An old guard met them at the door. When he saw the Lord Chancellor he looked surprised. The old guard straightened his clothes, smoothed back his hair and bowed.
‘What is your name?’ the Lord Chancellor asked.
‘I am Old Ardi,’ the guard replied.
‘Well, Old Ardi, the King has ordered this girl’s tongue be cut out.’
Oriole gasped and shook her head. She wanted to speak, to tell the guard that the Lord Chancellor was lying, but the gag was tight about her mouth. Old Ardi seemed surprised.
‘Do it or suffer the same punishment,’ the Lord Chancellor said threateningly.
‘Yes, of course, Lord Chancellor.’
Old Ardi bowed and stepped away. The Chancellor turned and stalked back up the steps.
When they were alone, Old Ardi pulled off the strip of cloth and mumbled, ‘Whatever have you done, child?’
Oriole wanted to tell him that the King had ordered no such thing. She wanted to say that the Lord Chancellor was a dishonourable man, that he was siding with the enemy, but she was too afraid to speak. Every time she opened her mouth, something bad seemed to happen. She thought of Mellow waiting for her to return and a tear ran down her cheek.
Old Ardi shrugged sadly and led her down a long dark passage. He stopped outside one of the cells and pulled the door open. ‘I suppose you’re hungry,’ he said, nodding for her to go inside. ‘I’ll get you something to eat.’ He took a key on a long strip of leather from inside his vest and locked the door behind her.
A cockroach scuttled across the floor and slipped through a tiny crack in the wall. Oriole wished she could escape as easily. She wrapped her arms around herself and felt her knees give way. A single window covered with bars was set up high in the ceiling. Barely any light touched the floor. How she longed to be home in the Forest up in her nest in the ancient Banyan tree with Mellow. As the square of light from the window above turned from yellow to pale grey, she realised it would soon be night. Oriole drifted to sleep, cold and scared.
A key in the lock jerked Oriole awake. It was Old Ardi.
‘I brought you food and some clean straw to keep you warm. You must be cold in that thin dress of yours,’ he said. He let the bundle of straw drop from under his arm and set the bowl on the ground.
Oriole remembered what Mellow had once told her. ‘Actions make you who you are, not what you say or how you look.’
Old Ardi is a good man, she thought, as she peered down at the steaming bowl. In the Forest of Birds, she ate fruit, nuts, berries and roots. Some she cooked, others she ate raw. Mellow had told her that humans ate animals, but to her relief Old Ardi had not given her meat, but some sort of yellow grain in warm water.
The dungeon was dark and damp, but she felt her heart warm a little as she ate. And she still had her tongue. For now.
Boy was poked and prodded into the house, the rope still tight around his neck. In the darkness he had only glimpsed a face. At least the Demon Monster doesn’t have two heads or carry one of them under his arm, he thought.
The Demon Monster pushed Boy down onto a stool. He loosened the rope and tied the other end of it to the table leg. Then he went to the stove to tend to a very large clay pot cooking over the fire. Boy’s stomach rolled when the Demon Monster lifted the lid and the room filled with the smell of meat stew. Could it really be children he’s eating? Boy’s knees shook and his lips trembled.
The Demon Monster turned away from the stove and Boy saw his face for the first time. He was surprised to see how ordinary he looked. He wore a brown robe with trousers tucked into high boots. There was a scar in the shape of a hook down his left cheek. Boy was sure he had seen one exactly like it before, but where?
The Demon Monster ladled some stew into a porcelain bowl and set it on the table in front of Boy.
‘Eat!’ he said.
‘I . . . I’m not very hungry,’ Boy said.
‘Children are always hungry,’ the Demon Monster replied. ‘And have you forgotten your manners? When someone gives you food you should be thankful.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ Boy picked up the spoon and fished around in the gravy, searching for the smallest bit of meat, but he knew it was no use. In the end he would have to eat every last piece. The Demon Monster sat at the opposite end of the table, watching him.
Boy ate slowly. ‘Can I go now, please?’ he said when he had finally finished.
There was no reply. The Demon Monster had fallen asleep!
Boy looked at the door. It was unlocked. Very slowly, he worked at loosening the rope around his neck. At last it was big enough to slip over his head. He rose silently from his chair and tiptoed to the door. But just as he was about to open it, he heard a strange sound coming from the inner part of the house, a sound that reminded him of the girl with the singing tongue. He stopped, entranced.
The scrape of a chair leg quickly snapped Boy back to reality. The Demon Monster was on his feet.
Boy ran out the door and did not stop running until he reached the wall. Then he crawled through the hole and ducked and weaved down the alleys until he was sure he wasn’t being followed.
It had begun to rain again, so Boy took shelter beneath a piece of woven cane. He thought about what he was going to do next. I can’t go back to the shack, not without something for Panther.
He tucked his knees under his chin and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again.
If I go to the Palace and look for the girl with the singing tongue, I might find a treasure there as well.
He stood up with sudden resolve.
Finding the treasure in the silver box and hearing the girl with the singing tongue had given Boy all kinds of strange and new feelings. He had only ever known Panther and Rabbit, the threats and the beatings, and the dirty shack at the bottom of Ratskin Alley. Now it was as if a crack had appeared in the grey cloud above the city and he could see the sun for the first time. Could this girl lead him to his ana and ata?
Boy ran quietly along the back lanes to the district known as the Perfumed Garden. It was not a real garden, for hardly any existed in the City of Soulless. It was just a place where waste from the Palace was disposed of.
When Rabbit was low on food, he would wait for the wagons to return so he could get first pickings. Sometimes he found meat only slightly tinged with green. With a little washing the smell disappeared. It was Rabbit who had told Boy about the nightly routine of the rubbish wagons. At the sound of the gong of the second night watch, a wagon loaded with empty barrels would leave the Perfumed Garden and head for the Palace. After filling up with waste it would return at the last gong before dawn.
Boy was waiting for the wagon when the horses emerged, white clouds of steam blowing from their nostrils. As the wagon passed by he jumped onto the open tray, crawled to the back and crouched down between the barrels behind the driver. Boy’s main worry was how to get off the wagon without being noticed. Rabbit had told him that the men always went inside the Palace kitchen first, so it was easy to sneak off unseen. Still, things could go wrong; Boy knew that only too well.
He heard the driver mumbling to himself – something about the girl and the Song Stealer’s Cart. He strained to catch more, perhaps news about where she was being held prisoner, but it was impossible over the rumble of wheels on cobblestones.
Soon they were at the gates of the Palace. His hands began to sweat. If everything went to plan and he found the girl, he had to make sure he was on the wagon when it left just before dawn. As the gates opened he crouched down low between the barrels.
‘I have to do a search,’ he heard someone say.
‘Go ahead,’ the driver said lazily and slumped down in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.
To Boy’s horror, the guard came around the back of the wagon holding a burning torch in one hand and a sword in the other. He started to thrust the blade into the empty barrels and the dark spaces between. Boy pressed himself back between two barrels and closed his eyes. He felt th
e sword nick his arm and he had to resist the urge to cry out. Then it was gone.
‘Move on,’ said the guard grumpily.
The wagon rumbled forwards through the gates.
When it was a safe distance from the gate, Boy jumped off and ducked behind some huge stone steps. He crouched there in the dark, heart pounding, but no one shouted out. Cautiously he sidled around the side of the Palace.
At the back was a smaller stone building with slit windows and bars. That must be the dungeon, he thought. But to get to it he had to cross a courtyard patrolled by soldiers. He watched for a while and counted the time between patrols. Then he sunk down on his hands and knees and crawled lizard-like around the perimeter of the courtyard. Whenever a soldier passed close by, Boy held his breath. He had learned how to be so still as to be invisible. The secret was to hush all thoughts. So Boy made his mind go blank and the soldiers walked right on by.
Two guards stood at the entrance to the dungeon, talking. Boy slipped past them, searching for another way in. Then he saw a row of lights in the ground. He crept closer, wondering what they could be, and saw that they weren’t lights at all but small, barred windows. When he looked through one of them, he saw that it belonged to a cell. Each small window had a cell beneath it. Boy grew excited.
He called softly down into the first one. ‘Are you there, girl with the singing tongue?’
When there was no answer, he moved onto the next cell, and then the next. But each one seemed to be empty. Finally he arrived at the last cell. He peered down into the darkness and saw movement, briefly, in the corner.
‘Don’t be scared, girl with the singing tongue. It’s me, the boy from the market place. Please come out.’
The girl stepped into the moonlight under the window and stared up at Boy.
‘I remember you. You are the one with the fire in your eyes,’ she said.
Boy stared down at her, unable to speak. Although he had heard her strange voice in the Song Stealer’s Cart, he had never heard a language like this before. Each word rose and fell melodically. So this is what the woman meant when she spoke of a singing tongue.
Again the strange feeling of familiarity washed over him so that he had to close his eyes and cling tightly to the bars.
‘Where do you come from?’ he asked.
‘The Forest of Birds,’ the girl replied.
‘I’ve never heard of that place. Where is it?’
‘One flying day and a night away.’
Boy laughed. ‘Flying day?’
‘My friends, the birds, carried me here on a tapestry of leaves and feathers.’
Boy’s face fell. ‘Birds? What are they?’
‘One day I will show you,’ she said. ‘I do not understand why I have been imprisoned. Please help me escape . . .’
But Boy’s mind was on something else. Another memory stirred. ‘I remember now. I’ve seen the Song Stealer’s Cart before,’ he said. ‘When I was small I wanted to run after it but something . . . something terrifying made me run and hide instead.’
‘Are you all right?’ the girl asked, her eyes shining in the moonlight.
‘The Song Stealer’s Cart, the one that brought you here, it’s the same cart that took my parents away a long time ago and I’m still looking for them. Have you seen any other prisoners here? Are there other people in the Forest of Birds?’ He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
The girl shook her head. ‘There are no people living in the Forest. And I have only met the King, who is gravely ill, and the Lord Chancellor, who appears to be a dishonest man.’
Boy sat back on his heels, disappointed. She knew nothing about his parents. And yet he had been so sure . . .
‘I must return to the Forest of Birds. Will you help me get out of here?’ she said urgently.
He bent down over the window again. ‘I don’t know if I can help you.’
‘Oh, but you must! The guard has been ordered to cut out my tongue,’ cried the girl softly, biting her lip.
Tears filled her eyes and Boy looked at her, aghast. ‘Cut out your tongue? But that is horrible. Who would order such a thing?’
Then all at once he heard the rumbling wagon and was struck by an idea. He looked at the girl standing in the moonlight. Even though she couldn’t help him find his ana and ata, he knew he couldn’t leave her to such a terrible fate.
‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘Can you hold onto your tongue until tomorrow night?’
‘I will try,’ she replied.
Boy turned to leave.
‘Wait. I am Oriole. What is your name?’ the girl asked.
‘Boy.’
‘Just Boy?’
‘Yes, just Boy,’ he said. And he ran off into the night.
The smell of blood was thick in the air when Boy walked down Slaughter Alley. Butcher stalls lined both sides of the twisting street. Blowflies landed on hanging carcasses and on chunks of meat laid out on tables. The older pieces, ones with fat crawling maggots, were sold at cheaper prices.
Dawn crept into the city as Boy approached Butcher Tan’s stall. Butcher Tan was a friend to Boy. He would often give him off-cuts and leftover bones to take back to Rabbit for a delicious noodle broth.
The meat seller was standing in front of the carcass of a large pig. ‘You’re up early, Boy,’ he said. With one blow he chopped through the pig’s hind leg.
‘Do you have a sheep’s tongue, Butcher Tan? I can’t pay for it, but I’ll do errands for you in return,’ Boy said.
Tan, a short man with a big belly, looked at Boy through half-closed eyes. ‘Is Panther up to one of his tricks again?’
‘No, Butcher Tan. It’s not for Panther, it’s for me. Well, not exactly for me . . . it’s for a girl.’ Boy felt himself blush.
‘A girl, eh?’ The butcher smiled. ‘I won’t ask any more questions, then.’ He headed to the back and disappeared behind a row of hanging carcasses.
‘Slaughtered the sheep this morning so her tongue is still good and fresh. It will be a tasty treat for your girl.’ Butcher Tan returned holding a tongue around the middle. It looked like a pale pink fish in his hand.
‘Can you chop it in half for me?’ Boy asked.
Butcher Tan laid the tongue on his chopping block and cut the tongue in two. Then he wrapped it in a lotus leaf. ‘There you go,’ he said.
Boy placed it carefully into a bag slung across his shoulder and thanked the butcher for his kindness.
All through the day, Boy kept an eye out for Panther and Rabbit. He couldn’t let himself be seen, not now, not when it was so vital to save Oriole before they cut out her tongue. But he had failed to steal something from the Demon Monster’s mansion and he had not returned home. He knew that Panther would be fuming. Would he destroy Boy’s treasure box as punishment? Even thinking about him touching each tiny precious thing made Boy cringe. He would think of a way to get it back – he had to, it was all he had. But first he must free the girl with the singing tongue.
Deep in the Palace dungeons, Oriole sat huddled in despair. She had journeyed such a long way only to be imprisoned in this dark and terrible place. She had failed Mellow, failed the birds of the Forest and failed herself.
There came a sound from far away, a strange and comforting wind blew through the cell. It was almost like music. Oriole tilted her head and listened carefully, but it seemed to be coming from the walls themselves. She let the music wrap around her as she slept.
That night, after hitching a ride once again on the rubbish wagon, Boy waited for a chance to slip past the guards. Finally, when their backs were turned and they were deep in argument, he crept down the winding steps.
He had the tongue in his bag – the easy part of his plan was complete. Now for the hard part.
At the bottom of the steps Boy turned a corner and almost fell over another guard. He was sitting on a stool, his legs outstretched, fast asleep. Boy looked around for the keys to unlock the cells. There was nothing hanging on the walls or ly
ing on the table. Where would the old guard keep them? he wondered. Then he spied something that looked like metal, peeping out from the guard’s vest.
Boy slowly withdrew the key which was attached to a long leather strap, but stopped when he saw something else. Tangled around the end of it was a small embroidered pouch with a bright orange tassel.
The old guard has a treasure of his own, thought Boy.
He opened the pouch. Two small silver bracelets – the kind a baby wore on both wrists to keep the Baby Snatching Spirit away – were wrapped in cloth. Boy looked at the old guard. Did he carry these treasures around inside his vest because his child had been taken away? Had he, too, lost someone?
For the first time in his life as a thief, Boy hesitated. Then he returned the treasure to its owner and set off down the corridor, looking for Oriole. Reed torches mounted along the walls made long flickering shadows dance across the ceiling. Boy’s shadow was a tall young tree.
I might not need the tongue after all, he thought as he reached the last cell. This is going to be easy.
He whispered through the tiny peephole, ‘Oriole! It’s me, Boy. Are you there?’
When Oriole heard Boy’s voice she ran to the door. ‘Oh, you came back,’ she said.
‘Of course I came back,’ Boy replied.
‘Quickly,’ Oriole whispered. ‘I will surely die on the spot if I do not get out of here.’
‘I see you still have your tongue,’ Boy smiled, and inserted the key in the lock.
Oriole froze. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she whispered.
Boy glanced around. The only place to hide was an alcove where the torchlight did not reach. It had iron rings and chains attached to the wall. Boy guessed it was where the prisoners were tortured. If he stood flush to the wall and very still he might not be seen. He leapt to the side as Old Ardi lumbered into sight.
‘Now where did I put that key?’ Old Ardi mumbled to himself. Then he spied it in the lock of Oriole’s cell. ‘I’m getting too old for this job,’ he said, shaking his head.
The Wishbird Page 4
