The rim of the black cloud was now nearly overhead. Raffa looked up, his range of vision limited by the mask. The cloud seemed to hover for a moment, holding its breath.
Then the first crows dove.
They plummeted out of the sky as if they were sleek black arrows. With a twist to his gut that nearly made him sick, Raffa knew the awful truth: The masks were not fooling them.
The crows struck hard. The thin birchbark masks were no match for the birds’ cruel beaks: A single strike tore a hole in the bark, which immediately began to shred, leaving the Afters’ faces exposed.
“DOWN, EVERYONE!” Fitzer yelled. “COVER!”
Raffa spotted a stone formation with a ledge overhang. He ran to his right and threw himself under the ledge. The overhang was good protection from the crows, none of which bothered to attack him. It was far easier for them to dive at those out on the open Furrow.
Horrified, he watched the crows’ relentless attack. People were crouched on the ground with their arms over their heads. The crows struck wherever they could—heads, necks, arms, hands. Raffa heard the cries of pain and saw the birds draw blood again and again. The only sounds were coming from the humans. The crows were utterly, eerily silent.
The Afters had to get moving. If the guards start to advance again—if they give the foxes and stoats the command to attack while we’re like this—we won’t have a chance.
Somehow there had to be a way to beat off the crows. Too late Raffa realized that he had dropped his blowpipe and cursed himself for it. Maybe I could have hit them with thorns!
He knew that the idea was impractical: It was one thing to hit the guards, large targets that were practically standing still. The crows, in constant motion, would have been all but impossible to hit.
But it was the only thing he could think of. He looked around desperately, trying to spot Fitzer. With everyone curled up, he could not find him.
“FITZER!” he screamed. “FITZER, WHERE ARE YOU? THE PIPES—THE THORNS—WE HAVE TO—”
He was almost sobbing now at the horrific sight before him: the crows, the countless crows, diving and striking, diving and striking, so many that there was barely a breath in between. The Afters would never be able to escape, and soon—how soon?—the foxes and stoats and wolves would be upon them.
Then he heard an odd noise. For a brief moment he didn’t know what he was hearing. The sound continued and grew louder, and he realized what it was.
The crows were squawking. All this time, they had been completely silent. Raffa frowned—what was making them squawk now?
He risked leaning out for a better look. Before him, the crows were squawking and flapping, rising up and away from their targets. They were clearly retreating. Completely baffled, Raffa glanced up at the sky.
No matter how long he lived, he would never forget what he saw there.
Bats.
Bats!
A wide, sweeping, endless ribbon of bats, just as he had last seen them at the gorge! Thousands upon thousands of them!
Only a moment earlier, the flock of crows had seemed like an infinite number of birds. Now they looked piddling and insignificant against the incredible mass of bats filling the sky above the Mag.
The bats were making what looked to Raffa like halfhearted attempts to engage the crows in a fight. But with a few hundred crows facing several thousand bats, there was no need. Intelligent birds, the crows appeared to realize instantly that they had no chance. They could not get away fast enough.
Raffa scooted out from under the ledge, then climbed on top of it. He wanted to see what the guards were doing.
In front of him, the Afters had uncurled from their crouches. Most had removed their masks. Much farther down the Furrow, the guards were seemingly frozen, their boots glued to the ground as if they had stepped in sticky puddles of irongum sap. Afters and guards alike, every single face was turned skyward, watching the endless stream of bats in awe and wonder.
The magnificent skein of bats was beginning to turn. Like the oxbow of a river, an enormous, graceful curve formed, the bats following an invisible undulating loop in the air. They had come from the south, from the gorge, and having quickly dispatched every last crow, they were swerving around to return home again.
As if by instinct, Raffa raised his arm, holding it out straight. He hadn’t seen or heard anything different; somehow he just knew.
Whump.
“Ouch!”
The soft impact of a very small animal hitting his sleeve, followed by that beloved squeaky voice.
Raffa drew in his arm so that Echo, hanging upside down near his elbow, was right in front of his face.
“Well, hello there,” he said as gently as his thrilled heart would allow. “Echo good?”
The bat chirped and chirred. “Raffa go, Echo come!”
Raffa stroked Echo behind the ears. He could hardly believe that the bat had returned; at the same time, being with him immediately felt familiar and comfortable. I wonder . . . if that’s what love is. When familiar things make you feel really good.
But at the moment, he had more pressing things to think about. He knew that, with Echo’s limited vocabulary, he would get very little explanation for the sudden and miraculous appearance of the bats. But he wanted to try anyway.
“Echo, why did you come? Did you know that I—I needed your help?”
“Birds many,” Echo replied. “Birds many no good.”
Raffa marveled at the bat’s response. Echo had been there the first time Raffa had seen the trained crows attack humans.
“You remembered! But how did you know that the crows would be here? And how did you get all the other bats to come with you?”
Squeak squeak. “Birds many no good,” Echo repeated.
Apparently, these questions were too much for the little bat. Or maybe, Raffa thought, there will always be things about animals that we’ll never quite understand.
“Right,” Raffa said. “It’s not important. I’m so glad you’re here.”
During their brief conversation, both the Afters and the guards had begun to tear their attention away from the mesmerizing sight of the bats overhead. Now Raffa saw Fitzer jump to his feet and toss away his torn mask.
“EARS, FRYPANS!” Fitzer shouted. “POSITION FOUR!”
His squad obeyed instantly, amid a flurry of identical orders from the other leaders to their squads. The sun was fully risen now, and in its light, Raffa was horrified to see that many of the Afters’ faces were bloodied from the injuries that the crows had inflicted before being dispersed by the bats. He cursed himself.
We could have made a healing salve and given everyone a little jar—why didn’t I think of that?
He took some comfort from the fact that none of the wounds appeared to be life-threatening, and soon the Furrow was once again filled with Afters jog-trotting to their next destination.
Raffa turned to the little bat on his arm and spoke quickly. “Echo, you—you probably want to go back with the other bats. But would you . . . could you stay with me for a little while? And I’ll take you back to the gorge myself, as soon as I can.”
The battle would not last longer than the morning, he was sure of it. Either the Afters would prevail or . . .
Or people would die.
Maybe a lot of people. Including those he cared about—people he loved.
He desperately wanted Echo’s company, and the bat might well be useful in the fight. But he would not keep Echo here against his will. He held his breath, waiting for the answer.
Echo’s wings twitched a little.
“Perch?” he said.
Overjoyed, Raffa pulled the perch necklace out of his rucksack and put it on. Echo took his place on the twig, hanging below the knitted collars that Raffa was wearing around his neck.
“Hang on tight, Echo,” Raffa said.
Then he raced to catch up with the Frypans.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE Furrow rose on a slight an
gle, then flattened out again as it reached the stretch of scrubland marking the border between the Mag and the Forest. The Afters, their blue cheeks still glowing, began arranging themselves by squad in staggered rows that filled the whole area, with more Afters positioned within the Forest itself. Each After stood centered in a wide circle of space, at least two arm’s lengths away from anyone else.
Plenty of space . . . for an animal to jump.
At the front edge of the scrub, Raffa spoke to Fitzer.
“I’ll be my own row, at the front,” he said, his mouth dry. He rushed on before Fitzer could protest. “At the meeting I said that I would stand alone, and I—I can’t go back on my word.”
Fitzer frowned. “You’re giving me a bit of a problem,” he said. “See, I’d not stand in the way of anyone honest trying to keep their word. But I gave my word, too. To your mam and da. Promised them I’d look after you.”
Raffa stared at him, caught between irritation and affection. Do they think I can’t take care of myself? Still, it was clear that his parents had been thinking of him. And he spared a thought for them now, realizing that their worry about him must be squeezing their hearts nearly every moment.
“You wouldn’t be breaking your word,” he said. “You’ll be there, if—if anything happens.”
Fitzer began to speak, but Raffa held up his hand. “I’m talking logic,” he said. “If this works, I’ll be fine. I have enough antidote for at least half a dozen animals, and I doubt that many will attack me. And if it doesn’t work, I—I’ll surrender right away. So there’s no need for anyone else to—to risk getting hurt.”
He looked at Fitzer’s face steadily, including in his gaze the livid birthmark with its scars and pitting. Raffa saw those things and knew they had nothing to do with the man’s mind and heart.
No. That’s not right. He’s the way he is at least partly because of how he looks. His face . . . people have been unkind to him.
Raffa had seen for himself how some people in the camp had recoiled from Fitzer’s appearance. Fitzer could have returned such unkindness at every opportunity, but he chose to do the opposite. Raffa wondered how hard it would be to do that; Fitzer made it seem easy.
Maybe kindness can get to be a habit for a person. Like a lot of other things.
“Please, Mannum Fitzer,” Raffa said quietly. “I have to do this.”
“Right,” Fitzer said, “I’ll stand behind you, then.”
Raffa nodded. Saying “thank you” hardly seemed adequate. But what else was there to say?
“Thank you,” he said. Then he turned and began jogging straight toward the source of his fear.
Raffa counted his steps. He wanted to put a good distance between himself and the other Afters. If things did not go as planned, he would surrender immediately, and hope that the guards would call off the attack before the animals reached the Frypans.
After some thirty paces, he stopped and looked around. He was standing at a spot where the Mag petered out into scrubland. Because of the slight rise near the end of the Furrow, he would not see the guards until they were nearly upon him. But he would be able to hear them.
Reluctantly, he took from his rucksack the stick he had prepared, with a long white strip of cloth tied to the end. The traditional streamer of surrender, which he would wave overhead in a large figure-eight motion . . .
If the antidote tactic didn’t work.
If he had to surrender.
If he was still on his feet and able to wave it.
He was as ready as he could be. Two knitted sacks filled with antidote powder tied around each ankle. A piece of leather circling his neck, with two collars on top of it. The streamer stick tucked into his belt, at the back.
He took the perch necklace out from underneath his tunic and spoke briefly to Echo.
“Echo, will you wait for me in those trees over there?” He waved toward the Forest. He was taking no chances that the bat would be injured either by animal or human. “I’ll whistle for you, okay?”
“Echo go, Raffa come,” the bat said, and flew off.
Raffa listened hard. It wasn’t long before he heard the steady thump of guards’ boots on the Furrow. The animals among them made no sound, which was somehow more frightening than if he had been able to hear them.
He heard something else, too: whistles.
The whistles were being blown in patterns.
High-high-low. High-low-high. Low-high-low.
That was why the whistle tactic hadn’t worked! The animals had been trained to respond not to random whistle blasts but to specific patterns of tones. His mind flashed back to the night on the bank of the Everwide, where he had first learned that the guards were using whistles to command the animals.
I was in a hurry to get to a boat, to get across. And everything was confusing. I heard the sound of whistles being blown. . . . That was all. . . .
But the whistled patterns now sounded familiar, and he realized that he had indeed heard them that night. Heard them, and then not taken them into account.
Raffa groaned, angry at himself once again. I didn’t think about it enough. I just thought “whistles,” and made up the plan and never thought about it after that. It’s my fault that it didn’t work.
It was not the first time he had failed to think things through, failed to consider that there might be other angles and wrinkles to what he thought was a good idea.
And I never really talked about it to anyone else, either.
HIGH-HIGH-LOW
HIGH-HIGH-LOW
The whistle blasts were much closer now. His head jerked, and his heart began thumping so hard that he thought his chest might burst. The guards were cresting the slight rise, and the first of them came into view.
Those at the front of the column began peeling off to the sides as they reached the end of the Furrow. Seeing this, Raffa knew that he and the council had guessed correctly: The guards were sending the animals to attack first.
Now, at last, he heard the lighter footfalls of the animals, which he would not have been able to detect if there hadn’t been so many of them.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
And a moment later, he was staring at row upon row of beautiful, eerie purple eyes.
The gleams of purple nearest him were low to the ground, part of a mass of lithe, sinuous bodies.
“Stoats,” he whispered.
He remembered seeing their vicious attack at Kuma’s settlement: In what seemed a mere blink of time, a pack of stoats had killed dozens of chickens, each bird the victim of a single lethal bite to the head.
LOW-HIGH-LOW
LOW-HIGH-LOW
Then a voice rang out clearly. “SHARP, SNAP!”
A stoat separated itself from the pack. How small it looked on its own! Barely the length and girth of a toddler’s forearm . . . but Raffa knew that its size belied its fierceness. The image of its sharp teeth snapping hard into his throat—he thought for a moment that he might faint.
The stoat jumped in the air, writhing and twisting as it landed. It sprang forward and jumped again, then began racing toward Raffa.
Raffa wanted to run so badly that his feet began to itch. He was sweating, and at the same time shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering. What if the sacks don’t burst? What if the antidote doesn’t work? What if a whole pack attacks me at once?
Fear made his vision blur and his ears pound; a bitter taste of metal filled his mouth. What if I didn’t think this through, either—if I made some kind of mistake, like with the whistles?
Then a series of images swirled through his mind in rapid succession. Faces, mostly.
Da, teaching him how to boil a residue.
Mam, showing him how to knit so he could make his own tunic, the very one he wore now.
And most of all, Garith.
Everything about the antidote powder and the knitted sacks had been discussed with Garith. They had made the combination together. Raffa had thought of the collar
s. Garith had proposed tying them off in sections. They had turned the problem inside out, upside down, back-to-front, arguing, questioning, discussing.
It wasn’t just me by myself. It was other people, too, especially Garith.
This will work—I know it will.
A sudden stillness fell over him as he watched the stoat get closer and closer. His sweats and tremors seemed almost chilled by a strange sense of calm and coolness.
He planted his feet firmly, then turned his head one way and his shoulder the other, exposing as much of the side of his neck as he possibly could.
The stoat jumped, and struck.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AT the last moment, Raffa closed his eyes and held his breath. With an angry hiss, the stoat sank its teeth into the knitted collar.
Powder burst from the tear in the fabric and clouded the air—while Raffa’s neck was completely untouched!
But the stoat’s mouth was clamped firmly on the collar, and the animal was still hanging on. With a cry of alarm, Raffa shook himself hard, and the stoat dropped to the ground.
Raffa backed away from the creature, while keeping his eyes on it every second. The stoat seemed dazed for a moment. It sneezed, and pawed at its nose.
Then it straightened up and looked around, sniffing the air.
It dashed away—not back to the guards, nor toward the Afters, but to the west, where it would soon find the meadows that were its natural home.
Raffa allowed himself a single breath of relief. As another series of whistle blasts filled the air, he turned and ran, with a whole slew of stoats and foxes on his heels.
“IT WORKED!” he shouted to Fitzer. “THEY’RE COMING!”
“Stand your ground, Frypans!” Fitzer called out. “Necks, full exposure!”
Raffa found a spot between two Frypans. Quickly he adjusted the collars around his neck so the emptied section was at the back. Then he took up his stance again.
This time, a fox ran at him, bigger and heavier than the stoat. And more frightening: Raffa had thought that getting through the first attack would give him some confidence. But seeing the fox’s sharp teeth exposed in a slavering grin, he felt fear flooding through him even more strongly than before.