed my hands on my breeches and stood, stretching. For the first time I felt a niggle of doubt. Now what? I turned in a slow circle. The grass stretched away all round me, sloping up towards the cliff, and gently down in the direction the horse had disappeared. There was no sign of him anywhere.

The sun was warm on my shoulders. The lightest breeze sighed through the grass, harmonising with the twitter of birds feasting on the lacy grass heads. The sounds wove together to form a song in my mind: the song I'd been whistling moments before. I needed to finger it out on my larigot before I lost it … I settled cross-legged with my back facing the cliff. I had heaps of time, and I could keep watch for him while I played.
I'd only be a minute. The first clear notes flowed out over the plain … and time ceased to exist.

 

I drifted back from the dream world of the music to the gentlest ruffling current of grass-scented breath on the back of my neck; a warm, whiskery tickle … My soul swelled in instant recognition. Hands steady, heart pounding, I played on.

Velvet lips nibbled softly at my hair. A goofy grin split my face. I lowered my larigot and waited. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hoof the size of a soup-plate brush through the grass in a jerky hobble; another followed it, its edge suspended above the ground. As I watched, a ruby drop grew on its tip, swelled and fell. I sat like a statue.

The colt drifted past me, step by awkward step, head down, tearing at the grass as if he just happened to be passing. But his eye watched me, liquid velvet, luminous with curiosity. He circled slowly, bite by bite, till he was in front of me. Now I could see the narrow white blaze that zigzagged down his nose, shading to a whiskery shell-pink where it met his dark muzzle. He nosed at the grass with lips as sensitive as Blue-bum's paws. His forelock fell over his eyes in a silken cascade; he watched me through it steadily without a hint of fear.

Closer he came, and closer. Now I could feel the faint vibration as he tore at the grass; hear the rhythmic mashing of his teeth as he chewed. The fresh-grass smell mingled with the warm animal perfume of horse.

I was staring at him openly now. His limbs, so fine and strong; his coat, polished mahogany. His angel-wings, as natural a part of him as his swishing tail, folded on either flank, their tips crossing like a swallow's above his gleaming rump. Above the knee of his left foreleg was a single gash deep as an axe-blow, trickling a steady stream of blood.

At last he reached me, nuzzling my face, sharing sweet-scented breath. I blew softly into his nostrils, murmuring to him, kneeling in the cool, fragrant grass; rubbed the satin neck,
combing the coarse hair back from his eyes with my fingers; ran my hand over the hot, damp hide under his mane.

Still talking softly, I reached for the mug and scooped the paste onto my finger; reached out and slowly, gently, smeared it deep into the wound. The colt threw up his head and backed away, his skin twitching as if a fly had settled on it. His ears flicked back, then forward; he looked at me and gave his head a vigorous shake, as if he had water in his ears. Then, with a fluttering snort like a long-suffering sigh, he settled back to the serious business of grazing. It was done.

I rose stiffly to my feet, half-expecting him to startle and prance away, but he didn't. I walked over to my pack, wiped the cup clean and replaced it, certain that when I turned back he'd be gone.

He wasn't. He was plodding after me … and the limp was almost gone.

I went to him and cradled his head in my arms. He pushed against me, whoofling. As if in a dream I moved beside him, reached up and ran my hand down the smoothness of his back, over the raven-sheen of his wing. And it was then that the idea came to me.

‘I've never done this before, any more than you have,' I whispered. ‘If you don't want me to, tell me now — while we're still on the ground.'

 

One moment I was beside him, heart thumping; the next I was astride hot horse, a double handful of wiry mane in both fists.

I'd hoped he might stand still for a second, while I got used to being up there. But as soon as my weight settled I felt fluid power flare through him, every fibre alive with energy. He leapt forward in a rearing lunge, only my grip on his mane stopping me from tumbling off. I hunched and hung on, terror and rapture roaring in my ears, my blood singing. A series of bone-jarring leaps, a smooth surge — and suddenly we were
soaring, mighty wind-borne wingbeats bearing us higher, the ground impossibly far below.

Out over the precipice we flew, the clouds a flock of sheep way down; he spread his wings and wheeled a lazy circle, the earth spinning like a globe. Wind whipped through my hair and stung my eyes; dizzy, I clung on and goggled downwards.

How would it feel to touch a cloud?
No sooner had the thought begun to form in my mind than the sky tilted and we were spiralling downwards in a wide corkscrew, then levelling hundreds of feet lower to skim through them: not soft and fluffy like I'd thought, but dense drifts of fog that blurred my vision and misted my skin with fine, cool spray. Squinting up I could see the sun, a hazy white glow … and suddenly I longed to be high again, to feel its warmth on my skin. Instantly the colt banked and beat upwards with slow, strong strokes, up as high as the cliff and still higher, then turned to glide back in again over the land.

We skimmed low over the others, straggling back dismally along the cliff-edge; I caught a flash of pale moon-faces gawking up in disbelief before they were snatched away under the shadow of our wings.

I realised I was laughing: wave after wave of joy, pure and free as air. Somehow, somewhere on that wild roller-coaster ride, I forgot to be afraid. This was our element; I was as safe on his back as a child on a rocking-horse. The air was solid as a cushion under us, bouncy with shape and substance, hills and hollows; my mind flexed with his wings as they lifted and dipped.

When I was astride him it seemed we shared the same soul; a winged centaur, half-boy, half-colt: prince of the wind.

For the last time the colt touched down light as a feather, Jamie spilling off from behind me to land in a heap beside the others. Leaning forward, I wrapped my arms round the muscular neck, now sleek with sweat, and rested my cheek for a moment against the tangled mane.
Thank you.
I didn't say goodbye — I knew I didn't need to. Then I slid to the ground and looked around.

Behind us the endless wall of the cliff stretched up, its top lost in cloud. Ahead loomed the forest, dark and forbidding, the tree trunks grey with damp and lichen. Leaves drooped heavy and lifeless, mottled with decay; the choking dankness of decomposing vegetation hung in the still air. There was no path that I could see, and no sign of life.

I looked at the others. They met my gaze, one by one. Blue-bum clambered up onto my shoulder and twisted his hands into my hair. Together, we entered the forest.

It was Gen who saw it first — and when she touched my arm and pointed, with the first shadow of a smile I'd seen in that dark place, I felt my heart lift.

It was a bird — a tiny grey bird, with an upright widespread tail like a fan. It was fluttering round us as we picked our way through the trees, sometimes beside us, occasionally behind, most often ahead, treading air like a butterfly, perching for an instant to wait for us, then flitting off again.

‘
Birds of the air …
It's pointing the way, like Meirion told you,' Kenta whispered.

Sure enough, the undergrowth became less dense, and we were moving more easily through the trees. But there was still no hint of sun, no glimpse of sky; instead, the gloom deepened as we walked on, until it seemed that the only source of brightness was the little bird dancing ahead.

Jamie, who was leading, stopped dead in his tracks with a squeak of dismay.

‘What is it?' asked Gen. ‘What's wrong?'

‘The bird's gone. It spread its tail and did a little kind of bob, as if it was saying goodbye — then it flew off between those trees and disappeared.'

‘Let's go after it,' suggested Rich. ‘Maybe it's waiting up ahead.'

In single file, scanning the undergrowth for any sign of the little bird, we followed Jamie in the direction it had gone and then straggled to a halt, staring round us.

We were in a clearing. Trees reared up on every side, their canopies forming a roof way overhead. The ground was carpeted with fallen leaves, spongy and damp; the air was cool and still, steeped in silence. Still the tiny bird was nowhere … but on the far side of the clearing lay a massive fallen tree trunk. On its right the root base reared up in a gnarled tangle like a nest of snakes, furled fern fronds nestling in the exposed hollows. At head-height longer roots merged with the groping tentacles of trees to form a natural archway — with
the beginning of a path just visible beyond.

The ruined trunk stretched away to the left, clusters of toadstools sprouting from its damp crevices, to be swallowed by the trees fringing the clearing. At the point where it vanished the rotting wood had collapsed to leave a crumbling stairway choked by underbrush and trailing vines … and a second track, half-hidden, leading away into the darkness.

‘Look,' Gen said softly. ‘The paths Blade told us about. One leading to the Realms of the Undead, the other to
your journey's end.
And those must be the birds that speak with the voices of men.'

They were roosting on the tree trunk, one at the entrance to each path: about the size of pigeons, one black, one white. Their feathers were patchy, showing through to pimpled skin like partly plucked chickens. Their splayed yellow feet were scaly looking and scabby, but their eyes were bright as jet, watching us unblinkingly.

Rich stepped forward, head tipped to one side. ‘Hello,' he said in a bright, enquiring tone completely unlike his normal growl. ‘
Helloooow?
'

‘Shut up, Richard!' hissed Gen. ‘These aren't talking parrots!'

But the birds didn't seem to be offended. They shook their wings with a rattle, opened their yellow beaks and cackled, a rising sequence of harsh notes like a mockery of human laughter. It rose to a shrieking crescendo, then trailed away to a clacking giggle, then silence.

We shuffled our feet and huddled closer. ‘Now what?' whispered Kenta.

‘We ask them which way to go,' muttered Gen, ‘
without
antagonising them.'

‘You do it, Jamie,' Kenta said. ‘You're the politest.'

Jamie took a small step forward and cleared his throat. Clasped his hands as if he was about to sing a solo in choir, turned to the black bird on the right and gave a small bow. ‘Good day, my feathered friend,' he began. The birds stared at
him, their tiny eyes shiny and blank as beads. The thought of them opening their beaks and talking suddenly seemed crazy. But Jamie carried on: ‘Are you by any chance the birds that speak with the voices of men?'

As soon as he asked the question the black eyes snapped, and excitement flashed through me. There was no doubt the bird had understood. Its beak gaped open and I caught a glimpse of a thin tongue, oddly stiff-looking and immobile; the feathered throat throbbed. Then it gave a series of strident squawks, hunched its wings, and went back to watching us. It had answered. The only problem was, we hadn't understood.

Was it my imagination, or was there a glint of mockery in its eyes? A knowing smugness, as if it knew all the answers and wasn't telling. ‘Hang on a sec,' I said slowly. ‘We're missing something. We should have understood him.'

‘So why didn't we?' demanded Rich.

‘Maybe there's something else we need to do, something we've been told along the way,' hazarded Kenta.

‘Or something we should be using, like the teardrop crystal,' said Gen.

Hands shaking, I fumbled for the opening of my talisman and felt inside. There it was: the grey feather I'd found in the Summer Palace.
Something or nothing …
As I held it out it seemed to glow in the gloom with its own pale light and an image of the fan-tailed bird flitted into my mind, bright with the exact same shining paleness as the silvery bars on the feather. ‘It's a feather from the finder-bird, the one that led us here! Maybe if we're holding it …'

‘It's worth a try! Let me have a go.' Reluctantly, I passed the feather to Rich. He turned to the black bird again, holding the feather high like an Olympic torch.

‘Richard, I've just thought —' began Jamie.

‘Shush, I'm concentrating.
Which path
—'

‘No, Rich — wait!' The urgency in Jamie's voice stopped Rich in mid-flow and made us all turn to him, staring. ‘Don't you see? There's no point asking him. Even if he answers in
proper words, we won't be able to believe him.'

‘Jamie's right,' said Gen. ‘Blade said one bird always tells lies, and the other always tells the truth.'

‘That's easy! We just have to find out which is which.' Rich brandished the feather and turned back to the bird. ‘Are you the bird that always tells the truth?' he demanded sternly.

Out of the corner of my eye I half-saw Gen roll her eyes … but my attention was fixed on the bird, and I could have sworn it smirked. Then it cocked its head to one side, opened its beak, and spoke. Its voice was raucous and grating, but we could all understand the single word perfectly. ‘Yes.'

‘There you go!' crowed Rich. ‘Now we just ask him —'

‘Richard,' said Gen patiently, ‘there are a million questions you could have asked, but I'm afraid that wasn't one of them.
Are you the black bird?
would have done, for a start … but it doesn't matter; we'll just ask again. And this time, I think you should let Jamie do the talking.'

But it was me who reached out and took the feather gently from Rich's fingers, staring down at it in disbelief. Before, there had been three pale bars at the end, like a tiny rainbow. And now … ‘Something's happened,' I told the others, my mind racing to make sense of it. ‘Two of the silver stripes have disappeared. There's only one left.'

There was a long silence. Then Jamie spoke, his voice strangely flat. ‘How many questions have we asked?'

‘Two,' said Rich. ‘Why? What's that got to do with anything?'

‘That's what the bars must be,' said Jamie. ‘Three bars, three questions. We couldn't understand the first answer because we weren't holding the feather. We understood the second, but it didn't help us. And that means …'

We all knew what it meant. We only had one question left: one question to ask one bird, to find out which path led to the Realms of the Undead. And I had a horrible feeling there'd be no second chances.