Griffin's Feather

by Cornelia Funke

  ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What?’ Lola stepped over a dull brown feather lying on the floor. It was a wing feather, over thirty rats’ tails long, and unfortunately not the kind of feather they were looking for. The griffins’ sun-feathers were considerably shorter, for if the stories were accurate, they grew in the down around the creatures’ necks.

  ‘There’s no treasure chamber!’ Twigleg looked around in search for one. ‘All the texts I found say that griffins have a hatch right beside the place where they sleep, and the treasure chamber is under it.’

  Lola wrinkled her nose scornfully. She took as little interest in treasure as the Greenblooms – and all other rational beings, she would have added.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Twigleg. ‘What are we going to tell the others?’

  He had to admit that he was slightly relieved. Who wanted to meet giant birds with the paws of lions? Lola did, of course.

  ‘Not so fast, humpelklumpus!’ she said. ‘We know there are griffins on this island, and that’s a start.’

  She went to the gateway at the entrance and took the binoculars from her belt. Then she got so close to the brink of the abyss that Twigleg could have almost thrown up again on her behalf. But Lola just calmly whistled through her teeth.

  ‘Homklopus!’ She beckoned Twigleg closer and handed him the binoculars. ‘Do you see that, down there on the broad branch?’ She nudged him in the ribs so that he nearly fell head first into the depths. ‘Right between the treetops.’

  Horrified, Twigleg lowered the binoculars. ‘A skeleton!’

  Lola took the binoculars back and looked down through them again. ‘Not just one. I can see three more. Monkey skeletons, if you ask me. And they didn’t die of old age.’

  She pulled the radio set out of her belt.

  ‘Barnabas?’ She pressed Receive, but only the voices of birds and rushing water came over the transmitter.

  ‘Barnabas!’ Lola tried another half a dozen times.

  Then she turned abruptly and stalked back to her plane.

  ‘Why do you think they’re not answering?’ called Twigleg, hurrying after her. ‘Lola!’

  The rat turned around. ‘It’s that troll interfering with reception! I did warn Barnabas, but he insisted on taking him on this mission. Let’s hope the blockhead can make himself useful in some other way. I suggest we fly back to the beach and follow their trail from there. Who knows, maybe they’ll be back already.’

  The doubt in Lola’s voice worried Twigleg badly. And there was another thing he didn’t like. Okay, so Hothbrodd interfered with radio reception, but Barnabas and Ben hadn’t even tried calling them. Usually at least their distorted voices could be heard.

  Lola’s route back to the beach took them over the crowns of the trees. Seen from above, the jungle of Pulau Bulu was a carpet of green – emerald, olive and dark green – peppered with thousands of flowers. But Twigleg hardly even glanced at the glorious sight. The wrecked nests and his master’s radio silence were far too alarming.

  It took them less than an hour to get back to the beach.

  Hothbrodd’s plane was drifting on the waves, but there was no sign of the troll, or of Barnabas and Ben.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Tiny Wing

  The birth of all things is weak and tender, and therefore

  we should have our eyes intent on beginnings.

  Michel de Montaigne, Essays

  The two geese sitting on the nest this morning had the chequered blue plumage seen only in nightingale-geese. The song that they coaxed from their golden beaks was so beautiful that Guinevere stopped in the stable doorway for a few moments to hear it before going in. Sometimes they sang all night long, but when she knelt down beside the nest they cackled as disapprovingly as ordinary geese. Twigleg would probably have translated the cackling as, ‘Oh no, here comes the girl with the cold fingers again!’ Following that up with, ‘Why all this taking of temperatures? Does the little human think we don’t know how to keep a nest warm?’

  ‘We’re so grateful to you!’ said Guinevere, as the geese reluctantly got off the eggs. ‘And your singing is really beautiful.’

  That mollified the two birds a little. Compared to wild geese, nightingale-geese are very vain. All the same, they watched Guinevere suspiciously as she bent over the nest. In the pale morning light that fell in through the stable windows, the eggs shone like fallen stars. The branches from which Hothbrodd had built the nest were reflected in their shells, and a pale blue goose-feather clung to one of them like a piece of the sky. Guinevere gently removed it from the eggshell – and withdrew her hand in such surprise that the nightingale-geese moved their heads in alarm. The shell had changed! It looked as if someone had polished it so thoroughly that in a few places the silver had worn off. In those places the shell looked like cloudy glass, and behind it – Guinevere almost stopped breathing! – behind it something was moving. She bent her head lower over the nest, although the two geese hissed their disapproval. There were marks like that on the other eggs as well! And Guinevere thought she could see a tiny wing behind one of them. Oh, how wonderful! She must tell Ànemos! Her heart was in her mouth as she straightened up and hurried out of the stable.

  Ànemos was standing under the tree where the mist-ravens usually perched, receiving his instructions for the day. By now the ravens left it to the Pegasus to shoo any bears and wolves who failed to observe the peace of MÍMAMEIĐR back into the forest. They also trusted Ànemos to deal with the ever-hungry impet-eaters and shark-men who hid away in the fjord during the day, coming to MÍMAMEIĐR by night in search of easier prey. The Pegasus was already spreading his wings to set off when Guinevere came running towards him. The red of his shining plumage was as dark as if it were still tinged with the Medusa’s blood.

  ‘Ànemos!’

  The Pegasus turned around.

  ‘They’re turning translucent!’ Guinevere had been running so fast that she had hardly any breath left for talking. ‘The eggs!’ she managed to say. ‘You can see the foals inside!’

  Ànemos folded his wings again.

  ‘Please!’ Guinevere stammered. ‘Come with me!’

  For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t follow her, but one of the mist-ravens came to her aid.

  ‘You’d better go with her, Ànemos!’ he croaked. ‘She carries on like that only when it’s important.’

  The others nodded in agreement. Guinevere was very glad to hear that the ravens had such a good opinion of her.

  In spite of their backing, Ànemos came towards her only hesitantly – and every step he took as he came closer to the stable was slower. But in the end he followed Guinevere through the narrow doorway.

  The nightingale-geese thought it was a great nuisance having to get up again, even for the father of the foals.

  Ànemos snorted as the eggs came into sight under the blue feathers. Then he stretched his neck until his nose was touching the silvery shells.

  ‘Can you see it?’ Guinevere was still afraid of addressing the Pegasus, whose sadness surrounded him like a warning.

  At first he did not reply. But then he straightened up and looked at Guinevere.

  ‘I think one of them is white,’ he said, as the geese settled back on the nest with a soft humming sound. ‘White like its mother.’

  Guinevere nodded. She felt the tickling in her nose that said she was going to shed tears. Tears of happiness.

  ‘I think the second is blue,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure about the third. Its coat is still damp with the egg white.’

  The geese closed their eyes as if that was the only way they could concentrate on their important task.

  Ànemos bowed his head to Guinevere. He bowed it very low.

  ‘Thank you, human daughter,’ he said. ‘For the first time in weeks, my heart does not feel like a stone in my breast.’

  Then he took a last look at the nest, and went to the stable door. Before going out,
he stopped once again.

  ‘Is there any news of your father?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes! They’ve found the island!’ Guinevere replied. She did not add that she hadn’t been able to get in touch with Ben since then.

  Ànemos nodded. Guinevere could read his feelings in his face. The outline of that tiny wing brought him comfort and hope – but also the fear of losing what he loved again.

  ‘My father has promised to save your children,’ said Guinevere. ‘And he’s very good at keeping his promises.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Shrii

  Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow.

  If it wasn’t so, life wouldn’t be worth living.

  Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband

  Ben’s head had hurt so badly only once in his life before. On the day when a Mokêle-Mbêmbe, a fabulous African animal that is a cross between a lizard and an elephant, had hit him across the temples with its jagged tail. This time the pain was further back and got worse when he opened his eyes. For a moment he saw everything in such a blur that he thought the figure bending over him was human. But when he saw it more clearly, Ben realised it was a monkey. Not just any monkey, but an Assam macaque, as Twigleg would have told him. Its amber eyes were inspecting him with a far from friendly expression. He was in the dim light of a hollow tree. Three small monkeys that Twigleg would have introduced to him as lorises perched in the air roots that hung from the roof of the hollow, and a gibbon and three more macaques were sitting on projections inside the trunk, looking down at Ben with hostility.

  Barnabas and Hothbrodd were lying a few steps away from him, as thoroughly tied up with lianas as he was.

  ‘I tell you they were bait!’ Ben heard one of the macaques chattering. ‘We never ought to have brought them here! The poachers that Kraa deals with don’t often venture so far into the forest!’

  ‘Patah is right, Shrii!’ twittered a loris. ‘Kraa sent them to find us! They’re his spies!’

  ‘Oh yes? Then Kraa is more stupid than I thought,’ mocked the gibbon. ‘That green giant is so heavy we had to haul him up here with lianas. Not to mention the way he stinks of fish!’

  Ben suspected that he could understand the monkeys and the ape because Hothbrodd was with them. You understood the world and the creatures in it so much better if you had a couple of fabulous beings among your friends.

  Ben thought he heard the rustle of feathers behind him, but he was tied up too tightly even to turn his head.

  ‘Did you ever see a creature like this green giant, TerTaWa?’

  Ben had never heard a voice that reminded him so much of Firedrake. There was the same power in it. And whoever it was talking, he was large!

  Hothbrodd let out an angry roar and tried to break his bonds. The monkeys commented on his efforts with chattering that sounded both anxious and amused, and the macaque who had first bent over Ben was menacingly swinging a cudgel that looked thicker than its furry arm. Maybe that was the reason for Ben’s headache.

  ‘No, wait!’ he cried. ‘Hothbrodd is kindhearted really, even if he doesn’t look it! He’s a fjord troll.’

  The monkeys went on chattering to each other all at once.

  ‘You might almost think he was related to the Whispering Trees,’ said the voice behind Ben.

  That voice didn’t sound anxious, but curious. The other animals fell respectfully silent as the speaker stepped in among their prisoners on the clawed feet of a big cat.

  None of the pictures that Ben had seen, none of the reliefs and statues did justice to the creature he saw above him now.

  The griffin was bending over Hothbrodd with interest.

  Shrii – wasn’t that what the monkeys had called him?

  He looked so much more fantastic than Ben had imagined a griffin. His tail was a blue-green snake with its tongue darting in and out, his muscular hindquarters and leonine body were marked like the coat of a marbled cat, but the feathers on his head and neck, like his wings, shimmered in all the shades of green in the jungle. Only his beak, ears and eyes were yellow as honey. In Ben’s experience, birds’ eyes were as cool as the eyes of reptiles. Even Me-Rah was no exception. But Shrii’s eyes had almost the same warmth in them as Firedrake’s dragon-gaze – although you could tell from looking at the griffin that he didn’t live entirely on moonlight. Ben sensed the attentive stance of a beast of prey, and his readiness to go hunting was evident in every muscle.

  ‘Whispering trees? Right you are!’ Hothbrodd was still struggling against the lianas binding him. ‘If you don’t let us go this minute, I’ll tell them to strike you down with their branches! And believe you me, you cudgel-swinging fur-faced kidnappers,’ he shouted up at the monkeys, ‘there are lots of trees who listen to trolls! Lots and lots of trees!’

  ‘Really?’ Shrii was still examining him, fascinated. ‘I’m tempted to set you free just so that you can prove it.’

  He turned his feathered neck, and looked at Ben and Barnabas. ‘Hmhm. This one is very young for a spy,’ he commented. ‘And the older human doesn’t really look like one of Kraa’s poachers, don’t you agree, Patah?’

  Barnabas was looking at the griffin, so enraptured that for a moment he forgot to speak.

  ‘Poachers? Oh, no, no!’ he finally said. ‘You could say we work for the other side. My name is Barnabas Greenbloom, and this is my son Ben. The monkeys will tell you that they found no weapons on us. We come in pea—’

  ‘Who said you could speak, human?’ Patah interrupted him harshly. He was very delicately built for a macaque, but he obviously made up for his lack of height by fearlessness. ‘They all tell lies as soon as they open their mouths. You don’t know them as I do, Shrii. Kupo is right. Of course they’re spies. We ought to throw them into the sea. Or send them back to Kraa dead, like Daun, Manis and all the others whose bones are bleaching beneath the ruins of our nests!’

  The other monkeys set up a howl of lamentation, but they stopped as soon as Patah raised his paw. It was brown as withered leaves, but the macaque’s face was the colour of human skin, and there was thick, pale grey fur around his chin and cheeks, like a luxuriant beard.

  ‘Yes, we ought to kill them!’ he repeated. ‘But first,’ he said, lunging at Ben, ‘first we ought to make them talk. I’ve found out how to do it from others of their kind! The more we know about Kraa’s plans the better. He’s not going to give up, Shrii! He’ll never tolerate another griffin questioning his authority! I’ll say it again, even if none of you want to hear it: we must leave this island!’

  Shrii sat up very straight.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The rest of you should go. Get yourselves to safety. But I am staying. This island is my home. I was born here. It coloured my feathers and my coat, and I would be sorry to hear it sighing and groaning under Kraa’s rule.’

  The monkeys were looking with as much concern at the gap through which the sounds of the jungle came in as if they feared that the griffin Kraa might have heard Shrii’s challenge. Ben tried to imagine that other griffin, but his eyes were fixed with fascination on Shrii. Shrii made him forget that they were prisoners, and what they were looking for on this island. He even made Ben’s longing for Firedrake a little less strong. The two of them would probably get on with each other very well.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, I know you won’t leave,’ muttered Patah. ‘We’ll all die here. A heap of dead heroes… that’s what we’ll be. And will the parrots, marbled cats, and gibbons that you defend thank you for it? No!’ He crouched down beside Ben and pinched his cheek. ‘Tell me, little human,’ he whispered, ‘what’s your mission exactly? Are you meant to kill Shrii?’

  The griffin growled softly, his snaky tail rearing up like an attacking cobra. ‘Leave them alone, Patah! There’s no evidence of their guilt yet.’

  The macaque bared his teeth, but he moved away from Ben. ‘Your soft heart will be the ruin of you, Shrii!’ he growled. ‘And the rest of us will die with you!’

  Ben’s heart misse
d a beat when he saw what was hanging around the macaque’s neck. It was the locket that Barnabas had given him to keep Firedrake’s scale safe. Had Patah opened it? And if so, would Firedrake sense that the scale had a new owner? Or would he take the monkey’s feelings for Ben’s?

  ‘Patah is crazy, but he’s right, Shrii,’ chirped Kupo, the loris who had described them as spies. She jumped to Shrii’s marbled shoulders and examined Ben with her round eyes. ‘I suggest we make a cage and keep them in it as pets, which is the kind of thing they do to us. I can decorate the cage, the way you see cages in their markets. Although my carvings are very much better!’ Kupo proudly inspected her delicate fingers – and suddenly leaned forward. ‘Oh, what’s that? It looks like a very good knife.’

  The knife that Hothbrodd used for carving lay neatly lined up on a huge leaf, along with his other possessions. The ballpoint pens full of anaesthetic lay right beside it. Barnabas exchanged a glance of concern with Ben.

  ‘It’s very big!’ twittered Kupo. ‘But the blade! It looks as if wonderful things could be carved with it! Oh yes!’

  She put her tiny hand out covetously – and jumped back in alarm as Hothbrodd furious fought against his bonds.

  ‘The alligators,’ said Patah, raising Barnabas’s binoculars to his eyes and turning them on Kupo, ‘the alligators down by the great waterfall –’ he put down the binoculars and reached for one of the ballpoints – ‘they eat everything. Monkeys, humans – and I’m sure they’d eat a green tree-giant like this one as well! And there are almost no leftovers! Shrii would never know what became of his spies.’