Walking Mountain

by Lennon, Joan;

  But Lady Allum shook her head. ‘No can do. They’re a very private people, the Borang, and I agreed to respect that before they would let me even set foot in the Jungle, let alone wander about and study it. But I wouldn’t mind finding out more about you three – you’re a bit of a mystery yourselves!’ She let out another of her raucous laughs. ‘Oh, if you could see your faces! All right, I get it – you’re a private people too. Never mind. If you were leafy or green or had paws I’d be prying away like mad, but people I can leave well enough alone.’ And she put her finger to her lips, leaned back against the railing and peacefully closed her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ said Singay, disappointed in spite of herself.

  ‘Or,’ said Lady Allum, opening one eye, ‘I could tell you about zoo-otany?’

  There was a unanimous chorus of ‘Yes!’

  Lady Allum sat up with a grin, took a breath so deep all her buttons threatened to explode, and began to talk.

  She talked of compass point line surveys and biodiversity indicator species and how seismic tremors aided new growth by knocking down the canopy trees and letting in the light. She told them about Minkey Monkeys, whose fruit diet caused them to deposit poo – and the seeds in it – so regularly ‘you can chart their paths through the tree tops by the saplings growing on the Jungle floor below. Always wear a hat around Minkey Monkeys, that’s my advice.’

  She spoke of the Lesser Spotted Trumpeting Butterfly, the only known species whose voice is audible to humans. It was such a specialist feeder that Lady Allum had only ever seen one specimen in all her travels, sucking the nectar from a rare Tarantella Orchid. ‘Strange-looking flower, that – black and hairy and shaped like a large spider. No idea what sort of biological advantage that is. Not a lot, perhaps, which could explain them being so rare . . .’

  She told them about the Salad Panda, an odd Jungle predator whose fur had evolved to resemble lush green salad leaves. ‘It’s a lazy beast, the Panda, just lies about in the shade, waiting for not-very-bright salad-eating rodents to come along and try to nibble it, and then WHAM – it eats them. The Jungle’s ferly all right.’

  They could have listened to her stories all day, and she could probably have gone on talking twice that long without running out of tales to tell, but all at once she looked round sharply at the trees and jumped to her feet.

  ‘Whoops! I was so busy enjoying your company I almost missed my stop. Hello there!’ Lady Allum shouted to the Borang, pointing towards the river bank. ‘This is me!’

  There was nothing they could see that differentiated that bit of the Jungle from any other, but the Borang nodded and edged the boat towards the place indicated. Lady Allum swung her knapsack onto her back and checked her big knife was secure in its sheath.

  ‘Thanks!’ she called to the Borang. They said nothing, though they may have blinked.

  Lady Allum seemed satisfied. She swung herself over the railing and held on with one hand. ‘You’ll not say you met me, though, all right?’ she frowned, suddenly anxious. ‘When you hit civilisation? The Church Councils are all dead set against ferliness, and they’ve decided in their wisdom that my lovely great fecund mother here – the Jungle, don’t you know – is officially not normal. They wouldn’t think well of me and my zoo-otanising, if they knew about it. So if you don’t find a need to mention me, I’ll take it as a kindness.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not a word.’

  She leaned forward at a dangerous angle and then reared back again to peer at them over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, cribbons – I just thought. You’d better mind out for the Protectors. They’re always on the lookout for new labour. If they see youngsters on their own . . .’

  There was no time for any more. The boat nudged the bank and Lady Allum Broomback, with a joyful yodel, flung herself forward and disappeared into the dense greenery of the Jungle.

  ‘Good luck!’ they heard her somewhat muffled cry. ‘And remember – keep the bleeders at arm’s length!’

  Singay looked at Pema, bemused. ‘What did she mean, Protectors?’

  ‘I’ve heard stories about them from Zeppa,’ he said slowly. ‘Gangs of children chained together, men with whips. He said they steal them off the streets. I used to have nightmares about it, but I thought he was exaggerating.’

  But Rose wasn’t thinking about anything like that. He was gazing back at the place where Lady Allum had crashed into the undergrowth, and there was a goopy smile all over his face.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Incident on the River Head Pier

  ‘I hate this town,’ said Singay, as yet another sweating citizen shoved her aside and she stepped into a garbage-clogged gutter.

  Pema, Singay and Rose were lost. The town of River Head had grown up like a fungus, with smelly alleyways leading off dirty streets in an unkempt, foul maze, and it had taken no time at all for them to become completely turned around.

  ‘I can’t see where to go,’ complained Pema. ‘I don’t even know which direction the River is anymore!’ The buildings hemmed them in on all sides, and though the streets were crowded with people, there was no one he felt comfortable to ask for directions. Too many frowning faces. Too much hurry and haste.

  ‘Everybody seems angry about something,’ said Rose.

  ‘Maybe it’s because of those clothes they’re wearing,’

  said Singay. ‘They must be cooking!’

  Pema shushed her anxiously. ‘Careful! I think that’s to do with the Church Councils. Wearing black is meant to show you’re religious. Back home I heard stories about River Head. If half of them are true, well, let’s just say they’ve got some strange ways we don’t want to get on the wrong side of.’ He wiped his face and pointed at a little girl playing in the dirt. ‘Let’s ask her where we can find a ticket agent – she doesn’t look too holy. Er, hello?’

  The little girl looked up – and shrieked. Heads turned to stare.

  ‘What? I just—’ Pema protested, but the girl wasn’t screaming at him. The crowd parted hastily to make way for a tall man wearing black and carrying a wicked-looking whip. A word was whispered back and forth.

  Protector . . . Protector . . .

  ‘Where are your parents, little girl?’ the man hissed.

  ‘Don’t know where, do you? You’re coming with me – oh no, you don’t!’

  In a flurry of dust the girl scrambled to her feet and tried to run, but the Protector’s whip licked out and wrapped round her ankle. The man pulled, dumping her onto her face in the street. He grinned and started to haul her in, hand over hand, like a gaffed fish. Pema waited for an outcry from the crowd, but no one moved to help her. They all just watched.

  We have to do something – we can’t just let this happen! Pema took a step forward . . .

  And the ground shook. The heavy cobblestones in the street bucked and rocked and threw people off balance in all directions. The Protector was flung onto his back and his head hit the stones with an audible crack.

  Pema heard Singay cry, ‘Rose!’ and he turned to see the Driver sagging in her arms.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ she called. ‘Go untangle the girl!’

  Pema raced to the girl on the ground and unwrapped the whip from her ankle. There was a deep cut and the blood was welling fast but the little girl was faster, burrowing away into the crowd the second she was free. Pema stared after her. To be honest, he’d been expecting some gratitude.

  ‘Pema! Come on!’

  All around them, people were getting cautiously to their feet. The Protector gave a moan, rolled over and was violently sick.

  The little girl had the right idea.

  Time to go!

  Finally, they stopped running.

  ‘Rose, you were wonderful!’ Singay panted. ‘But are you all right?’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . .’ Rose sprinkled a few grains of irradiant onto his hand and then firmly put the bag away. ‘I’m fine. And look, there’s a shop!’

  It was part way a
long a noisy, smelly alley crowded with people, stray duggs and casually dumped rubbish, but from the outside it looked a little like Zeppa’s store.

  ‘What do you think?’ Pema hesitated, but Singay gave him a shove.

  ‘We have to try somewhere to find downriver tickets. Unless you fancy staying in this grunt-sty forever. Come on.’

  As they stepped through the door, the first thing they saw was a table piled with High Land cheeses.

  ‘See? It’s a sign,’ Singay whispered to Pema with a nervous grin.

  The other goods weren’t so familiar – strange fabrics, odd-looking foodstuffs, oil-powered gadgets.

  The owner, a thin, dark-haired man, leaned on his counter and stared at them.

  ‘Are you a ticket agent, sir?’ asked Pema politely.

  The man nodded and went on staring.

  ‘I’d like three tickets to Elysia. Please.’

  ‘You can’t buy tickets for that far,’ the man said, his face expressionless. ‘Everybody knows that.’

  ‘Oh . . . ah . . . I, um, but we’re going . . .’

  ‘Of course we know that.’ Singay shouldered him aside. ‘How much is it to the next big town downriver?’

  The man transferred his stare to her. ‘That’d be The Smoke. River Head to The Smoke, that’d be . . .’ He considered for a moment, and then named a figure not far below the entire contents of their money sack. Pema gasped and Rose looked worried, but Singay just snorted.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘and that’s likely, I don’t think. We’ll pay you a twentieth of that and you’ll be lucky to get it!’

  Then, as Pema and Rose stood by, open-mouthed, she proceeded to haggle as if she’d been doing nothing else her whole life. At the end of the process a price had been agreed that left both parties reasonably satisfied.

  ‘Where’d you learn to haggle like that?’ the man asked with a grudging respect.

  Singay grinned at him. ‘Lots of sisters at home.’ Then, turning to Pema, she handed him the money bag. ‘Pay up,’ she said loftily. ‘Little Brother and I will go and look out those supplies.’

  ‘Everything’s set price!’ the man called after her as she dragged Rose off and Pema untied the money sack. He carefully counted out the right amount and then tucked the sack away into an inside pocket for safekeeping.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, as the shopkeeper handed over their tickets. He turned to go but there was more . . .

  ‘I shouldn’t be saying this,’ the man said, not looking directly at him and speaking very low. ‘But the girl’s got grit. So, a word to the wise. We see some pretty ferly things here, with the Jungle so close, and though I don’t much like them, I believe in letting be. But there’s others that don’t think that way. They don’t take well to oddities, and they make their feelings known, if you follow my meaning. I suggest you don’t draw so much attention to yourselves.’ And he nodded towards the door.

  Pema turned to see Rose standing in a pool of sunlight. He was looking better, but he’d obviously forgotten he was supposed to be in disguise – he’d taken off his hat and was fanning himself with it while he turned over the shop’s fascinating goods, his strange silveriness clearly visible.

  Pema felt sudden sweat drip down his back that had nothing to do with the heat. Just then, Singay noticed what Rose had done and plonked his hat back on his head, but the damage was done.

  ‘I . . . uh . . . we . . . uh . . .’

  ‘Buy your “little brother” some make-up,’ said the man.

  ‘Thank you.’ Pema swallowed hard. ‘That’s good advice. I—’ But another customer had just waddled in, and the shopkeeper had already turned his attention away.

  In amongst all the strangeness, the man had suddenly seemed like a friend. Don’t be so stupid, Pema scolded himself and, clutching the tickets, he walked away.

  ‘That boy’s over young to be wandering about unprotected,’ commented the new customer, eyeing Pema suspiciously as he threaded his way through the displays. She was a fat woman with a tight, prissy mouth, wearing ostentatiously heavy black clothes. Her dress was so tight she looked like a sweaty sausage that’d been too long on the grill. ‘Where’s his parents?’

  The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Shopping,’ he grunted. He’d formed his own ideas about the unlikely trio.

  Runaways. There were some bad stories about the customs up there – in the mountains. The short one they’d called their ‘little brother’ was clearly some kind of mutation, but the shopkeeper wouldn’t get in their way. He’d have taken all their money if he could have – that was only fair! – but he wouldn’t hand them in to the Church Council or the interferers either. Not even for the commission the Protectors gave.

  ‘Humph,’ said the woman sourly. ‘Well, don’t you try and cheat me! I know your kind.’

  Unaware of the interest he’d left behind him, Pema rejoined Singay and Rose.

  ‘Add make-up to the supply list. Rose is too noticeable.’ When the others looked impressed by his cunning, he confessed, ‘The shopkeeper suggested it. Come on, let’s finish up and get out of here. The sooner we can get away from this town, the better.’

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Singay screwed up her face in disgust.

  They were walking along yet another alley between two rows of ramshackle storehouses, trying to find their way to the Downriver Pier.

  Pema sniffed the air. ‘That’s grunts. And they’re not very happy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be happy if I smelled like that, either,’ muttered Singay, trying not to breathe.

  But Pema wasn’t listening. The alley was coming to an end. As they stepped out from its shadows they saw, at last, the forecourt of a pier laid out before them, crowded and chaotic in the glaring sunlight, with the River and the barges beyond. And, in a corral almost directly in front of them, was a heaving herd of very unhappy grunts indeed.

  ‘Who’s packed them in like that?’ Pema could feel the outrage climbing up his throat. ‘Any idiot knows you can’t crowd grunts.’

  He started forward, and Singay suddenly realised that Rose wasn’t with them. She turned to see the little man in his little boy disguise still standing at the alley mouth, gazing about with a fascinated and slightly gormless grin on his face. ‘Hey! Come on!’ she said, gesturing impatiently to him. Then she turned back to tell Pema to wait up . . .

  . . . and saw that in that split second everything had changed.

  A huge man was now squeezed in with the grunts, trying to shove one of them bodily through a gap in the corral nearest the barge. The grunt, being, as everyone knows, instinctively contrary, and already in a bad mood because of the overcrowded conditions, did not choose to go in the direction indicated. The stink of peeved grunts got worse, the man’s curses became louder and more creative, and the usual dockside audience of layabouts and gawkers was gathering expectantly.

  ‘HEY!’ Pema shouted furiously at the man, striding towards him. ‘STOP THAT!’ he cried, just as the grunt broke free and plunged out of the enclosure and into the onlookers, scattering them to right and left. The big man fell over, bellowing, Pema disappeared into the chaos in pursuit of the grunt, and Rose and Singay could only stand by and try not to get trodden on.

  ‘I’ve never seen him so angry!’ Rose looked up at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘Look at him now!’ Singay replied, pointing.

  There was a break in the crowd, and they saw Pema and the grunt, just standing there, staring at each other, oblivious to the fuss around them. Chirruping noises were exchanged, and then, gently, Pema put his hand on the animal’s back.

  Singay was just thinking it was all going to be all right, when suddenly a sharp-faced woman pushed her way forward, shrieking at Pema as she came. ‘HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, YOU ROTTEN LITTLE THIEF! GET YOUR THIEVING HANDS OFF MY PROPERTY!’

  ‘Are these your beasts?’ Pema’s anger flared up again and he put himself protectively between the animal and the screaming harridan. ‘What do you think you’re doing? An
y fool knows better than to crowd grunts, so you must be worse than a fool, or else something even worse than that . . .’ He stumbled to a halt as the sentence got away from him, and in the pause, her words penetrated to his brain. ‘Th-thief?’ he stuttered. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU, YOU FLEA-BITTEN FILCHER! THAT’S A VALUABLE BEAST YOU’VE GOT YOUR MITTS ON!’ she shrilled, still at the top of her voice.

  From where she was standing, Singay could clearly see how, while the woman was yelling at Pema, she also had one eye on the crowd, working them round to her side. But the red mist that came down on Pema whenever animals were mistreated had deserted him now, leaving him too tongue-tied and flustered to understand what was happening.

  ‘But – but that’s ridiculous!’ he said. His voice had gone all high-pitched and desperate – even to himself he sounded guilty. ‘Why would I want to steal your grunt?’

  ‘Why would you want to? WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO? I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? I saw how you BEWITCHED that valuable animal.’ She grabbed him by the arm, her fingers digging in hard.

  ‘Come on!’ Singay whispered to Rose, desperately trying to find a way through the thickening crowd. But no one was letting them pass. An unexpected elbow in the face made her stagger backwards and clutch her nose.

  Meanwhile, the man who’d been mishandling the grunt in the first place had no difficulty pushing his way over to the woman. Wiping the sweat and dirt from his face, he loomed at Pema. Pema was uncomfortably aware that the man’s massive body had plenty of muscle under the fat.

  ‘I saw what you did with that grunt, boy,’ the man rumbled.

  Snows. I’m for it now. Pema gulped painfully.

  And then it got worse.

  ‘Are those the ones?’

  Before they could turn around, Singay and Rose felt the heavy hands of authority taking firm hold of them by the neck. Another Protector stood over them. The path to Pema miraculously cleared and they were shoved forward.

  ‘They with you?’ muttered the big man in Pema’s ear.

  ‘No . . . yes . . .’ Pema felt like a mouse between two cats.