Raffa went to meet Mannum Fitzer. He walked through the tent camp, which buzzed with activity. Some people were still setting up tents; others were carrying boxes and bundles. No one was idle; even the small children were busy, collecting twigs for kindling. Clearly, it took a great deal of work to shelter people who had lost their homes.
They followed the path out of the clearing, then the road to the south. Raffa and Fitzer took it in turns to drive so the other person could sleep, both of them having been up all night during the river crossing. When they reached the foothills, they shared a snack of crackerbread with cheese and dried tomatoes.
It was chilly but sunny, a day more spring than winter. With the wagon bed empty, the horses kept up a good pace with ease. Raffa wished he could enjoy the ride, but they had to keep a constant eye out for guards. At the first settlement they came to, Fitzer spoke to a man he knew, who reported that guards had been through earlier but had already returned to Gilden. After that, Raffa relaxed a little—only to find that his mind filled up right away with worry.
He was desperate for a moment of intuition—one that would help him figure out how to treat the animals. But he knew such moments came when he least expected them.
The gorge was as Raffa remembered it. Steep cliffs rose on either side of the river, which was only two paces wide here. Small trees and hardy shrubs grew from cracks in the rock face. Fitzer watered the horses, then tied them to an oak at the base of the northern cliff.
Searching carefully, Raffa located a partially uprooted neverbare tree leaning against the rock face. It had been pulled up by Roo, at Kuma’s request, to serve as a marker. He began to climb, taking the lead to show Fitzer the way.
When Raffa reached the right ledge, he pulled himself over the edge and sat for a moment of rest. Echo emerged from under his tunic, clicking and chirping in excitement.
“Echo friend many!” he squeaked.
Afternoon was edging into evening, but it was still a little earlier than Echo’s usual waking time. Clearly, the bat had sensed where they were: The gorge was riddled with caves that were home to thousands of bats, and Echo had socialized with some of them during the previous visit to the cavern.
“We’re not going to be here long, Echo,” Raffa cautioned him. “We’ll be leaving soon. Come find me a few times, and I’ll whistle when it’s time to leave.”
Echo fluttered to the entrance of the cave at the back of the ledge. “Friend many!” he squeaked again before disappearing into the cave.
This time, the collection of the cavern plant would be much easier, with Fitzer there to help. In addition to his own leather rope, Raffa had come equipped with another rope of hemp and several sacks.
Raffa led the way down the narrow passageway to the cavern. He stopped at the big boulder to tie the hemp rope in place, then continued to where the passage appeared to end in a solid wall of rock. But there was a crevice in the wall just wide enough for him to slip through.
Here they ran into their first hitch: Fitzer could not squeeze through the crevice. He tried several times and would have kept trying, but Raffa made him stop.
“What if you get stuck and I can’t get you out? I’ve done this before on my own. I’ll be fine.”
They agreed that Raffa would tie both ropes around himself, just in case one failed, and that Fitzer would haul him up when he was ready. Once through the crevice, Raffa shinned carefully over the edge of the huge rock there, and landed on the narrow ledge that rimmed the cavern.
He paused for a moment to look around the vast space. The strange and beautiful cavern plants lit up at intervals, whenever hot gases from deep within the earth bubbled up in the cavern’s lake. He shivered at the memory of his last visit, when he had fallen into the water, with no way to get out. Echo had saved him by dropping Raffa’s trusty leather rope over a high crag, then rounding up hundreds of bats to pin the rope in place.
“All steady in there?” Fitzer called through the crevice.
“Steady,” Raffa replied, and got to work.
He was pleased to see that the plants were recovering since he had harvested from among them a few weeks earlier; there was already new growth. He stripped off all his clothes and went into the water naked. Paddling around the edge of the cavern, he collected three of every four plants. It was more than he normally would have taken, given that the plant was so unusual. But the need was desperate. He was careful to leave the roots of each plant intact, which he hoped would ensure their recovery.
In a short time, he had filled six large bags. The plants that remained cast a much dimmer glow; the cavern now seemed a far gloomier place. He was relieved to call out to Fitzer.
“I’m finished. You can pull me up now.”
Back in his dry clothes, Raffa roped two of the bags of plants to his back; Fitzer took the other four. They climbed back down the cliff and loaded the wagon, working quickly.
The last of the sun’s rays carved deep shadows in the gorge. Fitzer untied the horses. Raffa climbed onto the wagon seat and glanced up for a last look at the ledge that marked the entrance to the cavern.
“Look!” He pointed overhead.
A colony of bats was emerging from a crack in the cliff face. Raffa and Fitzer watched, their faces turned skyward, as more bats took wing.
Raffa had witnessed this exodus on his last visit to the cavern, but that time he had been inside the passageway. Bats had flown past him in what had seemed like a never-ending stream, but he now realized that he had seen only a fraction of the number that lived inside the cliff.
What he and Fitzer were seeing was truly spectacular. Not hundreds but thousands of bats poured out of the cliff’s caves and crevices, their beautiful wings beating and flickering, sometimes shining when the sun’s rays hit them. The bats filled the sky as if an enormous lacy blanket had been thrown over the gorge, a blanket that was constantly moving and yet always overhead.
Every time Raffa thought they must surely have seen the last of them, another great skein of bats would appear. He did not know how long they had been watching, but when the bats finally vanished from view, he and Fitzer continued to sit in silence, spelled by wonder.
Fitzer spoke first. “Well,” he said, “that was special.”
Raffa cleared his throat. “I guess we should get on,” he said. “I just have to call my bat.”
He stood up and gave a sharp whistle. “Echo!” he called. “Echo, time to go!”
His voice carried well in the narrow gorge, but after the sound died away, the air around him was silent.
He tried again, whistling twice this time. “ECHO! Where are you?”
Still no response. Raffa tutted in annoyance. “Sorry,” he said to Fitzer. “He’s usually good about coming when I whistle. I guess I’ll have to go back up again.”
He was tired now, and the climb to the ledge seemed twice as high as it had the first time. Once, his foot slipped, and he grabbed at a jutting crag just in time, banging his chin. “Quake’s sake, Echo, why can’t you come when I whistle?” he muttered angrily.
At the back of the ledge was the opening that led to the cavern, as well as the countless cracks and crevices where the bats lived. Raffa slipped inside and walked a few steps down the narrow passage.
“Echo!” he shouted. “ECHO!”
—echo—echo—echo—
Any other time, he might have smiled at the irony—Echo’s name echoing—but it occurred to him then that the bat hadn’t checked in with him since their arrival at the gorge. That had never happened before. Was something wrong? Could Echo have gotten injured somehow?
Not likely. The cliff was a safe place for the bats; it was why they roosted there. Raffa listened hard for any sound, but heard nothing. The silence felt almost solid.
His knees began to tremble. He pushed away his next thought, but it came back, pummeling and battering at his brain. . . .
Echo was there. With all the others.
Echo had been somewhere in the mids
t of that incredible massive cloud of bats.
Raffa backed out of the passage and looked up. The sky was blank now, not a single bat to be seen. It was as if they had never been there at all.
“Friend many” . . . He was so excited about seeing them again. I should have known, I could have—
Could have what? Tied Echo to the perch to keep him from seeing his friends?
No. I’d never— I want him to be happy. Of course I do.
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the stone face of the cliff, knowing in his heart that it would be useless to whistle or call again. Echo had finally left him—had gone back to the wild to live with other bats for good.
“Raffa?” Fitzer called from below.
Raffa stayed still for another moment. “Coming,” he mumbled, then straightened up slowly and walked to the rim of the ledge.
“Coming,” he said again, and waved at Fitzer.
In a daze of disbelief, he half-climbed and half-slid down the cliff, collecting bruises and scratches that he didn’t feel. All the while, his gut twisted slowly. Pain was not the right word; it was too far inside him. Pain was something that happened to your skin or your bones or other parts of your body. This was deeper than that. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to curl up in a ball and never move again.
At the base of the cliff, he stared into the sky one last time.
I never even got to say good-bye.
Somehow that seemed monstrously unfair.
It took the last of his strength to pull himself up onto the wagon seat. “Let’s go,” he said to Fitzer, through wooden lips.
Fitzer looked at him for a long breath, then nodded and flicked the reins.
Chapter Fifteen
RAFFA took over the driving; he needed some thing to do. When they reached camp, he unloaded the wagon while Fitzer took care of the horses. A three-quarter moon rose as Raffa trundled a fully loaded wheelbarrow through the camp. He left it just outside the pother tent; there was something he needed to do before he began his work with the cavern plant.
Most of the camp’s denizens were at the central pavilion for the evening meal, which suited him perfectly. He didn’t want to run into anyone. Head down, he shuffled toward Elson and Haddie’s tent. Kuma probably wouldn’t be there, but he had decided to try the tent first, rather than face the crowds in the pavilion.
“Kuma?” he called.
He was in luck. The tent flap opened. Kuma stepped out, took one look at his face, and said, “What’s wrong?”
He shrugged and stubbed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “Echo . . .” He could not go on.
“Is he”—she took a breath—“is he okay?”
He looked up and blinked. Such a simple question, and yet the most important one she could have asked.
“Yes. Yes, he’s okay. He—he didn’t come back with me. He stayed in the gorge. With the other bats.”
“Oh.” A pause, and she put a hand on his arm. “He’s safer there, don’t you think? Away from people. Especially because of that coin reward.”
She was right, but he wasn’t ready to admit it. He shrugged again, his head down.
Her eyes were wide with sympathy, but her voice was firm. “Do you remember what I told you, about when I first met Roo? And then we got separated, and I didn’t know where she was, and it took us years to find each other again? You’re lucky—you know exactly where Echo is. You’ll see him again. I’m sure of it.”
Raffa nodded. He’d gotten what he came for. He hadn’t known what Kuma would say, but he knew he would feel better after talking to her.
And he did. Not a lot better but a little better, and that would have to do for now.
“There was some news while you were gone,” Kuma said. She explained that a runner had arrived late in the afternoon. “The guard troops are gathering along the river on the Gilden side, and they’re setting up camp. But it’s not going well for them. A whole bunch of guards have deserted, saying that they won’t fight in the Forest, that they’re afraid of strange beasts and giant bears and things like that. So they’re having to regroup and reorganize. We’re fairly certain nothing will happen tonight or tomorrow.”
Tonight. Tomorrow. “I better get that antidote made,” he mumbled.
“I’ll be along later to help,” she said.
As Raffa walked back to the pother tent, he knew how he could take his mind off of Echo: by keeping himself occupied. That will be easy, he thought with grim determination. He would start by converting the cavern plant into a powder.
At the pother tent he saw that Garith and Jimble had been very busy during his absence. Both boys had patches of red rash on their cheeks, and one of Jimble’s eyes was almost swollen shut. Raffa recognized the usual consequences of working with nettles; even the most careful apothecaries often ended up with a rash.
In addition to the bucket full of nettle essence, which Raffa recognized by its sharp green smell, there were two basins on the table. Raffa stepped closer and sniffed at the first basin. It was the stimulant combination.
“You found panax?” he asked.
“Kuma did,” Garith replied. “Never thought I’d meet someone who knows the Forest better than a pother.” He nodded in admiration.
“I’m going to start boiling down the cavern plant next,” Raffa said as he examined the paste in the second basin. It definitely included romarian, another easily recognizable odor. The smell was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “What’s this?”
Garith gave him a sly grin. “C, R, D,” he answered.
“What?”
Garith said nothing more. He stood there with an incredibly annoying smirk on his face, as if saying, Come now, little cousin, you can do it, you can figure this out if you really try. . . .
C, R, D? A fine chord of memory twanged in Raffa’s mind, its vibrations growing stronger until finally the right part of his brain was shaken awake.
C, R, D! The mysterious letters on the jar in the cupboard hidden under the stairs . . . the jar that held the combination he and Garith had experimented with months ago—before Echo, before Gilden, before the Chancellor. A lifetime ago.
The unknown combination, made into a poultice, had given both boys glowing blue veins in their cheeks. Later, they had learned that the mystery ingredients were candleplant, romarian, and duckberry.
“Oh!” Raffa exclaimed. “But why—what—”
Garith shrugged as the smirk slid off his face. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I just thought that if the guards attack at night, we should have a way to mark ourselves that would show up in the dark. I don’t know . . . I thought it might be useful. Putting this on our faces would be better than having to carry lightsticks—it would leave our hands free. And when we don’t need the glow, we can pull down those masks to cover it.”
“That’s amazing!” Raffa enthused. “It’s a great idea. I’m sure we can find a way to use it.”
Then he stopped short, recalling the poultice episode: Garith’s batch, unlike his own, had resulted in dreadful swelling.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Garith said loudly. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. It got all bubbly, but it was too stiff. So I added both oil and water, and it came out really smooth, just like yours was last time.” A pause. “You think I didn’t notice the difference? I did. I always do.” He shrugged. “I used to hope it wouldn’t matter.”
Used to . . . , Raffa thought.
Something had shifted in his relationship with Garith. They had been born cousins and had become friends. But when it came to apothecary, they had always been rivals.
Now, instead of rivals, they were partners, and Raffa was surprised by the relief and satisfaction he felt on realizing this. But of course he wasn’t going to say anything about it; he wasn’t sure he could have put it into words.
“We should tell the council,” he said, “so they can figure out how to work it into the battle plans.”
“
Not just yet,” Garith said. “I wasn’t sure about the proportions. I tried to go by what I remembered about the smell. It still has to be tested.”
“I’ll do it!” Jimble volunteered eagerly.
Raffa rolled his eyes. In Gilden, Jimble had played a heroic role in a scheme by drinking a botanical combination—and throwing up a rainbow. Now he seemed to think that testing botanicals and combinations was his special purview.
“On your hand,” Garith said.
Jimble stuck his finger in the poultice and rubbed it vigorously onto the back of his hand. All three of them stared at the spot, unblinking.
Nothing happened for several moments. But then a faint glimmer appeared, and quickly became a strong and steady blue glow—with no swelling.
“Look! Look!” Jimble shouted. He raised both hands overhead, even though only one of them was glowing blue, and spoke in a gravelly roar. “I AM THE BLUE-HANDED BEASTER. KNEEL BEFORE ME OR DIE!”
“Oh, for quake’s sake,” Raffa said, but he couldn’t help laughing.
“At least we know it works,” Garith said.
Boiling down the cavern plant would require an all-night vigil at the fire pit. Raffa wanted to write a list of tasks on the tabletop, just as his father had always done, but he couldn’t find any chalk. He made a list in his head instead.
Rinse plants well. Check for insects.
Strip leaves.
Chop stems.
At fire pit: Boil stems to extract essence. Add leaves near the end. Strain.
Boil essence down to residue.
Raffa emptied a bag of plants onto the tabletop. He examined the first plant, then tossed it into a basin of water.
On the second plant, he found a small beetle. He shook it off the plant and into his palm.
“What is it?” Jimble asked.
“Just a beetle,” Raffa answered.
It was the same kind of beetle that Echo had eaten when he was sick. He’d gotten better very quickly, and had been well ever since. The beetles had been feeding on the cavern plant, which was what had given Raffa the idea that the plant might be an antidote for the ailments caused by the scarlet-vine infusion.