Shadows on the Mountain, page 21
“There,” he said, pointing down. “The Spirit told us to go to the plains.” Moonflower was silent, staring down at the expanse. Bramble reached for her arm. “It was Dayflower’s wish.” He almost said final wish, for he had no doubt that Moonflower’s mother was dead.
“You’re right,” said Moonflower, nodding slowly and sadly. “There’s nothing for us on the mountain now, Bramble. Only death.”
But what awaits us down there? thought Bramble. Blood pools on the plains. . . .
“It’s what Cassava wanted too,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s what he died for.”
“I’m afraid,” said Moonflower.
“As am I,” he replied, “but at least we’re together.”
He took her hand, and side by side they set off down the shallow slope, toward the grass plains of Bravelands and the ancient fears that would rise to meet them.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fleeing was not an option. And, Prance reminded herself, she did not want to run. For better or for worse, the Great Spirit had brought her here, to a point where she would have the answers she sought. Perhaps that would mean her death, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t prepared herself.
The lion who had hunted her down led the way; the rest of his pride escorted Prance in two close ranks. They had walked through the night, the lions’ eyes glowing beside her. She was exhausted and limping from the wound she had taken in her fall.
Why hadn’t the pride killed her? Perhaps, she thought, this was some twisted game that lions liked to play. She’d heard stories of how cats big and small liked to toy with their prey. Prance’s hide bristled. At any moment she half expected to feel claws and teeth in her rump, dragging her down to have the life choked out of her.
As if he heard her thoughts, the big lion ahead of her turned as he walked.
“Don’t be afraid, Prance Herdless. We’re not going to kill you.”
She cleared her throat, trying to sound as brave as she could. “Then where are you taking me? Who are you?” A sudden thought struck her, and she gasped. “Are you real lions—or spirits?”
The lion grunted a laugh. “We’re real live lions,” he assured her. “I am Gallant Gallantpride, and we have already eaten today.”
“That’s good,” said Prance faintly.
“Besides, I am under strict orders,” he added.
Taken aback, Prance almost missed her footing. Who could give a great pride leader orders? she wondered.
A watering hole loomed through the shimmering haze of the morning. It seemed barely any time until they reached its banks, but the lions did not pause to drink; they paced around its edges toward a clump of trees on the western side. Prance felt her weariness more sharply now, and the pain of her wound was worse. Yet she didn’t dare halt while the lions walked on.
This bank of the watering hole was thronged with animals. Tired as she was, Prance couldn’t help staring. There were zebras, wildebeests, gazelles; a group of elephants stood in the shallows, dousing one another with trunks full of water. Hippos wallowed nearby, shooting filthy looks at the crocodiles farther out. Birds perched on every branch: starlings, hawks, bee-eaters, egrets, weaver birds, and buzzards. As Prance passed, every creature stopped what they were doing to stare at her with curiosity.
Still the lions walked on. They veered away from the water and now padded through the cluster of trees Prance had noticed from a distance. In a few strides, she found herself in a broad, dappled clearing, shaded by young branches and studded with ancient white stumps. Here, the noise was overwhelming; baboons lined the trees and the sandy earth between them, hooting and hollering and whooping. Prance’s ears flickered anxiously; her heartbeat was racing now.
The lions stopped. Just ahead, Prance saw a huge pale boulder, standing solitary in the clearing, its top almost flat. On it perched a vulture, and though she couldn’t be sure, she was struck by the instinct that this was the one that had been stalking her. It blinked its heavy-lidded eyes as she approached and flexed its wings.
Gradually, the baboons began to quiet, and other animals approached the clearing, waiting just beyond the trees. The lions turned away from Prance and began to pace away.
“What?” she stammered to Gallant Gallantpride as he passed her. The lions had been terrifying company, but she found suddenly that she didn’t want them to abandon her.
“We lions have other work to do,” Gallant rumbled. He walked on, but paused to glance back and say again, “There’s nothing to fear now.”
Easy for a lion to say! thought Prance. Silence fell in the clearing. There was movement behind the boulder, and Prance peered harder. A small creature was hobbling out from behind the stone.
It was a wizened, gray old baboon, and he held a mango in his paws, chewing on it as he walked. He muttered to himself and slapped a fly from his shoulder.
The baboon was almost blind, she realized as he lifted his filmy eyes. But he kept walking toward her, stopping only when she was sure he was going to bump into her. He peered up at her, spitting out a tough piece of mango skin and wiping juice from his chin. Then he moved around her, prodding and poking at her flanks and limbs, and muttering under his breath. At last he came to a halt before her and offered her the half-eaten mango. “Hungry?”
She backed away. “No, thank you.” Around the clearing, the other animals were watching.
Prance waited, overcome by sudden shyness. At last the baboon turned his head to stare back at the huge boulder. He shook his grizzled head.
“Once,” he said, “I could have leaped onto that boulder in a single spring. Now I can barely climb at all. That bird sits there and mocks me. Don’t you, old friend?”
The vulture blinked its eyes and tilted its head. Far from a mocking gesture, it seemed quite affectionate. The old baboon grinned, revealing a few missing teeth, and turned back to Prance.
“What’s your name?” His voice was surprisingly clear, if a little soft.
“I’m Prance Herdless.”
He smiled into her eyes, blinking his own pale and watery ones. “Prance Herdless, you say. How very strange! And what brings you here?”
“The lions brought me,” said Prance.
“Ah, yes,” replied the baboon, “but what brought you here? How is it that you are a gazelle with no herd?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” She cast a nervous glance around. It was pure instinct. Despite what the lion had said, there could be predators lurking.
“You are safe,” said the baboon. “None will harm you.”
Slowly, she felt her heart calm and steady. His face was so kind and so wise, and suddenly Prance knew she had to tell this old baboon everything.
“Thank you. Thank you, because I haven’t felt safe in a long time. My story . . .”
The words spilled out of her in a great rush, aching and heartfelt. The lion hunt, the death of Leap, her incredible escape, and the frightened hostility of Runningherd. Her time with the zebras, and her time alone. Her loss of the Us, and her fears for the Friendships that bound other herds. The old baboon listened to the whole tale in silence, his head slightly cocked, sucking occasionally at the mango. “. . . So you see,” she said, “the Great Spirit has abandoned me. And now I’m alone.”
For the first time, the baboon reacted. Bristling, he threw down his mango and rose onto his hind legs. He wagged a scolding finger in front of her muzzle, and she flinched.
“The Great Spirit abandons no creature, Prance Herdless! Indeed, from your story it sounds as if the Spirit has a special purpose for you.”
Recovering her nerve, Prance couldn’t help but laugh. “I doubt that! I don’t mean any disrespect, but what could make you think the Spirit is interested in me?”
He stared at her, very intently. “I do not think it. I know it.”
And suddenly, then, Prance understood. She realized who it was in front of her.
“Oh my! You’re—”
“Yes.” The old baboon nodded and dusted his paws free of mango scraps. “I am.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t realize—”
The old baboon grinned. “Who do you think sent Gallantpride to find you?”
“Great Father!”
“Please, you must call me Thorn.”
Prance still couldn’t quite fathom it. Her mother had often told her stories about the Great Father baboon and his adventures—how he had taken on evil and kept Bravelands safe. But times had been peaceful for so long, and she knew the stories were much exaggerated over the seasons. It was hard to believe this frail old creature could be the same baboon who fought alongside the elephants and lions against Titan the Devourer of Souls.
“You are not impressed, I think?” he said.
“No . . . it’s not that,” lied Prance. “I just never expected to meet the Great Parent.”
“Nor he you,” said Thorn. He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard many stories of the gazelle who keeps cheating death. It’s a strange phenomenon, but not half as odd and wrong as some of the things that have happened in Bravelands these last moons.”
Prance drew herself up. It was funny, but her legs had stopped shaking, and she was suddenly unashamed. This was the Great Father talking to her—and he had summoned her himself. She dipped her head in respect, then lifted it again.
“If I can help, I will,” she told him softly.
“Good, good.” Great Father Thorn laughed cheerfully. “Because I have a feeling we will need all the help we can get to fix what is wrong in Bravelands.”
Epilogue
The young snake had climbed for days, his contracting belly muscles hauling him up the mountainside, over dry rocks, under thorny bushes, between the roots of trees. He was sore and weary; the days had been burning hot, and the nights cold enough to render him motionless.
His tongue flickered out: he could taste the high thin air. Close now . . .
At least he had not made his journey alone. He had been aware of the others all the way from his forest home, journeying not with him but alongside him. Grass lizards and worm lizards, agamas, geckos and chameleons, forest turtles, and of course snakes of every size and nature: venomous and constricting, vicious and timid, large and tiny. It was strange to be among so many; his kind were usually solitary, and the Sandtongue-speakers did not mingle. But it gave him a cold thrill, too. They were as one. They had a common purpose, a goal and an end they all shared. Each one of them had been summoned by the same powerful voice.
The mouth of the cavern in the hillside was almost obscured, there were so many creatures crawling and slithering into it. A mass of bodies writhed and skittered; the snake joined them gladly, feeling the coils of his body slither over and under creatures like himself. It was a great brotherhood and sisterhood of cool flesh, strong in its unity. He did not truly know what had brought him to this place; all he knew was that he must be here.
Because he knew who had called him. All of them did.
Within the blessed, cool darkness of the cavern, the noise at last faded; the hissing and croaking and the slithering were replaced by silence as the last stragglers joined the vast Sandtongue throng.
Something moved in the shadows beyond this great cave. It was huge, gliding powerfully from a tunnel, its coils folding and slithering in what seemed an endless process. The snake gazed, awestruck and reverent like all his sisters and brothers, at his Empress. She of a Thousand Skins. The one who would swallow the world.
At last, Her vast coils settled into place, She went still. Shadows folded around her colossal body, but her yellow eyes were glaringly bright. Her voice, when She spoke at last, was beautiful: soft and chilled and menacing as deep water.
“Thank you for answering my summons, Children of the Coldblood. You have traveled far, from all over Bravelands, and your road has been hard. You have come from the plains, from the ravines and the rivers; you have come from grass and rock and forest. And you have come to hear me tell you what our kind should always have known, but what we have forgotten.
“For too long, the Coldblood have been ground down, trodden into the dirt, despised and distrusted. Hoof and claw and talon strike at us in contempt.
“But that time is coming to an end, my children. The Age of Sandtongue is upon us; the Age of the Coldblood. I, your beloved Grandmother, will lead you into that beautiful time. I will show you the way.”
The hissing cries of the reptiles rose again, in a great crescendo that echoed from the cavern walls until they seemed to tremble. The young snake joined his voice to theirs, his excitement spilling over; around him, his brothers and sisters writhed and twined.
“Yes, Grandmother,” they screeched and hissed and croaked. “Grandmother, we are yours!”
The sound was a torrent. It was rising, unstoppable; the young snake knew it. With Grandmother at their head, with Her cold heart uniting theirs, that flood would at last wash away all in its path.
About the Author
ERIN HUNTER is inspired by a fascination with the ferocity of the natural world. As well as having great respect for nature in all its forms, Erin enjoys creating rich mythical explanations for animal behavior. She is also the author of the bestselling Warriors, Seekers, and Survivors series.
Visit her online at BravelandsBooks.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Erin Hunter
Book One: Broken Pride
Book Two: Code of Honor
Book Three: Blood and Bone
Book Four: Shifting Shadows
Book Five: The Spirit-Eaters
Book Six: Oathkeeper
CURSE OF THE SANDTONGUE
Book One: Shadows on the Mountain
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Copyright
BRAVELANDS: CURSE OF THE SANDTONGUE: SHADOWS ON THE MOUNTAIN. Copyright © 2021 by Working Partners Ltd. Series created by Working Partners Ltd. Map art © 2021 by Virginia Allyn. Interior art © 2021 by Owen Richardson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2021 by Owen Richardson
Cover design by Alison Klapthor
Logo by David Coulson
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hunter, Erin, author.
Title: Shadows on the mountain / Erin Hunter.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : HarperCollins Children’s Books, [2021] | Series: Bravelands: curse of the sandtongue ; 1 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “For generations, the Silverback troop has lived in peaceful seclusion high above the plains, but when a new evil descends on their home, one young gorilla must venture into the unknown to prevent darkness from taking hold of all they hold dear”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020044136 | ISBN 978-0-06-296684-1 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-06-296685-8 (library binding)
Subjects: CYAC: Gorilla—Fiction. | Savanna animals—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H916625 Sf 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020044136
* * *
Digital Edition MAY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-296687-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-296684-1
2122232425PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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Erin Hunter, Shadows on the Mountain
