Abeke felt Uraza’s fur brushing her fingers and looked down to find the leopard padding close to her side. Maybe Uraza was reliving the same memories.
“It’s really hot,” Rollan complained.
“At least you’re not wearing a cloak,” Meilin said pointedly, and he fell silent. Rollan was still the only one of all of them who’d refused to accept the green mantle of the Greencloaks. Abeke wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He’d proven his loyalty. He could have gone with his mother back on the docks of that town in Northern Eura, but he’d stayed with them instead.
Kalani stopped and held up one hand. Everyone paused behind her, waiting. Abeke tilted her head and listened. A large blue butterfly with black spots drifted off a nearby tree and landed briefly in Kalani’s hair, its color vibrant and bright against the dark strands.
“Ah ha ha ha!” a voice shouted somewhere up ahead of them. “That was a good one, Ngaio! I might never have looked there if you hadn’t sneezed. My turn to hide!”
Kalani shook her head, sending the butterfly fluttering away, and started moving again. Abeke and Conor exchanged mystified glances. Beside Conor, Briggan had his nose to the ground, sniffing vigorously at the layers of rotting vegetation underfoot. Essix was somewhere high above them, hidden by the thick canopy of treetops, and Jhi ambled slowly at the back. Up by Kalani, Tarik had Lumeo curled around his shoulders, and he kept turning to make sure they were all still there.
They clambered over an enormous fallen tree with ridged bark that made perfect footholds. Something with way too many legs hissed at Abeke and scuttled away into the underbrush. Sweat rolled down her face and back. She almost missed the freezing wind and icy, insect-free snow of Arctica — but not really.
Kalani stopped again in a clearing. Abeke’s hunter’s eyes could tell that someone had been here recently, trampling light footprints in the fallen leaves. She touched Uraza’s neck fur again and felt a surge of heightened awareness. Now she could see the small broken leaf stems on the tree across from her, along with two spots on the trunk where trails of ants were detouring around squashed insects. Whoever had been here hadn’t run off into the jungle. He’d gone up.
She tilted her head back, and this time the face looking back at her was no monkey. He grinned like a monkey and thumbed his nose at her, but that was unmistakably the face of an old man, perhaps sixty years old or more.
“Hoy, Kalani!” he called down. “You’re ruining our game!”
There was a cry of glee off in the trees, followed by crashing sounds as something came swinging through the branches toward them. Long hairy arms covered in bright orange fur circled the man’s neck, hugging him tight.
“See?” the old man said to Kalani half-accusingly, half-teasingly. “It’s very hard to play hide-and-seek with a whole crowd of visitors staring up at your magnificent hiding spot.”
“This is Tangaroa,” Kalani said to Abeke and the others.
“And this is Ngaio,” Tangaroa added proudly, jumping down to the ground. It was a fairly long distance, but he landed with a bounce. Abeke guessed that was a skill sharpened by his spirit animal.
Wrapped around his back was a large, beaming orangutan. A bright red hibiscus flower was tucked behind one of her ears. She waved and showed them all her teeth. Abeke was struck by how similar Tangaroa’s and Ngaio’s expressions were, as if they’d spent a whole lot of time together. Tangaroa’s wispy white hair even stuck up in tufts much like Ngaio’s fur.
“My friends need your help,” Kalani said. “They’re looking for Mulop.”
“Mulop!” Tangaroa shouted. Ngaio leaped off his back and they both began capering madly around the clearing as if locusts were crawling all over them. “Mulop, Mulop, Mulop!” Tangaroa sang. Ngaio echoed him with grunts, and they both giggled hysterically.
Next to Abeke, Uraza growled. “Shh,” Abeke whispered, smoothing the leopard’s fur.
Tangaroa stopped suddenly and pointed straight at Abeke and Uraza. “That is a leopard,” he said.
“Eeeeee!” Ngaio shrieked in agreement.
“Yes,” Kalani said. “But not just any leopard — it’s Uraza, reborn.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Emperor of Zhong,” said Tangaroa. “We don’t like leopards.” He sat down abruptly and turned up his nose. Ngaio climbed into his lap, and Tangaroa absently began combing out her tangled fur with his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” Abeke said, not sure what she was apologizing for.
“You don’t have to apologize for your spirit animal,” Kalani said. “I think someone else here should be sorry for his rudeness, though.” She gave Tangaroa a hard stare. “Just because he lives on his own in the forest doesn’t mean he gets to have the manners of a disagreeable lobster.”
“Mulop,” Tangaroa mumbled into Ngaio’s ear. “Think he’ll be pleased to see them?”
Ngaio answered by baring her teeth at Uraza.
“Me neither,” said the old man.
“Yes, he will,” Conor said eagerly. “He sent us a dream message. He wants to see us — it’s really important that we find him.”
“The safety of Erdas depends on it,” Tarik added.
“Then why didn’t he tell you where he is?” Tangaroa asked shrewdly. He waved his hands, startling an orange-spotted lizard into darting under a rock. “HMMMMM?”
“Probably because he expected you to help them,” Kalani said. “Instead of acting like an embarrassing mule-headed pig’s snout.”
Abeke squashed the giggles that were threatening to burst out of her.
“Ooo, good one,” Rollan murmured. “I should write that down.”
Tangaroa tapped his teeth, unfazed by the insult. “I might be able to do that. But would it be wise? Is that what a wise man would do? Would a wise man have anything to say to a leopard or anyone who travels with leopards? When trusted with a sacred knowledge of this sort, should one hand it out willy-nilly, so to speak, to anyone who happens to wear a green cloak? Assuming one remembers said sacred knowledge, of course.” He tapped his head. “The old coconut may have a few cracks in it these days.”
Is he really that bothered by leopards? Abeke wondered. Will he refuse to help us just because Uraza is here?
“Do you know how to find him or not?” Meilin demanded.
“Of course I know,” said the old man. “More or less. That is, I know how to call the Kingray, who can take you to him.” He scratched the back of his head. “If I remember that right. It’s been a while. Nobody’s called on Mulop in many years. Ngaio! Quick, to our thinking positions!”
Ngaio leaped off his lap and somersaulted into a headstand. Tangaroa did the same, ending up with his wizened bare feet in the air. They both scrunched their faces into absurd expressions of deep thought.
There was a long pause.
“Maybe we should come back later,” Kalani said.
“There’s no time for that,” Meilin snapped. “Is this lunatic really the only person in all the Hundred Isles who can guide us to Mulop?”
“Meilin,” Tarik said with a note of reproof.
“Indeed I am,” said Tangaroa serenely, keeping his eyes closed.
Kalani tossed her braid back and looked down at Meilin. “This lunatic is nearly as old as a whale king. Show a little respect for your elders,” she said. She crouched beside Tangaroa’s upside-down head. “Grandfather. For the safety of the Hundred Isles and all our people, and indeed for the protection of Erdas itself, I’m afraid I must order you to help these Greencloaks.”
“Grandfather?” Conor whispered.
“Whoops,” Rollan said with a smirk, elbowing Meilin in the ribs. She shot him a glare.
Tangaroa and his orangutan sprang to their feet and swept their arms out in matching bows toward Kalani. Abeke thought they looked rather like giant, ridiculous birds.
“Your wish is
my command,” he said, “as my granddaughter and as my queen. Ah, but wait! Mulop is revered by all the tribes. He is the sacred and beloved Great Beast for all of Oceanus. Shouldn’t I respect his aura of mystery? His love of privacy? Besides, how do I know we can trust these alleged Greencloaks?”
Ngaio lifted her arms and gave them all a look that said: “Well? How can he? What can anyone do, I mean, right?”
Kalani rubbed her forehead, looking as if she would rather negotiate with fire ants than continue this conversation.
“Ask us anything,” Abeke jumped in. “We only want to protect Erdas, and to do that we need to see Mulop. We’re the good guys, I promise. Let us prove it to you, however you want.”
“Ah, the young friend of leopards speaks,” Tangaroa said. The orangutan scampered around to put the old man between herself and Uraza. She squinted at the leopard from behind his back.
“Well, that’s one thing,” Conor interjected. “The Four Fallen came to us — surely that means we’re on the side of the good Great Beasts, right?”
“Maaaaaaaaaaaybe,” said Tangaroa. “Ngaio and I are not entirely convinced that leopards can be good, however. All of the ones we’ve met tend to look down their noses at us, as if they think the only thing orangutans are good for is eating.”
Another growl rumbled in Uraza’s throat, as if she was inclined to agree with that last statement. Abeke hurriedly stepped forward.
“Uraza would never eat Ngaio,” she said. “And we aren’t, uh, looking down at you. Not at all. Orangutans are —” Oh, ack. She didn’t know anything about orangutans. “Uh, really . . . really great.”
Tangaroa suddenly clapped his hands together. A flock of tiny yellow parrots bolted from a nearby tree into the sky. “I know! I know what would be fun! Great fun!”
Abeke could tell that Meilin was ready to stab something. Fun was not something any of them had time for, not with the future of Erdas at stake.
“What is it?” Abeke asked, keeping her voice as calm as she could.
“A test!” said the old man. “A chance to show off your skills and your bond with your spirit animal. If leopard girl can defeat my orangutan in a race, I’ll tell you how to find Mulop.”
Abeke looked at the furry orange ape. With Uraza’s help, she could outrun an orangutan, couldn’t she? And then perhaps she could prove to the others that she wasn’t the mole — that she really was on their side.
“If that’s what it takes,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Kalani said. “Grandfather, this is asking too much.”
“Nothing is too much to ask for the honor of seeing Mulop,” he retorted. “Leopard girl, there is a tree about a half mile that way, which was hit by lightning three days ago. Race Ngaio there and back, and whoever returns first — whoever touches this great boulder here first — shall be the winner.”
“Wait,” Tarik said, stepping forward. “I am their protector. Let me run in her place.”
“No,” said Tangaroa. “It must be the leopard girl.” Ngaio slapped her hands together, grinning.
“I can do this,” Abeke said to Tarik. “Really, I can.”
He looked down at her with a serious expression. “I believe that,” he said. “It’s just a heavy burden to place on you, and if I can lighten it in any way . . . I wish I could, that’s all.”
“It’s all right,” she said, feeling the warmth of his caring like a small sun. Tarik protected them because it was his task, assigned by Olvan, but he also clearly worried about them and liked them too, and that was an even better sort of protection. Abeke couldn’t help thinking that it would have been nice if her father had ever shown that kind of concern for her, instead of always worrying that she would shame their family.
“I can hold your cloak for you,” Tarik offered, adding wryly, “Seems like the least I can do.”
Abeke unhooked her cloak and handed him her bow and quiver as well.
“Good luck,” he said, and behind him she saw Conor nodding too.
She knelt down so she could be face-to-face with Uraza. “Help me,” she murmured to the leopard. Instantly a flood of power surged through her. She felt stronger, faster, and more attuned to the jungle. She could hear insects burrowing and branches creaking as parrots hopped through the treetops. She could smell the burned tree that was the marker for the race.
She stood up again. “Let’s go.”
They lined up beside each other. Ngaio stretched out her long arms and cracked her knuckles, then shook them out, flashing Abeke another grin.
Tangaroa bounced on the balls of his feet, clapping happily. “Racers ready?” he cried. “Be swift! Be sure! Be orangutans! GO!”
Abeke launched herself into a full-out sprint, leaping over creeping vines and mossy boulders as she tore through the jungle. For a moment she couldn’t see Ngaio on either side of her, but her relief was cut short when she spotted the orangutan swinging rapidly through the trees up above. The spirit animal was already in the lead.
Cursing softly, Abeke tried to push her legs harder. It already felt as if the wind was lifting her, as if she flowed through the jungle swifter than a shadow. How could the orangutan be faster than her?
She called to Uraza with her mind and put on another burst of speed. She didn’t dare look up again — her eyes were focused on the treacherous terrain ahead — but she thought she might have passed Ngaio, at least for now.
A rushing sound caught her attention from up ahead. Abeke smelled water and frogs, and before she’d cleared the trees, she knew.
A torrential river swept through the forest, right in her path.
Abeke skidded to a stop, looking frantically along the banks for a way across. Not fair! she thought. Tangaroa knew this would slow me down.
But not Ngaio. The orangutan flew by overhead, swinging effortlessly from vine to vine in the trees that reached over the river. Abeke could hear her laughter echoing through the leaves. In fact, Abeke was pretty sure there was a whole audience of monkeys up there laughing at her.
If she can get across that way, I can too.
Abeke bolted toward the nearest tree and scrambled up the trunk. It wasn’t as easy as climbing a tree with the Granite Ram had been, but soon she was balancing on a branch high in the air, surveying the vines ahead of her. She needed to do this the smart way. She had to win this race — they needed that information.
Also, she was pretty sure she’d spotted at least one crocodile in the river down there. So her plan was to not fall in. Definitely no falling into the crocodile-infested river.
Abeke grabbed a vine, backed up, ran along the branch, and leaped into the air. The river rushed by below her boots, furiously pounding the rocks. At the end of her swing, she let go and grabbed for the next vine. For a terrifying moment, her hands fumbled with empty space, and then she felt them connect around the vine and her momentum hurled her forward again.
One more vine, one more heart-stopping unsupported leap through space — and then Abeke was swinging over land again. She was too high to let go and fall, though, so she flung herself at the closest branch. Her torso slammed into it, nearly knocking the breath out of her, and she clutched at the bark with her hands. She could feel herself slipping — sliding — and then her fingers caught on a knot in the wood and she hung there, her feet dangling over a fifteen-foot drop.
With a heave, Abeke kicked herself up until she was straddling the branch. She didn’t have time to catch her breath. Ngaio was already much too far ahead. She might even be on her way back already.
I have to do that again on the return trip, Abeke realized, her heart dropping. She glanced out at the river and decided to worry about that when she had to.
Gathering her feet under her, she reached for the trunk of the tree.
And that’s when she heard the noise.
It sound
ed like . . . it sounded like a little child crying.
Abeke scanned the jungle floor. Where is it coming from? She shook her head. She really, really didn’t have time to stop and look for it.
But it sounded so sad, a kind of wordless, hiccupping cry of loneliness. The little yowls were relatively quiet, not a full-throated wail, as if the weeper had given up on anyone coming to help but still couldn’t hold back the grief.
Wait. Abeke turned her head, tapping into her spirit animal senses to enhance her hearing.
The sound is coming from somewhere up here — somewhere in this tree, I think.
She knew the race was more important than anything. But she couldn’t turn away from something that needed help.
She clambered around the trunk and spotted a kind of nest on a branch a short way over her head. As she climbed up to it, Abeke could see how large it was, made of branches and moss.
And sitting inside the nest, all alone, was a sobbing baby orangutan.
Little tufts of orange fur stuck up all over its head, and its tiny, humanlike feet were pressed together. The orangutan’s face was buried in small dark hands. Its shoulders shook as it cried.
“Oh!” Abeke cried, her heart flooding with pity. At her gasp, the baby looked up and its huge, mournful brown eyes met hers. The race flew out of her head and she opened her arms toward it.
The baby stumbled over to her and wrapped its long arms around her neck, burying its face in her shoulder with a whimper. Its golden orange fur was soft and warm as it rested its whole weight trustingly against her, as if it would never let go. It reminded Abeke a little of Kunaya, the kitten she’d rescued on their trip to find Rumfuss.
She hugged it and whispered soothing nothings.
Now what do I do?