The Secret Kingdom (9 page)

Timoken could not stifle his laughter. Gabar often lightened his mood in the most difficult situations.

‘So, let’s fly!’ Timoken grabbed Gabar’s shaggy hair and up they went, with no effort at all.

When Timoken looked down, the leopards had vanished, but their roars followed him across the gleaming stretch of water. ‘Be safe, Small King! Be wise! Be well!’

Soon Timoken could see a distant green line emerging on the horizon of the great blue lake. As they drew nearer he was relieved to see, not a mountain range, but lush green trees and square, flat-roofed houses.

They landed on a sandy beach, where fishing-boats rocked beside a wooden jetty. Two fishermen were mending their nets at the water’s edge, and a boy was balancing a basket of fish on his head as he made his way from the jetty to the trees.

No one appeared to have noticed the camel’s unusual arrival. The fishermen, intent on their nets, paid no attention to the strangers. They did not even turn their heads as Timoken led Gabar up to the trees.

It was a quiet place. The market was hardly busy.
Timoken exchanged a handful of shells for some fruit and nuts. No one seemed surprised to see a boy alone with a camel. Perhaps they thought he was the servant of a rich master. He had covered his head with the striped hood of his robe, hiding the thin gold crown.

Will this be home? Timoken wondered. No. something was urging him on. He looked at the ring. It had lost its brilliance and the small face seemed asleep. Timoken wondered if the viridees had been too powerful for the little creature. Was he dead?

That evening, as he sat in a pine grove with Gabar munching nuts at his back, Timoken reached for his bag and took out a pearl. He let it roll around his palm for a minute, and then he attempted to multiply it, just as Zobayda had done. If the forest-jinni had lost his spirit, then the spell might not work. Timoken murmured simple words in the language of the secret kingdom as he ran his finger over the pearl. ‘Let there be two, let there be three and four.’

The pearl rocked to and fro, and then, suddenly, there were two. Then three. Then four. Timoken sensed that the forest-jinni had not taken part in the spell, but that he, Timoken, had multiplied the pearl without
the help of the ring.

He slipped the ring off his finger, cupped the pearls in his hands and held them against his cheek. ‘Five, six, seven, eight,’ he whispered. ‘Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.’ He continued counting to twenty. He could feel his hands filling up, the pearls pressing into his fingers. When he opened his hands, a stream of pearls fell into his lap.

‘I can do it,’ Timoken breathed. ‘I can do it, all by myself.’

A muffled sigh came from the ring. ‘You still need me.’ The forest-jinni’s voice sounded desperate.

‘Of course I do,’ Timoken picked up the ring and pushed it on to his finger. Multiplying the pearls made him feel powerful, more like the guardian of the ring, rather than the other way around.

Full of hope, he decided to continue his journey by starlight. He had already learned to use the constellations as a guide. Gabar did not object, and so they struck north. There was not even a dog awake to see the camel tread quietly through the village and out on to the sandy road that led – who knew where?

In the morning they reached another village, and the
next day another. And so it went on until they got to the sea. Gradually they made their way into a different sort of country. They passed the ruins of ancient palaces and temples. They saw pyramids and statues half hidden in the sand. And whenever he had a chance, Timoken would take out his pearl-handled knife and find a place where he could sketch his journey. He drew his pictures in catacombs and caves, on the floors of abandoned temples, on castle ramparts and the walls of monastery gardens. Very often Charlie Bone, the boy from the cave wall, would arrive, stealing in from the future, while Timoken was drawing.

‘I’ve found you!’ Timoken’s descendant would mutter into his ear. And Timoken would laugh with delight, and they would talk and talk, the words bubbling out of Timoken like a fountain, while Gabar watched them with a look of disapproval on his proud camel’s face.

One day, when Timoken and Charlie were sitting together in the ruins of a Roman villa, Timoken said, ‘I have told you about my life as it has been for the past hundred and more years, but perhaps you know my future, Charlie. Can you tell me when I will die?’

The boy beside him frowned. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but a
friend of mine has the cloak that you wore.’ He touched the moon cloak that rested on Timoken’s shoulders. ‘It is red velvet, not like this moon cloak.’

‘Red, you say.’ Timoken smiled. ‘What kind of red?’

‘Like a sunset.’

When Charlie had gone, Timoken patted his camel’s neck and said, ‘Don’t look so disapproving, Gabar. I cannot help talking so much with Charlie. I miss the company of other children, other beings like me.’

The camel grunted, ‘Me too!’

Timoken felt guilty. He knew that Gabar must miss the company of other camels. But what could be done about it? If he found a companion for Gabar, how could he make it fly? He and Gabar were bound to each other, by time and events, and probably love.

They had slowly been travelling into a cold climate. Winter came, and for the first time in his life, Timoken saw snow falling. He knew what it was because he had seen it on the mountain peaks, but to sit on a camel’s back while thick white flakes drifted softly about him was magical.

They travelled north, and every day seemed colder than the last. Timoken stopped to exchange some silk for
a thick woollen blanket to cover Gabar’s back, and for himself, a sheepskin cape and a fur hat. Soon they found themselves in a rocky barren land where the north wind blew constantly. They spent the winter in a cave, only occasionally venturing out to exchange shells and pearls for food. The leopards paid them a visit. When they were sure that all was well with Timoken, they vanished into the chilly grey landscape, promising always to listen for Timoken’s call.

Spring came, and the boy and the camel moved on. Sometimes they would stay on the edge of the same village for almost a year, and sometimes they pressed on swiftly. They flew over a sea that Gabar thought would never end. They soared over mountains so high that the camel’s hair froze into rigid tufts of ice, and Timoken thought his cold nose would drop off. But still the ring urged them on. ‘Not safe yet,’ it would whisper.

Fifty more years passed, and Timoken decided he could go no further. ‘We have come so far,’ he complained to the ring. ‘If we go on, we shall fall off the edge of the world. Surely the viridees cannot reach us now.’

The eyes in the tiny face blinked. ‘There is something
new,’ he said, and a note of apology crept into his voice. ‘They have extended their grasp.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Timoken.

‘I think … I sense … that one is human.’

‘If this person is human, then he, or she, is not a viridee.’

‘But he is – and yet – in most respects he looks like a human.’

‘Where is this human viridee? Am I about to meet him?’

‘How can I tell?’ the forest-jinni said regretfully. ‘Forgive?’

‘Of course I forgive you. But what am I to do?’ Timoken clenched his fists in frustration. ‘Am I never to feel safe in the company of humans? Never to have a friend?’ He twisted the ring, as though it were all the fault of the forest-jinni. ‘How will I know this – this person if I meet him? Will there be a sign? Will his true nature show in his face?’

‘You will know,’ said the ring.

In his two hundred and forty-fifth year, Degal, lord of the viridees, decided to travel north. He had outlived all his wives and now he wanted another. But this time she had to be human. Lord Degal wanted a son who could survive the biting chill of the north wind, who could walk in snow and live quite happily in freezing temperatures. A human mother could give her son these strengths; then the boy could take the power inherited from his father into realms where no viridee had ever ventured.

Lord Degal had heard of a certain Count Roken of Pomerishi, who had fifteen daughters. Naturally, the count wanted to find a husband for all of his daughters. He had managed to marry off eight of them, but there were seven left. It was proving very expensive to feed and clothe these seven girls; they were fussier and more
bad-tempered than their married sisters. It was rumoured that the count was so desperate to find husbands for them that he was prepared to overlook any unpleasant features the husband-to-be might have, as long as the man had a horse.

Count Roken lived in the mountains of northern Europe, a place where, even in summer, a snowstorm could blow up. Lord Degal braced himself. His scouts found three strong northern horses and, together with two soldiers, Lord Degal rode out of the forest. In his saddlebag he carried enough gold to buy the fur coats, hats and boots that they would need to survive the cold northern climate.

By the time the viridees reached Count Roken’s castle their greenish skin had become quite blue, and one of the soldiers had lost a root-like finger to frostbite.

Once inside the great hall, the three viridees began to lose their blue tinge and became their usual shade of green. Count Roken decided to ignore this peculiarity. Dressed in his forest-green robes, Lord Degal looked very impressive. There were no wrinkles on his damp, greenish skin and, apart from a few strands of white, his hair was still the colour of pond weed. The count was pleased to
hear that his visitor was looking for a wife. He called for his daughters and Lord Degal watched keenly as, one by one, they entered the hall. As soon as he saw Adeliza, he knew that she was the one for him.

Adeliza was the count’s most beautiful daughter. She was also the most heartless. She had brown-gold hair, cold green eyes and a cupid’s bow mouth. But ten would-be husbands had turned her down. Her voice was so chilly, her gaze so cold, young men ran from her like frightened mice. Not so Lord Degal. He recognised a kindred spirit.

For her part, Adeliza was fascinated by Lord Degal’s long, boneless arms. She found his greenish skin and flickering red eyes strangely attractive, and when she heard of the black marble throne set with emeralds, she could hardly wait to be married.

The wedding took place the following morning and a day later, the happy couple were on their way back to Africa.

The African forest was hotter than Adeliza expected, but she did not complain. She enjoyed wearing priceless jewels and sparkling robes, and she delighted in having a thousand servants at her beck and call.

Lord Degal was pleased with his new wife, and when their son was born, he could tell, almost at once, that the boy would be everything he had wished for. They named him Harken, after Adeliza’s grandfather.

The baby grew into a fine young man. He was handsome, ruthless and cunning and his sorcery was impressive. A glance from his olive-green eyes could freeze you in a second. He could turn into a serpent, he could create monsters and he had a natural talent for poisoning.

When Harken was thirteen, Lord Degal sent him north. ‘I want you to find an African boy who rides a flying camel,’ said the lord of the viridees. ‘This boy has something priceless, something that could make you very powerful.’

‘I am powerful,’ Harken replied carelessly. ‘And camels do not fly.’

‘This one does,’ said his father. ‘And you are not as powerful as the African.’

Harken pricked up his ears. ‘Oh? How so?’

‘The boy has the web of the last moon spider. It was dipped in dew held in rare flowers, and washed with the tears of creatures that will never be seen again.
It can protect the wearer from any attack, any weapon in the world.’

‘But not from me,’ Harken remarked, with a haughty lift of his right eyebrow.

His father was becoming impatient. ‘How do you know?’

Harken shrugged.

‘You had better go and find out.’

Harken groaned. ‘Where is this boy and his flying camel?’

‘My scouts tell me that he is heading for the mountains beyond the two seas.’ Lord Degal showed his son a map drawn on the dried skin of a warthog. ‘And there is something else,’ he added. ‘We believe that the boy is still in possession of a bird-shaped bottle. We do not know what it contains, but it might be a liquid that can help one to live forever, for the boy has not aged in almost two hundred years.’

Harken’s curiosity was aroused. Accompanied by four viridee soldiers, he left the forest and journeyed north, in search of a boy on a flying camel. Harken was good at finding things. He did not think it would take him long to track down the moon spider’s web
and the bird-shaped bottle.

In a few weeks, Harken’s search had led him to an area very close to where Timoken was travelling. But a wide valley still lay between them, and in that valley was a group of children who would dramatically affect the course of Timoken’s life.

Inside a covered wagon, pulled by a weary horse, sat eleven children. The wagon rocked and jolted its way across the French valley, driven by a man dressed in the hooded brown robe of a monk. But he was not what his clothes might suggest. On the contrary, he was a villain. His five companions, all dressed as he was, rode behind the wagon. Their spare horse was tethered to the side.

The eleven children sat tied to one another by their wrists. Their mouths were bound with rags and their ankles roped together so tightly that their skin was grazed and sore. They had all been kidnapped.

Four British boys sat on one side of the wagon, their legs stretched between the legs of the seven French children opposite – four boys and three girls.

At the back of the wagon, beside one of the Britons, there was a cage, and in the cage there was another girl. She wore a long, sky-blue dress and a brown fur-lined
cape. Her blonde hair, braided with blue ribbons, reached to her waist. She sat with her legs curled to one side; her hands were bound but her mouth and legs were free. The kidnappers obviously thought her skin too precious to mark with ropes or rags. She was, in fact, a daughter of the most famous soldier in the Spanish kingdom of Castile, though her captors did not know this.