The Twyning (30 page)

. . . on our way home, my Malaika. A fragile is not made for effort. The muscles are too soft, the breathing too weak. Ask them to run, jump, or swim for any distance, and you will see an old rat even in the skin of a young one.

That night, there was no choice for us. The human came down from the tree, half climbing, half falling. From my hiding place nearby, I could see that his face was wet.

Malaika called out to him, but he was in no state to hear her revelation. She turned to the house, revealing again and again to Caz, but there was no reply.

The human was soon gone, stumbling blindly down the street, quite forgetting who had brought him here. We were alone. I found to my surprise that Malaika was trembling.

— What is it?

— I have not been in the world above without a human before.

— At night when we look for food together, we are alone.

— Humans are near then.

I could smell her fear. She looked in the direction her human had gone, as if expecting him to return. He would not, of course. A human is a human, not a citizen.

She started walking ahead of me, slowly but with determination.

It was a long night. Fragiles are not made for long journeys. Malaika was cold, and soon the pads on her soft paws were bleeding. The scent of her pain filled the air. Yet still she continued.

Daylight came, murky, gray, and full of fog, but we were still far from the mountain. The shapes of humans shuffled by, walking near to us quite often, but on days like this they were less dangerous than usual. The last thing that interested them was a rat.

Dogs, of course, were another matter. Malaika would be easy prey for the smallest of them. Even a cat, the most cowardly of creatures, would not hesitate to make deadly sport with her.

We rested in a gouge beneath a log pile for much of the day. Malaika was too tired and in too much pain to eat. When light began to fade, we continued our slow progress.

— Leave me, Efren. I can find my way home.

— Never. Together we’ll go to the mountain.

She hesitated, leaning against me. We carried on, slower than before.

Walk. Rest. Walk some more. Rest longer. The farther we went, the weaker Malaika became.

There were times when I cursed her human for his cold and selfish ingratitude.

. . . I feel a sort of incompleteness. It is only when I am back at the tip and I see the small bowl of water that I understand the reason. I have left Caz’s rat behind.

There is a sharp pang of sadness within me — Caz loved her Malaika and would have wanted to see her when I have rescued her — but at this moment I can’t think about those things.

When all is said and done, a rat is a rat.

I close my eyes but can see only Caz, dancing, swaying to the music that I have come to hate. By the time a blackbird, in the big hawthorn near the tip, announces the new day, I have hardly slept at all.

Today is the day when I shall free Caz. My head aches with tiredness, but having crammed my mouth with some bread, I am soon on my way to seek help. Why not? I am not entirely alone in the world, after all. I know some powerful men.

But the doctor is not pleased to see me when he opens his front door.

“Mr. Smith. What can I do for you?”

I shrug wordlessly.

“You are here for more pennies, are you?”

I say nothing, standing in the doorway. The doctor makes no move to invite me in.

“You’re all the same, you street boys — out for yourselves. Where were you yesterday? And the day before? I needed you.”

I take a deep breath. It is time to talk to the doctor. Before I can speak, though, he has turned, grumbling, into the house. Since the door has been left open, I follow.

“What’s the matter with these people?” Muttering to himself, the doctor walks through the hall. To my surprise, he passes the entrance to his study and opens the door to a room I have never entered before.

“We’re in the library,” he says.

We?

It is a small room with books to the ceiling on every wall. There are three leather chairs before a fire that has been lit. In one of them is the MP, Mr. Petheridge.

As we enter, he makes to stand up. Then, seeing that it is only me who accompanies the doctor, he slumps back into his chair.

“The boy’s here,” says the doctor. “I thought he might be able to help us.”

To my surprise, he waves in the direction of one of the armchairs. Nervously, I sit down.

The politician is staring at me, an impatient frown on his face.

“Doesn’t speak, does he? How can the child help us if he is as silent as the grave?”

A cold smile flickers on the doctor’s face. “He can speak when he wants to. Can’t you, boy?”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I can.”

I sense a flicker of curiosity from the direction of Mr. Petheridge. My voice surprises him.

“We need to find the rats, boy,” he says. “We’ve got the hunters; we’ve got the dogs. The gentlemen from the council are pleased with our work. We have had newspaper reports on our campaign.”

I nod. Then, sensing the doctor’s disapproval, I mutter, “That’s good.”

“People are bringing in rats’ tails, but we need another concerted attack like the other night,” says the doctor.  “And we need it soon. The beasts have scattered.”

Both men look at me in silence as if I have the answer to this problem, but all I can think of at that moment is Caz, imprisoned by Champagne Charlie.

There is no choice. I blurt it out.

“My Caz. She’s only little. She’s my friend. She’s been kidnapped by a gentleman. I don’t know why.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” asks the doctor.

“He makes her dance.”

They both stare at me as if I have gone quite mad.

“It’s wrong.” My voice cracks. “If you could just come with me to visit the gentleman, tell him to release my Caz, it would be the best thing in the world. I would help you catch every rat in the town. Help me with Caz, and there is nothing I would not do for you.”

My words, more than I have ever spoken to either of them, bring silence to the room. For a moment, I can believe that they are thinking about what can be done to rescue Caz, but when the MP speaks, it is not with kindness.

“Mr. Smith, it is good to know that you can talk. I hope you are as good at listening.” He takes out his timepiece and looks at it for several seconds, as if deciding whether he has time to talk to me.

“I have learned one important lesson in my life as a politician,” he says eventually, and actually smiles at me, like someone who has thought of a rather good joke. “One dabbles in the private life of ordinary folk at one’s peril. It is always a mistake.”

“Caz isn’t ordinary. She’s only eleven, sir. She needs rescuing.”

“A girl and a gentleman.” The politician sits back in his chair and directs his smile at the doctor.  “Tell me the old, old story.”

“Just a call from you, sir. It’s not far from here.”

The MP shrugs. He looks annoyed that I have dared to persist. I turn to the doctor, but before I can speak, he holds up his hand impatiently.

“Forgive me, Mr. Smith. We have urgent matters to discuss here. If there has been some untoward event involving your friend, I’m sure the constabulary will take an interest. I suggest you speak to them.”

“But, Doctor —”

“We need to identify the next place of extermination.” The doctor speaks to Mr. Petheridge as if I am no longer there. “Mr. Smith, are you willing or unwilling to help us in this matter?”

I have heard enough. Without a word, I stand up from my chair and leave the library and that house. I will look for help elsewhere.

. . . I thought of what had become of my life. Of the moment I had slipped out of the Great Hollow and saw my king captured by the enemy. Of the death of Tzuriel. Of Jeniel and Swylar, and how they had won power in the kingdom. Of Malaika, and how I loved her. Of the human she called Dogboy, who had saved her life and yet left her alone in the world above.

She slept, exhausted by our long, slow journey back to the mountain. What had happened after her human had forgotten she even existed had reminded me of a sad truth.

Malaika was different from the fragiles I had met in the world below. She was stronger in her spirit. But, as with all those of fragile blood, something had been lost. She was in love with the bars of her cage.

Yet, in her way, she had been braver than any warrior. It was Malaika who made me lead the human to Caz. It was Malaika who had journeyed the world above, bleeding and hungry. It was Malaika who, in spite of all that he had done, was prepared to stay with the enemy.

I had never met a doe like her. So gentle, yet so strong. I gazed at her as she lay against me for warmth. I would never love another rat in the way that I loved Malaika, and yet I sensed that part of her was forever beyond me. It belonged to the enemy.

I had told Malaika that she could return with me to the world below, and perhaps, one day, she would. Not now, though. I was a hearer. The kingdom needed me.

Love, and Malaika, would have to wait.

. . . as I think of how the MP and the doctor looked at me when I told them about Caz.

It was as if a beast had suddenly spoken, and about beastly things. I am Mr. Smith, the assistant. I am not supposed to have a life of my own. For me to ask for their help is as strange and extraordinary — and as embarrassing — as anything could be.

Caz. Dancing for the elegantly dressed man, Champagne Charlie. I see the empty look of fear and sadness in her eyes.

Without knowing it, I have entered the park. A thin plume of smoke draws me toward the house of the only other person in the world I can turn to.

Bill is seated in front of a small bonfire. When I push open the door to the compound, he glances up, then quickly turns his attention back to the fire.

“Bill?”

There is a log on the far side of the fire from where he is sitting. I take my place there.

“What do you want, Dogboy?” he asks.

I decide to go for a lie for the moment. “Just dropping by.”

“Sent you, did they? Your fancy friends? Ready for another cull, are they?”

“It’s what I said. I’m just dropping by.”

We sit in silence for a while, Bill now and then prodding the fire. I know him well enough to see that something is on his mind, too.

“Got many rats in, have you?” I ask eventually.

Bill shakes his head. “They’re gone. Scattered. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry out there’s hunting beasts, for the money.”

“The war on rats.”

He laughs grimly. “That’s one war that will never be won.”

“They want another hunt.” I tell him the news casually. “It’s what they’re planning.”

Bill gives a low growl. He is too poor to be able to turn down the offer of Mr. Petheridge’s money, but I can see that he is none too happy about it.

“Well, I got no work for you, if that’s what you’re looking for. There’s not many rats around, and all the setters are too busy catching their rewards to worry about sport.”

“It’s not for work I’m here.”

There must have been something in my voice because he glances up, half surprised.

“I thought you said —”

“I’ve got this friend.” I dive in before he can go any further.