Shadows on the Mountain, page 11
The crowd of zebras was growing denser, as the leaders paused on the embankment and the others caught up. Mistfriend was trotting back and forth on the edge of the bank, peering down in concern.
“It’s fuller and faster than usual,” he neighed. “The rains in the early season must have swelled it.” The big stallion placed his two front hooves a little down the slope, but he seemed to change his mind; he reared back onto the cliff edge and cantered farther downstream. The rest followed, whisking their tails in confusion.
“There are bound to be crocodiles,” whinnied Grassfriend. “There always are.”
“I think Mistfriend saw them already,” said Dawnfriend. “Look, he’s searching for a better place to cross downstream.”
“I doubt he’ll find one. He needs to make a decision soon.”
“He needs to make a decision now,” Prance put in. “See the longer grass behind us? Lions!”
As soon as Grassfriend and Dawnfriend turned toward the prowling big cats, the message spread instantly through the herd. The zebras began to neigh in panic, whirling and galloping in short bursts, before twisting and cantering back toward their leader. Mistfriend, too, had registered the threat; he brayed a warning and seemed to make a decision at last. He plunged down the steep bank, vanishing from sight, and the herd began to follow him, one by one.
A tight crowd had built up behind Mistfriend, and only one or two zebras could follow his path at once. They were streaming down into the river now, but many were still on the grassland, and they were beginning to panic. Bucking and rearing, galloping in all directions, they churned the grass into mud as they eyed the approaching lions.
Prance at least had experience of being unable to sense a herd’s movement. She tried to stay close to the bank, her legs trembling as she waited her turn, trying to ignore the panicking zebras. The sun was high enough now to dazzle her, and her heart raced as she tried to keep the tawny hunters in her field of vision. The lions picked up speed, trotting faster and faster toward the zebra outriders. Two big lionesses broke into a run.
They were too close for comfort now, and the zebras were scattering. Prance spun and leaped away, but almost collided with Breezefriend. She stumbled to a halt, glancing back.
“Little one, run!”
“I can’t!” neighed Breezefriend in panic. “I’ve lost my mother! I’ve lost my mother! How can this happen? I can’t feel her!”
The filly was too distressed to listen to reason; Prance knew it straightaway. Nudging Breezefriend hard with her shoulder, she brayed, “Run with me!”
She and the foal ran together, galloping full tilt toward the embankment, but already Prance could make out a blur of lion fur at the edge of her vision. She veered, shoving Breezefriend with her, but another lion was cutting toward them from the left, his loping strides lazy and confident.
“Breezefriend,” she panted. “We have to cross the river. Now!”
That seemed to get through to the foal; Breezefriend’s muzzle was flecked with foam, and her eyes were so wide, the whites showed in complete circles. But the filly ran at Prance’s command, heading straight for the bank between the two approaching lions.
There was no way of seeing the right path; Mistfriend’s original track was lost in clouds of dust, and zebras were pouring down the cliffside now with little regard for their footing. Prance skidded to a halt and darted along the edge. The lions altered their course slightly, and their paws hesitated; they seemed unsure whether to follow Prance or go after the foal.
“Go, Breezefriend! Cross!”
The angry lions swerved and came after Prance. She saw Breezefriend take a breath and leap over the edge, crashing down onto slippery mud and only just keeping her balance. But the foal was galloping headlong into the water now, throwing up spray.
Prance twisted, stotting and leaping to disorient the lions. As they turned clumsily, she too sprang from the escarpment, trusting her footing to the Great Spirit. Her hooves slithered wildly in the churned mud, and she slid most of the way down on her haunches, but she was safe.
For now.
The irate lions were tumbling down the bank after her; she had no choice but to keep going. Prance made a wild leap for the water. Her hooves splashed down in the murky river, but she barely let them rest; the yielding mud sucked at her feet, so she went on springing, desperate, her breath rasping and her chest aching. Three huge leaps, then a final exhausted stumble, and she crashed forward onto the mud of the far bank. She had been too quick for the crocodiles.
Terrified, she risked a glance back. The male lion was on her tail, plunging through the water, his eyes blazing with hunger. Prance scrabbled wildly in the mud, her hooves sliding from under her as she tried to stand. My death, it has found me—
There was no bite of fangs in her rump. Exhausted, she slithered another couple of paces, then rolled onto her flank. Surely he must catch her now—
The lion’s jaws gaped, so close to her hind legs. But he wasn’t pouncing; his roar was one of shock and fear, and he was being dragged back into the water. Staring aghast, Prance saw him pulled abruptly under in a vast splash of bloody foam. Something huge and scaly rolled with him, twisting, its pale belly and scaly tail exposed as it sank the lion in the deepest central current of the river. Lion and crocodile disappeared together; all that surfaced was a spreading stain of dark blood.
Panting, Prance dragged herself up the sheer bank, hauling herself at last over its crest. Her whole body shook violently. She could hardly bear to look back over the river, but when she risked a glance, she saw the rest of the lions fleeing back across the trampled grassland. Their muzzles were unbloodied.
Staggering onto safer ground, away from the riverbank, Prance walked on shaking legs toward a line of trees. A familiar high voice whinnied to her, weak and still terrified, but alive.
“Breezefriend!” Prance trotted unsteadily to the little zebra.
“I can’t find my mother! I still can’t find her!” There was unbearable panic in Breezefriend’s whinny. “What’s happening, Prance? Why am I lost?”
“Come, Breezefriend.” Prance forced herself to take deep breaths, to steady her rapid heartbeat. “We’ll find her together.” Gently she nudged the filly’s flank.
“How?” cried Breezefriend. “How, when I can’t feel her? What’s happening?”
I don’t know, thought Prance. It sounds almost as if my fate is overtaking your whole herd, and you’re losing your Friendship, just as I lost the Us.
Was some strange curse affecting all the herds?
But she didn’t want to utter those thoughts aloud to the young zebra. “Let’s find your mother together,” she said firmly. “The rest of the herd is gathering again; she’ll be among them.”
Her sternness seemed to give Breezefriend strength, who shook off her frenzy and plodded obediently after Prance.
But Prance herself couldn’t help looking back once more, because there was one herd-follower she hoped to have lost. Surely, in all the chaos, it had given up its obsessive pursuit of her?
No such luck. A black speck on the wind that grew swiftly larger, the vulture soared over the gully and banked, flapping down to the ground. Prance almost thought it smirked at her as it hopped to a halt and folded its wings.
Shaking off that bird was too much to hope for. Prance sighed and closed her eyes briefly. The Great Spirit would not let her forget, then: death had missed her once. Perhaps, after her narrow escape from that lion, she had now dodged it twice.
And one day soon, death would catch up with her and right that wrong.
Chapter Thirteen
Parting the foliage as cautiously as he could, Bramble peered out from his hiding place in a big mahogany tree. Beneath him, in a shallow valley dotted with scrubby bushes, another gorilla troop went about their daily business: grooming, eating, relaxing.
What was there that could possibly interest his father? Gorilla troops kept to themselves; they rarely bothered one another, and no one wanted to instigate trouble.
Still, the very mystery of Bramble’s purpose gave him a thrill. If it was such a puzzle, it must be important—and Burbark had entrusted the job to Bramble.
Shaking off his uncertainty, he focused once again on the group in the valley. It wasn’t a large troop. There was a Silverback, of course, but only two Goldbacks and two youngsters—and one of those was still suckling. Burbark’s troop was much bigger, but still, the family dynamics looked familiar. The big Silverback was entertaining his older daughter, roughhousing and play-fighting.
The sight gave Bramble a pang of nostalgia. That was how Burbark had once played with him, but it had been a long time since their relationship had been so relaxed, and he could barely remember the last time they’d had this much fun. The whole family looked carefree, and Bramble wondered whether this troop had visited their own Spirit Mouth the day the mountain shook. It didn’t look as if they’d had the same dreadful warning as his own troop.
Bramble was bored; he couldn’t help it. There was nothing to see here. Gorillas being gorillas. He gave a vast yawn, peeling back his lips; he’d thought, if he’d thought at all, that he could do it silently. Instead a squeaking growl escaped with the yawn.
One of the Goldbacks craned her head around, frowning. Her eyes met his through the leafy branches. “Hey!” she barked.
Scrambling hastily down from his perch, Bramble loped away as fast as he could through the forest. Behind him he could hear the desultory sounds of a search, and the voices of the gorillas. He couldn’t make out their words, but they sounded unconcerned; the troop would probably assume he was nothing more than a curious youngster. They were unlikely to harm him, but still—his father had told him to be secretive. Bramble was determined to make Burbark proud of his first mission.
There was nothing much to report, but he would track down his father straightaway. As he padded on, he mulled over what he had seen. None of it seemed important . . . although now that he thought about it, a few things stuck in his mind. Had one of the Goldbacks looked jealous of the other? Had the Silverback shown too much preference for the older infant?
Maybe he had found useful intelligence, without even realizing it. Bramble’s heart lightened. Yes, he was sure now that he’d observed something vital; his father would soon find out what it was. Pride swelling in his chest, Bramble loped a little faster.
Beneath a twisted fig tree, he hesitated, glancing around. He was sure he’d heard something. Narrowing his eyes, Bramble listened harder. Yes, there it was—a mewling, muffled cry that came from between the fig tree’s roots.
Pacing over to the base of the tree, Bramble peered over the blade of the biggest root and into the hollow behind it. His eyes widened. It was a tiny leopard cub, alone and vulnerable. Why did he keep running into leopards these days? Three of them in less than half a moon!
This one, though, was nothing like Chase Born of Prowl, or the massive dead leopard that had killed his brother. He couldn’t even feel resentment toward this tiny cub. Poor thing.
Bramble’s heart softened as he gazed down. Its eyes were huge and scared, and its little whiskers trembled. Its mother must have abandoned it. Or perhaps she had left it here for safety, but something bad had happened to her?
At any rate, Bramble shouldn’t interfere. It was really none of his business. Still, he hesitated. And in the sudden silence, he heard a vicious, spitting snarl.
He whipped around and instantly tumbled back as a far bigger leopard hurtled toward him, fangs bared in fury. Its eyes blazed as it leaped, and Bramble barely had time to panic. There was the faint, numb knowledge that he was as good as dead, and then—
The leopard stumbled, one forepaw giving way beneath it. It collapsed forward, falling hard onto its shoulder, and lay stunned, flanks heaving. Still it snarled, lashing a weak paw at Bramble.
Now Bramble felt his heart lurch into a delayed hammering. He panted in shock but crept toward the leopard. It didn’t look like a threat anymore, despite those extended claws and the savage bared fangs. And though its coat was dull and its ribs protruded, he had the impression he recognized this creature.
He edged forward. It was the same leopard, Bramble was sure of it. The one who had challenged him for that bird and had lost it for both of them. The one who had helped him drive away the hyenas . . .
She was struggling to rise; she propped herself up on her forepaws, swaying. Her muzzle was still curled in menace, but she was so thin and weak, Bramble couldn’t even bring himself to be nervous.
“Are you all right, Chase Born of Prowl?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes narrowed. She seemed to have trouble focusing on him.
“It’s me,” he added. “Bramble, uh . . . well, I’m Bramble Brightback now, at least.” He grinned, but she could only stare at him in confusion. “You don’t look well.”
“She’s sick,” came a small voice. The little cub crept forward from his hiding place behind the root, its paws trembling. “Chase ate bad rot-meat. I think the monkey was sick when it died.”
Chase’s eyes had widened again in panic, and she lurched forward. “Get away from my cub!”
Bramble rose up and backed away a little, raising his hands defensively. “I don’t mean any harm, I promise.”
The cub slunk to his side, gazing anxiously at Chase. She looked from him to Bramble and back again, but she was clearly too weak to protest.
Bramble stared at her, torn. She’d helped him once; perhaps he should ask for help from the Goldbacks? They knew about sicknesses of the forest. But would they be willing to help a leopard, after what had happened to Cassava? The Blackbacks might even kill Chase in revenge. All the same, he had to do something. . . .
Bramble turned and shambled back into the undergrowth. He was sure he’d seen bromeliads, and it had rained recently . . . there. Bramble peered into their stiff splayed leaves and picked the one with most water caught at the base of each leaf. Uprooting it as carefully as he could, spilling only a few drops as he yanked the last roots free, he carried it back to Chase.
She bared her fangs again as he approached. “I don’t need your help!”
“Yes, you do.” He squatted by her head and tilted the plant awkwardly toward the corner of her mouth. Clearly unable to resist, Chase turned her head to catch the rainwater as he dribbled it into her parched jaws.
Much of it spilled, trickling down her fur, but she sighed in relief and licked droplets from her whiskers. “I’ll get you some more,” he told her.
“No,” said Chase hoarsely. “I told you, I don’t need your help.”
“I didn’t need yours with the hyenas, but you gave it to me anyway.” Bramble grinned.
She glared back. “You don’t . . . understand. It was . . . your troop . . . that killed my mother!”
Bramble sucked in a breath, stepping back. Suddenly, it made sense. That was why he’d seen so many leopards lately; Chase was born of Prowl. And Prowl must have been the dead cat the troop had found near Cassava’s body.
“No!” he exclaimed angrily. “It was your mother Prowl who killed my brother!”
“Don’t lie to me,” snarled Chase. “My mother would never have been stupid enough to attack a grown gorilla!”
“Cassava would not have attacked her. He walked away from trouble when he could!”
Chase’s fury must have given her a surge of strength; she staggered to her paws, swaying, her hackles raised. “Your troop killed her, and they desecrated her body!”
Bramble blinked. So Chase had seen that happen? It had been wrong of the Blackbacks, he knew, but understandable.
“He was our Brightback!” he snapped. “Every gorilla loved him. Your mother took him from us!”
“Get away from my cub, and get away from me,” growled Chase. “Gorillas are Codebreakers! I never want to lay eyes on you again.”
She jerked her head, and the little cub ran to her, following her as she crept unsteadily into the trees. Bramble glared after them, speechless, as they vanished. I can’t believe we helped each other just a few days ago. And she had accused gorillas of being Codebreakers, after what her mother had done to Cassava?
“You’re the Codebreakers!” he barked at last, though probably too late for her to hear him.
As he made his dejected way back to the troop, Bramble kept turning the encounter over and over in his mind. I know Cassava didn’t attack that leopard. He knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue or that the rains would come.
But . . . something didn’t seem right. Chase had seemed equally certain of her mother. And why would a leopard take on a powerful gorilla like Cassava? The story didn’t make sense.
There is more to those two deaths than meets the eye. Bramble was sure of it now. He rather wished he could retrace his steps and find Chase so that they could get to the bottom of the mystery together.
But they’d never help each other again, he was certain.
Sudden weariness weighted his limbs. Dusk was falling, Bramble realized; he had spent the whole day on his mission. I just need to report to Father, and then I can get some sleep.
He halted, stiffening. A fallen tree lay between him and a shallow dip in the forest; its vast roots had been torn from the earth and now formed an almost-vertical shield between him and the small valley below. He could see gorillas down there in the dusk, and he tried to breathe quietly. Like the other troop, he doubted they’d attack him—but here was yet more intelligence he could bring back to Burbark. Narrowing his eyes, Bramble crept close to the earthy tangle of roots and peered around their edge.
No, it was Burbarktroop—or at least some of them: Goldbacks, Blackbacks, and their leader himself. Bramble’s eyes widened in surprise. What was his father doing so far from the nests as night fell? And the others—Woodnettle was there, and Apple Goldback, and Bindweed.
