Conclave

by Murray, Lee

  Ari looks at Rowan and Mathilde. “What about you two? Do you think the Crons’ boat could’ve been made from a seed pod?”

  Mathilde shakes her head apologetically. “I can’t say. I was too freaked out to notice.”

  “Definitely,” says Rowan with enthusiasm. “Tonya’s theory works for me. Anyway, going into the jungle is our only option. It’s like you said, Ari: the Crons have a boat, and we all saw them burst out of the trees.”

  Ari nods. “Okay, if we’re all agreed, let’s stick to the formation we used before…”

  But Mathilde folds her arms across her chest. “No. I’m staying here.”

  Not this again.

  “We can’t leave you, Mathilde. We nearly didn’t find you last time.”

  “But this time you have to come back to the beach.” She points past the hapless Fhage to the horizon. “The challenge is out there, remember.”

  “But it’s not safe here.”

  “And if I’m with you, it won’t be safe in the trees. In the forest, I’m a liability. It’s hard enough being here where the sand is just steps away. In there…” She waves her hand behind her. “In there, there’s no telling what I might do. Besides, my knee is too sore. I don’t know how long it will hold up.” She turns to Ari. “Please, Ari. Let me stay here and watch the beach. Maybe I can keep track of the teams coming out of the forest. I might even be able to slow them down.”

  “I agree. Mathilde should stay,” says Tonya. Rowan doesn’t get it. Tonya was dead against leaving Mathilde last time. “Look, she said it herself. She’s a liability,” Tonya says.

  Ari makes the final decision, swiping the bananas through the air like a judge’s gavel.

  “You can stay, Mathilde, but you’ll need to stay hidden. There’s a chance someone is running about the amphitheatres with a knife. Let’s find you a safe place.”

  They hunt along the edge of the treeline until they find an elongated hollow. Judging from the shape of it, Rowan thinks it might once have been a tributary branching off from the stream, the current now diverted elsewhere. Lying flat on her tummy in the dried stream bed, Mathilde will have an extended view of the beach, but from the forest she’ll be almost invisible. It’s a good location.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” says Rowan, as Mathilde checks out the hidey-hole.

  “At least this time no one is dying,” Tonya says.

  “Only the Fhage,” says Mathilde.

  At that, the four of them turn their eyes to the ocean, where the Fhage drifts helplessly on the waves.

  11

  “I’m fine. See?” Rowan strikes a muscleman pose.

  “Oh, please,” Tonya says, rolling her eyes at him. ‘Spare us.” Since Rowan isn’t dead, it seems the bananas are safe. Ari hands a fruit to everyone and, a short time later, when the bananas have gone, Mathilde is settled in her foxhole, and Ari is brandishing a new stick, they set off in the direction of the trees Tonya saw earlier. It’s hard going. The forest is lush and dense, and they’re forced to clamber over rotting logs, and push through thick curtains of hanging lianes in greens of every shade. Hoots and chirps tell of unseen creatures all about them. Rowan hopes they’re your normal forest inhabitants; which would be bad enough, since they’re unarmed. But this is Conclave, so who knows what’s out there? He sucks back a tremor of fear. They’re walking blind in a jungle with no compass, no safety equipment, not even a container of water. Probably not the smartest decision, but it’s not as if they have any choice. The deeper they get, the more the atmosphere becomes oppressive and cloying. Rowan’s nostrils are filled with the inexplicable scent of new growth and never-ending decay. His shirt is damp with perspiration and humidity. Rowan thwacks away an insect. No telling what a sting from one of those might do.

  “How far now?” he asks Tonya some time later. “I thought you said these trees were a kilometre in.”

  Tonya looks back over her shoulder at him, wet tendrils of hair hanging about her face. “It’s hard to tell. This forest is so dense. I hope we haven’t walked right past them.” She puts her hand out to Ari in front. “Ari, do you think I should climb another tree?”

  Ari pulls up. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Look.”

  Rowan and Tonya crowd him, each of them looking over his shoulder. It’s a track, a fresh one. Bruised foliage and trampled vegetation suggests the trail was broken by something large. Perhaps three Crons carrying a crucible?

  Rowan’s heart lifts. Brilliant. All they have to do now is follow this trail into the jungle. Either they’ll find the trees Tonya saw, or they’ll find whatever it is the Crons used to make their craft. With the trail clear, they break into a run. They don’t have to go far before they come to a clearing, where three colossal trees extend into the sky.

  “Wow,” says Tonya, her mouth open in astonishment. Rowan can’t help but agree. They’re awesome. Bigger than anything Rowan’s ever seen. Tonya’s earlier beanstalk reference is pretty close; the girth of each tree is the equivalent of at least six people standing in a circle, arms outstretched, their fingertips touching.

  And there are the boats—huge fibrous seed pods—hanging from the trees. The only problem is, how are they going to get one down? Ari suggests they search the surrounds for a pod that might have fallen to the ground. No point trying to get one down if they don’t have to. They split up, each of them scouting around a tree, even pushing into the jungle at the edge of the clearing in case one of the soft green pods has fallen away from the clearing. They find eight, all of them too damaged to be of use. If there were any intact windfall pods, the other teams have taken them. They’re going to have to harvest one. Rowan joins Ari and Tonya under the central tree, where, hanging from a low branch just metres above their head and tantalisingly out of reach, is the boat.

  “Any bright ideas?” Ari says.

  “I have one, but it’s kind of dumb.”

  “Dumb is better than none,” Tonya says. “Spit it out, Rowan.”

  “Well, in some cultures back home, people use monkeys to collect coconuts from the trees.”

  “Uh-huh…” says Tonya, but the glazed look in her eyes tells Rowan he’s lost her.

  He explains: “Monkeys aren’t strong enough to pull the fruit off the trees, but they’re resourceful little things and they like to eat coconut. They do it by sitting in the branches and twisting the fruit off at the stem, twirling the fruit around and around until the fibres fray and tear, and the fruit drops to the ground.”

  “That might work,” Ari says.

  “The pods are delicate, though. What if it breaks? We’d have to start over.”

  “Well, what if you do it—you’re good at climbing—while Ari and I wait underneath the pod to catch it, or at least to break its fall, so it isn’t damaged?”

  “So, first you wanted me to be the fly, and now you’re asking me to be a monkey?” Tonya says.

  “Yeah, that’s about it.” Instinctively, he swerves away because in that instant Tonya looks like she might punch him. But it seems it hadn’t even crossed her mind because instead she’s heading for the tree, her eyes darting everywhere, examining the trunk for hand holds, planning the route she’ll take to the base of the seed pod.

  It takes her about ten minutes—and one near-fall—to navigate the climb to the base of the pod, and a further half an hour of twirling before she gasps, her face red and sweaty, that she’s close to shearing off the pod.

  “Get ready,” she puffs. At last, it breaks away in a gush of pale pink sap. Positioned under the pod, Ari and Rowan run in to catch it and are bowled over by the momentum. They crash to the ground.

  “Oooaf,” says Ari, the air pushed out of him.

  “Gerroff,” says Rowan.

  “All okay,” Tonya calls from above them.

  “Yeah, no harm done; maybe a bruise on my elbow, that’s all,” says Rowan, getting to his feet.

  Tonya scrambles down the trunk. “I didn’t mean you. I meant the pod. It’s
still intact.”

  Ari is wiping sap off his hands, running his spread fingers through the damp grass. “That’s because it landed on us. I think it’s only the older, dried-out seed pods that are susceptible to cracking. This one is more flexible.” Frowning, he wipes his hands on his trousers. “But the sap is blimmin’ awful. Really tacky.”

  “I know,” Tonya agrees. “I got some on me when the pod broke away, and now my fingers won’t open properly.”

  “Well, just look at me,” Rowan wails. His cheeks and nose are covered in globs of the sticky stuff, the spatters itching like crazy. He lifts his hand to wipe them off, but Tonya grabs his arm, stopping him.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Rowan. You might get some in your eyes. You could be blinded.”

  Ari agrees. “Grab the pod and let’s head back to the beach. We can wash up there.” He picks up one end of the pod. “Help me with the other end, Rowan,” he says.

  12

  Mathilde runs to meet them when they arrive on the beach. “Awesome! You got one.”

  “What about you? Did you see any other teams?”

  “Uh-huh. Two other teams have put to sea since you left: the Gyptors and the Silici. The Gyptors had made a raft using coconuts for flotation. The Silici went in without anything. They just took to the water. I’m surprised you didn’t see them yourself. They’ve only just left the beach.”

  “What about paddles? Did you see what the Gyptors used?” Ari asks. It’s been bothering him all the way back, since there was nothing in the clearing. Tonya had thought the Crons’ oars might have been enormous sepals, but the Crons must have taken the last of them because their search around the clearing hadn’t turned up anything useful. Ari had made them stop several times on the way back to investigate possibilities, and although he’d uncovered a couple of gourds suitable for holding water, they found nothing that would serve as oars. They had a boat, but no means of propelling it.

  “The Gyptors definitely used their radula to get out past the waves. I didn’t see if they had oars when they got out past the breakers. They spent a long time at the stream, though. I couldn’t see the waterway from where I was, so I assumed they were stocking up on fresh water. Then the Fhage burst and I was…distracted. Perhaps the Gyptors found something at the stream?”

  They cart the pod with them around the curve of the beach, not wanting to risk another team stealing it. At the stream, Ari fills the gourds while the others search the area. Upstream, where the water runs deeper, Rowan discovers a dense clump of fresh water weed with paddle-like blades. Slipping into the water, Rowan ducks his head, washing off the last of the sap, then studies the base of the weed. Some of the blades have been partly severed at the stalk.

  Standing up in the stream bed, he calls Mathilde over.

  “Do you think these could be our paddles?”

  “The shape is good, but they’re too flexible. See how they move in the current? They won’t be rigid enough to use as paddles.”

  “I found some signs of cutting at the base of a couple of these stems. I wonder if the Gyptors tried to cut them with their radula. If that’s true, why would they do that? I think we should pull one out and see.”

  Mathilde shrugs. “We may as well have a go. We haven’t found anything else.” Without a blade, cutting the stem is difficult. Rowan wishes he had an elongated Clicker talon, although the only loose one he knows of is embedded deep in a spider’s abdomen and he doesn’t plan to go back and retrieve it. Instead, they bend the stalk over, Mathilde standing on it, creating enough tension on the partly-severed blade for Rowan to dive down and hack it off with a sharp rock. It comes free with a plop, plunging Mathilde backwards into the water. She comes up spluttering. “You could have warned me, Rowan,” she says indignantly, but she isn’t really angry. Her blue eyes twinkle with mirth. It’s nice to see her laugh; they’ve had little enough to laugh about.

  Rowan climbs onto the bank carrying the drooping stalk. Completely useless. Why were the Gyptors interested in these? He waves the blade in the air, and as he does so, it solidifies into a misshapen lump.

  “Hey, this is what they used!”

  Ari and Tonya join them as Mathilde climbs out of the water.

  “How did that happen? The blade was flexible when I was standing on it.”

  “I think contact with air caused it to harden. Like glue, after it’s come out of the tube.”

  Tonya pulls a face. “Well, that’s no good. It doesn’t look anything like an oar.”

  It’s true. Out of the water, the blade looks more like a shrivelled peanut shell than an oar. Mathilde shakes her head, sending a rain of tiny droplets over her shoulders. “It didn’t happen instantly, Tonya,” she says. “It took a few minutes. Rowan was waving it around, and it hardened into this shape.”

  “If it took a few minutes, maybe we can encourage it to take the shape we want,” Ari suggests.

  “Let’s see if we can get another one, Rowan,” Mathilde says, excited now. “Then Tonya and Ari can hold an end each, extending it lengthwise. If they do that while it’s hardening, they might be able to get it to retain its blade shape.”

  “Hang on, before you do that, put it back in water. See if becomes flexible again.” It’s smart thinking. The stem won’t be any use to them as a paddle unless it stays solid when immersed in water. Since she’s already wet, Mathilde takes the stem from Rowan and walks it back into the stream. It stays in its wrinkled peanut state.

  “Maybe it takes longer?”

  “Maybe it’ll change back in seawater.”

  They trial both hypotheses. It seems that once denatured, the blade stays that way.

  Rowan and Mathilde repeat their cutting procedure, then quickly throw the blade to Tonya and Ari, who pull it, like taffy, into an elongated shape. This time, the stem solidifies into a misshapen paleta racquet—not perfect, but closer. They try again. By the time they have four usable paddles, Mathilde’s lips are turning blue.

  “That’s it. Let’s go,” Tonya says.

  But Ari has ducked into the treeline, coming back with another hand of bananas.

  “We don’t know how long we’ll be out there,” he says, placing the bananas into the bottom of the pod with the gourds. “Mathilde saw two teams go out, but she didn’t say anything about seeing any come back.”

  13

  The sea is beautiful—blue-green and sparkling, like an iSplay commercial for a tourist spot. Tonya finds it hard to believe they’re actually in a Conclave amphitheatre, that their every move is being iSplayed throughout the universe for the pleasure of the viewers. It doesn’t make sense. This is nothing like the brutal terrain Galileo showed them before the opening ceremony. Even the tunnels of the last challenge were more desolate. And there haven’t been any monsters. So far, all they’ve had to do on this second challenge is build a boat and find some suitable paddles—the kind of lame problem-solving exercise a high-school teacher might set on an outdoor education excursion. And now, here on the ocean with the beach behind them, it’s too perfect, too serene. The whole scenario is making her nervous. She almost wishes a kraken would explode out of the ocean, that they were staring down its gullet, its putrid breath fouling the air. At least, then they’d know what they were up against.

  This is too…easy.

  Except for the paddling, which is excruciating. With her and Ari up front and Rowan and Mathilde paddling at the rear, they’ve made good progress, steadily approaching one of the white water patches. Well, it seems like they’ve made progress as the patch of white looks less pea-sized (on the beach) and more cushion-sized (where they are now).

  At last, his shoulder muscles glistening with sweat, Ari lifts his paddle out of the water, calling a halt. Tonya is pleased for the pause. After hours paddling, her neck is aching and her knees are raw. But it turns out Ari hasn’t called a rest break: the Silici, who they’ve been shadowing for some time, have stopped too, hovering in the swell, their tentacles floating around them like a girl’s
hair.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Don’t know. One minute they were gliding along, matching us stroke for stroke, and the next thing they’d stopped in a huddle. I figured we should stop, too. Maybe they know something we don’t. We learned about the pods from the Crons, and the Gyptors lead us to the paddles. Maybe we’ll learn something from these guys as well.”

  They watch for a while, taking the opportunity to pass the water gourd around. Rowan eats a banana. Mathilde drops a hand over the side, trailing her fingers in the water.

  “Don’t do that, Mathilde,” Tonya says irritably, thoughts of monsters and Krakens still on her mind. She waves to Ari. “We should go. We’re wasting time.”

  “Just a bit longer. Something weird is happening.”

  With all of them gathered on one side, they almost tip the little pod. Something is definitely happening. The creatures have moved away from each other, the water between them simmering with bubbles.

  “Is that—?”

  “Oh my God, do you think…?”

  A seething mass of tiny tentacles, each one not much larger than a pencil, break the surface of the water.

  “Yep, they’re spawning,” says Tonya, wryly. “I believe we have downed tools in order to witness a Silici orgy. I guess that makes us voyeurs.”

  But it’s hard not to be mesmerised. It’s a magical moment. There are thousands of the tiny creatures, possibly millions, their juvenile tentacles creating an ever-widening circle, and flashing blue-pink in the sunlight. It’s like fireworks erupting on the water, only the colours are more luminous, more electrifying. Then the sky turns blue-pink, but it’s a transitory phase before the heavens are filled with iSplay, the colours of the crowd and the cacophony of their voices shattering any magic. For a second, Tonya is fooled into thinking they’ve actually been whisked back to the start of the Games, back into the stadium, until rolling swell of the ocean reminds her that they’re still on the water. The Silici, though, have disappeared. Tonya blinks. Where did they go? She strains her eyes for a glimpse of a single squirming tentacle, but there’s nothing, and the parent Silici have slipped away, too. But where? Had they known the iSplay was about to appear overhead?