Forest of Wonders

  Raffa wondered if Echo was finally using the word correctly. But he had no time to examine the bat. Hastily he tucked the perch necklace under his tunic, then started running again.

  He grew dizzy from trying to keep Trixin and Kuma in sight while looking over his shoulder every other moment. Panting hard, he had to stop to let a cart pass. As he waited anxiously, he heard a shout behind him.

  “HOY! You boy—stop!”

  The guards had spotted him. His heart jumped and he dodged around the cart, nearly getting his foot caught under one of its wheels. Then he looked up and discovered to his horror that he could no longer see either Kuma or Trixin. He’d never get away on his own. Not here, not in the city . . .

  He felt the blood draining from his face. In a panic, he turned off the street into a narrow lane. It was even more crowded than the street, with people and dogs and buildings so close together he could hardly breathe.

  Then his arm was grabbed from behind. With a strangled gasp, he whirled around, striking out with his free hand.

  “Raffa, stop! It’s me, Kuma!”

  He could hardly see or hear anything through the confusion in his brain. When his vision cleared, he saw Kuma’s face, and the tension left his body so quickly that he almost fell.

  She caught his arm. “This way,” she said, and led him through the doorway of what appeared to be an abandoned building. They went down a set of rickety wooden stairs into a dark, low-ceilinged cellar.

  More by feel than by sight, they groped their way to a far corner. Trixin was already there, hiding behind some discarded crates and broken barrels. For several moments they sat in silence, all three of them listening hard. The street noise seemed far away, and Raffa heard no thump of guard boots. At last, they looked at each other in wary relief.

  Under Raffa’s tunic, Echo gave a little squeak. Raffa pulled out the necklace. Both girls gasped.

  “That bat talked,” Trixin said. “I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it—but I know what I heard! How in the world—”

  “It’s a long story,” Raffa said. “But the short of it is, I’m not even exactly sure why or how he can talk.”

  “Why or how, why or how,” Echo said.

  Trixin made a huffing sound. “Oh, I see now. He’s not really speaking—he’s just echoing you.”

  Raffa was about to reply indignantly when Echo stretched his wings and fluttered to hang from a beam overhead.

  “Dark good,” the bat said. “Cave human?”

  “Er, never mind,” Trixin said.

  Raffa grinned. “We’re in a cellar, Echo. Underneath a house, and, yes, I guess you could say it’s like a cave for humans.”

  Then he sobered. “I didn’t want anyone to know,” he said. “If people find out, something bad might happen to him. Someone might try to kidnap him.”

  Kuma made a small noise of distress but said nothing.

  Raffa looked at the girls pleadingly. “You can’t tell anyone. You have to swear you won’t!”

  Trixin looked momentarily disappointed. “Can’t I tell Jimble?” she said. “And the little ones? It would be such a good story for them!”

  Panic rose in Raffa. “No! They’d never be able to keep a secret. Please, Trixin, you have to promise!”

  “Steady on,” Trixin said. “If it’s that important to you, I won’t tell.”

  “Swear it,” Raffa demanded.

  “Fine—I swear! But you have to promise to tell me the whole story sometime.”

  “I swear, too,” Kuma said. “And he’s lovely, but . . .”

  Her dark eyes wide and soft, she leaned toward Raffa. In a voice as firm as it was quiet, she said, “Animals aren’t meant to talk.”

  Raffa stared at her in surprise. Was there a right and a wrong about Echo’s ability to speak? He had been so excited at first, and then so delighted with the bat’s companionship, that he hadn’t considered the question before. He wondered how Echo himself felt about it and decided to ask the bat when they were alone again.

  Trixin spoke briskly. “Enough about the bat,” she said. “We need to talk about something really important: How are we going to get into the Commons?”

  “I thought we agreed,” Raffa said, “that you’d say you were escorting me, and—”

  “That won’t work anymore,” Trixin said. “They’ll send word from the Garrison about the escape, and all the gatekeepers will be watching for us—for two girls and a boy. We’ll be back in a prison wagon quicker than a clap.”

  Raffa had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out in frustration. It was already almost sunpeak, half the day gone, and he wasn’t any closer to speaking to Garith than when he got off the ferry.

  “We need a different plan,” Trixin said. “What else is in that rucksack?”

  Raffa shook his head. Using the cappisum powder and the sap combination had indeed helped them escape—but in another sense, it was a giant stride in the wrong direction. Earlier, he had used botanicals for purposes other than healing; now he had actually used them to hurt people.

  The cappisum powder would wash off. The other guard’s patch of beard would grow back. There would be no permanent damage. But Raffa had been lucky, and he knew in his very core that he had gone against the principles of apothecary ingrained in him since birth.

  “I don’t know what else I could do,” he said slowly. Which was true enough. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to inventing such uses for botanicals.

  “What if we were all disguised somehow?” Kuma asked.

  Trixin eyed her curiously. “Don’t tell me you need to get into the Commons, too?”

  She nodded. “My friend—the one who’s in trouble—I think she might be there somewhere.”

  Kuma’s suggestion of disguises set Raffa to thinking. If Trixin and the Garrison guards were typical of city dwellers, then besides being frightened of the Forest, many of them thought of apothecaries as magicians. Perhaps this was something that could be used to their advantage. . . . An idea shaped itself in his mind.

  “A new apothecary will be arriving at the Commons shortly, right?” he said. “So let’s get to work on that.”

  Both girls had plenty of notions for improving Raffa’s plan, resulting in some heated discussion and several changes of mind as they worked. When at last they had finished their preparations, they examined each other using Raffa’s light stick. And in spite of their anxious uncertainty, all three of them had to stifle a spattering of giggles.

  A long line of people waited at the east gate, hoping for permission to enter the Commons. From the rear came a ripple of surprised movement as the crowd made way for a small procession.

  Walking abreast, an arm’s width apart, were two creatures who could have been gnomers or throlls from an ancient story. They were barely taller than children, and one was terribly humpbacked. They crouched and sidled low to the ground, like crabs. Eyes circled in green and lips dead white, each held their hands cupped before them, bearing a mysterious corked jar.

  Raffa was the humpback, wearing his rucksack stuffed under his tunic. He also wore a complicated turban (Trixin’s headscarf) pinned in place with a brooch that looked extraordinarily like an enormous real beetle. It was a real beetle, one of the supply he had brought with him to feed Echo. Kuma had unplaited her hair, which now stood out like a dandelion puff and was seeded with red and gold berries (from Raffa’s jars).

  Trixin followed them. Her hair was piled high, which made her look taller. She had stripes on her face in half a dozen colors. Lips coal black, and eyes peering out from vivid starbursts of red, she held her head proudly and stared straight ahead, at the gate.

  Raffa took a deep breath and bellowed in what he hoped was a throll-like voice. “Clear the way! Clear the way for the Great Trixarina, apothecary from the deepest heart of the Forest of Wonders!”

  The queuers gasped as one and fell back.

  “The Great Trixarina” stopped several paces short of the gatehouse. R
affa crabbed his way up to its half door, where the gatekeeper was stationed.

  “Senior Gatekeeper, I attend the Great Trixarina!” he said. He was so nervous that his voice was shaking, so he spoke even louder, trying to drown out the tremors. “No ordinary apothecary is she! From the dark heart of the Forest of Wonders, sh-she honors Gilden with a once-in-a-lifetime visit!”

  The gatekeeper gawped for a moment, then snapped into officiousness. He made a show of examining the slate on the wall of the gatehouse.

  “Not on the list,” he said. “No Trixa—hem, no Trixalixer on the list.”

  Kuma in her puff-haired gnomer guise stepped forward and began a singsong chant. “The list, what list? It’s wrong, it’s wrong! The list is wrong! What list? All wrong!”

  The gatekeeper huffed and sputtered, his indignation making it apparent that it was he himself who had made the list. At that moment, a runner raced up to the gatehouse.

  “Urgent word from the Garrison, Senior!” She handed the gatekeeper a strip of blond wood on which a message was chalked.

  Raffa froze. Just as Trixin had predicted, the Garrison was sending round news of their escape. Despite the hump and the turban and the thick layers of color on his face, he felt naked with fear. They would be caught now, and sent back to the Garrison. He would never reach Garith in time. He would languish in that rat-filled cell for weeks, maybe months. . . .

  Kuma began a mad dance, whirling, kicking, and leaping about like a deranged toad, all while yodeling nonsense at the top of her lungs. She danced her way over to Raffa, then grabbed his arm and almost yanked it out of its socket.

  “YOW!” he shouted.

  Kuma spun him around and pulled him toward her. “Dance,” she whispered, glaring at him.

  Suddenly he understood what she wanted. “Yow-wow-wow!” he screeched as he too began dancing. They bounded about in front of the gatekeeper, gibbering and gabbling. Then they started popping up and down, thrusting their corked jars into the man’s face.

  “We come from the Forest!”

  “The Forest of Wonders!”

  “The Great Trixarina!”

  “Trixarina the Great!”

  The gatekeeper cringed but then managed to gather himself. “Enough!” he roared. “Shakes and tremors, has the Forest made you all ziggy?”

  He looked down at the strip of wood, then handed it back to the runner, who sprinted away with it to the next stop on her rounds. Raffa and Kuma exchanged quick glances. Would the gatekeeper see through their disguises?

  Trixarina took a step forward. The hum and buzz of the crowd faded as people strained to hear her speak.

  “Senior Gatekeeper,” she said. Her black lips parted in a ghastly smile, but the crowd behind her couldn’t see that. “In the regrettable absence of my name from the list, it seems that you have a choice. You can send word to inquire of the Chancellor, for it is she who oversees the new Commons apothecaries.”

  “Th-th-the Chancellor,” stammered the gatekeeper.

  “Yes. But of course you knew that. However, if you would prefer, I could give you a demonstration of my skills as proof of my claim to entry.”

  Trixarina’s voice remained pleasant, but her two attendants raised their jars high over their heads. They leered and cackled madly.

  “A nice big blue wart on your forehead? Porcupine quills instead of hair? Or perhaps”—Trixarina put a finger to the side of her nose thoughtfully—“tusks. Yes, I think a pair of tusks would be most handsome. And I daresay you might find them useful in your profession.” She held out her hand toward gnomer Kuma, who loped over and proffered the jar.

  The gatekeeper’s eyes had grown larger with each suggestion and were now wide with alarm. It was clear that all thought of the message from the Garrison had left his mind.

  “Oh, well now, that’s all right, Missum—er, Triskadooda,” he said in a fluster. “Won’t be necessary, wouldn’t dream of troubling you. Come right on through, you and your . . . er . . . your associates.”

  Throll Raffa and gnomer Kuma waltzed through the gate and into the Commons, followed by the Great Trixarina.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RAFFA wanted to skip and leap and crow in triumph. The disguises had worked—they’d made it past the gatekeeper! Best of all, no one had gotten hurt.

  But the charade continued, for they still had to reach the apothecary quarter. While planning the scheme, Trixin had said that once they were inside the gate, any Commoners who saw them would think they were part of a performing troupe. She was right: The trio drew a few curious glances, but otherwise no unwanted attention.

  The Commons spread out over a vast expanse, with no building higher than a single story. A network of covered walkways connected the buildings. Nearly every structure was made of wood. Long ago, it was discovered that wooden buildings had withstood the Quake better than any other kind, so ever since, all of Obsidia’s architecture was built of wood.

  Except, of course, for the glasshouse. When it came into view, Raffa gasped in amazement. He had never seen so much glass in one place! From a distance, it looked like a vast emerald, glinting and gleaming in the sun. How marvelous it must be inside! Maybe he could take a look now, just a quick one. . . .

  No—how could he even think such a thing? The glasshouse was of no importance at the moment. What if he was too late to warn Garith about the scarlet vine—what terrible affliction might he already be suffering from? With a shudder, Raffa recalled the dreadful cracks on his hand, which seemed to tingle with the memory.

  Trixin directed them around the back of the glasshouse to a building at least three times the size of Raffa’s home. It was newly built; he could smell freshly cut wood. They were now out of sight of the main walkways, so Raffa and Kuma straightened out of their crouches with twin sighs of relief.

  “We did it!” Kuma said, a huge smile lighting her face.

  “I nearly popped laughing when you started that—that dance or whatever you were doing!” Trixin exclaimed. She held out her hands toward Kuma, who clapped them in celebration.

  “What a panic!” Kuma said. “I thought I’d have to break Raffa’s arm to get him to do something—anything!—when that runner showed up!”

  “Did you see the gatekeeper’s face when I threatened to give him tusks?”

  Raffa did not join the celebratory chatter; he was too anxious to see Garith. He trotted to the door of the building, lifted the knocker, and rapped three times; his heartbeat pounding in his ears sounded nearly as loud.

  Almost immediately, he heard footfalls within, and the door opened.

  It was Garith. And he looked to be in the prime of health!

  Raffa stood on the doorstep, overcome at the thought of finally reaching his destination after everything he had been through. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to hug his cousin or punch him.

  Garith seemed equally overcome. What else would explain his utterly puzzled expression?

  “Er, hem . . . can I help you?” he said.

  Raffa opened his mouth, but no words came out. He saw Garith glance past him; his eyes widened and he made a sound that was half cough, half laugh. Raffa turned to see that Trixin and Kuma were now behind him—still in their bizarre disguises.

  “Oh!” Raffa said, rapping his own noggin. “Garith, it’s me, Raffa!”

  “Raffa?”

  “Yes, yes, I know I look ridiculous, but it’s really me—” He spit on his hand and rubbed off some of the green around his eyes. “See?”

  “But—but why are you dressed like that?”

  “Garith?” From somewhere inside the building, Raffa heard his uncle’s voice calling. “Garith, who is it?”

  Ansel emerged from a door at the rear of the entry hall. He looked, if anything, even more puzzled than Garith had been. “Who are these people?” he demanded of no one in particular.

  “Da, it’s Raffa!” Garith exclaimed.

  “Raffa?” Ansel said in astonishment. “But how—Why did you
not send word that you were coming? Where are your parents? And what in the name of the Quake are you wearing?”

  Raffa had never in his life felt so relieved. He started to laugh, then laughed harder, and couldn’t seem to stop. His uncle and cousin stared at him in bewilderment.

  “Nephew, are you all right?” Ansel asked in a concerned voice.

  Finally Raffa’s laughter faded out with a few last giggles. “Yes, Uncle, I’m fine,” he said, gasping for breath. “These are my friends, Trixin and Kuma. May we come in?”

  While Ansel led the girls toward the back of the building, Garith took Raffa through a door off the entry into a small room that held a narrow bed and a chair.

  “You can leave whatever you want in here,” Garith said. “I’ll fetch you some wash water.” He looked Raffa over again and shook his head, still obviously bemused.

  “Yes, but I need to talk to you first.” Raffa inhaled, wondering if his pulse would ever return to normal. Then he spoke in a rush. “I know you took a clipping, and it’s okay—I should have given you one, anyway. But Da and I have been working with it, and, Garith, it’s really powerful. You have to take care upon caution—I came all the way here to tell you so. That’s how dangerous it is.”

  There was a beat of awkward silence. “I meant to tell you that I was taking one,” Garith said. “Sorry I forgot. And Da’s been— you should ask him about the clipping. He’ll be able to— well, anyway, I’ll get that water now.” He left the room quickly.

  Garith’s response seemed more than a little odd, but Raffa put it aside while he checked on Echo. The little bat was apparently exhausted by his brief but fierce burst of activity at the Garrison, during what for him was a choice time for sleep. Now he hung from the perch looking so deep in slumber that Raffa could even imagine him dreaming. Of midges, probably.

  Raffa found himself regretting that Trixin and Kuma had heard Echo speak. Could he really trust them not to tell anyone? And what of the guards at the Garrison—would they soon spread the word throughout the Commons? It might be too late, but he was still determined to do whatever he could to protect Echo. He vowed to keep the bat’s speaking ability a secret from everyone else.