Another vulture hobbled toward her, his talons clicking against the stones. He looked so ancient, Sky almost flinched. His eyes were milky white, sightless, and his face was even more shriveled and wrinkled than the other vultures’. His wings were thin and ragged, with great gaps where feathers had fallen out to reveal uneven patches of pale skin.
The old vulture stopped almost under Sky’s trunk and craned his neck up toward the tusk fragment she clutched. Sharply, he tapped his beak against it. Then he shuffled past her to the hollow in the rock and tapped the stones in its center.
“You want me to put it there?” Sky asked nervously.
The vulture tapped the stones again.
Sky stepped carefully over the stones and laid down the piece of tusk. As soon as it clicked onto the pebbles, water bubbled up around it, gurgling and swirling.
The sound of it was beautiful, and somehow just the sparkle of sun on the water seemed to slake Sky’s thirst. She gazed, mesmerized. The water was flowing ever faster, fountaining up through the stones, soaking them to a dark gray. As the hollow filled, the bubbling surface calmed, glittering with colors Sky hardly recognized: blues and greens and everything in between, and a sparkle of gold. A thrill fluttered within her.
The blind vulture nodded to the pool. It was a clear command she was happy to obey. Sky lowered her trunk, drew up water, and drank.
If the sight of it had eased her burning throat, the taste of it made her think she would never feel thirsty again. The water was clear and cold and sweet, with a scent of mountain air. Sky drew up trunkful after trunkful. It was as if the water was soaking into every part of her, her toes, her tail, her trunk, her ears. And the level of the pool never sank; it lapped at the brim, stirred by the bubbling of the spring at its center.
When Sky lifted her trunk from the water, she felt as if hours had passed, though the sun hung in the same place in the sky.
“You’ve been brought here for a reason,” the old vulture said.
Shock jolted through Sky. Words were woven through the vulture’s rasping cackle, as clear as if they’d been spoken by Rock or Silverhorn.
“I can understand you,” she whispered, stunned.
The vulture’s wingtips twitched. “Here and now, the Great Spirit will let us speak,” he said. “You have a vital task, Sky Strider.”
“Me?” asked Sky faintly.
The blind bird nodded his wrinkled head. “Great Mother died without the chance to pass on the Great Spirit. It was a great tragedy, unprecedented and unforeseen. But you, Sky, were the first to reach Great Mother’s body. You were the one she loved and trusted most. And so the Great Spirit passed into you.”
Sky recoiled, her eyes widening. “What? But I can’t be the Great Mother—I know I’m not!”
“No,” said the vulture calmly. “You are not.” He shuffled closer, his blind eyes fixed upon her face. “But you carry the Great Spirit, until the new Great Parent is ready. Great Mother died too soon. You must find that new Great Parent, and, when the time is right, you will pass on the Great Spirit to them.”
Something seemed to shift within Sky, as if clouds had scattered to reveal the clear hills beyond. It all made sense now. The Great Spirit had needed her, and this was why.
“How will I find them?” she asked quietly. “Will I know them? Will it be an elephant?”
“I do not know. No creature does. But you will find the true Great Parent.” He hobbled around the edge of the pool. “You already have the gift of seeing the future, and the water has given you another gift. Come,” he called to the other vulture.
She flapped down and hopped in front of Sky, then bent her bald head. Sky understood at once. Gingerly, she laid her trunk-tip on the soft skin of the vulture’s head. The world before her blurred and shifted.
She flies, her wings catching the warm wind currents and lifting her high in the infinity of blue. Her flock cry out to her, showing her animals below, and they are calling her name: Windrider. Below her stretches the vast yellow-grass sea, and she eyes every part of it; herds far below travel their own ancient paths across Bravelands.
To her left lies a cluster of flat-topped acacias and beneath them, half in sun and half in shadow, golden lions bask in the sun. Tipping her wings, she spirals lower.
Two cubs, one larger than the other, play-wrestle in the grass, their tails lashing in fierce mimicry of a real fight. As she soars closer, they break apart. The smaller cub runs a few steps forward and stares up, defiant. His golden eyes meet hers.
The cub opens his jaws and all around her rises a great roar, blotting out all other sound, buffeting the air. Startled, she rocks backward, her wings trembling.
The world shifted, and Sky was on the mountain once more, her feet planted firmly on rock. She snatched her trunk from the vulture’s head. I was in her memory, she realized. I was Windrider.
She looked toward the pool, but the strange water had gone—and with it, Great Mother’s tusk. But how . . . ?
“She must have had great faith in you, to give you such a gift,” the old vulture said. “Use it wisely.” He shifted his ragged wings and bowed his head. “The future of Bravelands depends on you.” He began to shuffle back into the shadows.
“Wait,” Sky cried. “How will I know this new Great Parent? Where should I search? How will I know?”
The vulture craned back over his scrawny shoulder and gave a single hoarse cry. No words formed; whatever power had let them speak, it had dissipated with the miraculous pool. Sky stared, dismayed, as he disappeared behind the great stones of the circle. With a rush of wind from her great black wings, Windrider too left her, circling higher until she was no more than a black point in the sky.
Her legs trembling with the weight of her responsibility, Sky shambled out through the circle of stone. She paused to gaze again in wonder at Bravelands, spread out to the horizon in every direction, just as it had been in Windrider’s memory.
Sky knew now what she must do; she just could not imagine how.
Somewhere in that vast land is the new Great Parent.
And I alone can find them.
CHAPTER 24
“The plan went perfectly, Stinger,” Grass bragged. “The monkeys came home a few at a time, and we chased them into the trees. Off they went, swinging through the branches.”
“And then splat.” Fly gave his jagged grin.
In the sun’s glare outside the hyena den, the Strongbranches were reporting with breathless eagerness to Stinger. Other baboons listened as they squatted on rocks or groomed each other. Thorn shuddered inwardly at Fly’s words—his fatuous glee didn’t come close to the reality of the monkeys screeching as they fell, or the sudden horrific silence as they hit the ground. Catching Mud’s bewildered gaze, Thorn felt a wrench of shame.
“I don’t think they’ll be bothering us for a while,” said Worm, grinning cheerfully.
The Strongbranches weren’t keeping their boastful voices down, and one or two baboons exchanged uneasy glances. Hesitantly, Mango Highleaf slipped down from her rock and padded closer.
“This attack . . .” She bit her lip. “Stinger, are you sure this attack fit with the Code?”
Stinger turned to stare coldly at her. “Of course it did. We struck those treacherous brutes before they could attack us again.”
“All the same.” Mango took a deep breath, visibly summoning her courage. “The plan really should have been discussed in the Council.”
“Should it?” murmured Stinger.
“Yes,” Mango told him levelly. “That’s what Bark would have done.”
“Bark Crownleaf?” Stinger mused. “Her days are long over, Mango. But there is certainly something we should discuss. Not with the Council—with the whole troop.”
He loped up onto his new makeshift Crown Stone, a heap of small boulders that had been gathered by the Deeproots. Baboons padded forward nervously as the Strongbranches called out Stinger’s summons; more emerged from the darkness of the den.
The heat of the sun was intense now, and the whole troop looked beaten down by it, exhausted and submissive before Stinger even opened his mouth.
Stinger was the only baboon who looked unaffected by the heat. He gazed around the assembled troop, nodding in satisfaction, as the Council and their retinues shuffled into place behind him. An apprehensive silence fell.
“The Council is now in session,” declared Stinger in a ringing voice. “And the Council is herewith disbanded.”
The troop erupted. Gasps and hoots rang out; the Council members surged toward Stinger, crying out in disbelieving protest.
“You can’t do this!” shouted Mango.
“It’s not acceptable. The Council denies your right!” cried Branch angrily.
“Stand aside. Stand aside.” Stinger rose up onto his hind paws, looking out across the Council’s heads. “Strongbranches, to me. Stand in the Council’s place.”
The Council looked too shocked to resist as the Strongbranches bounded forward, shoving them aside and ranging themselves in a semicircle behind Stinger. Padding miserably after them, Thorn joined the line; his fellow Strongbranches were grinning at the troop with triumphant malice. He stared at the ground, swamped by shame.
“In these last few days,” announced Stinger as the hubbub faded to stunned silence, “there have been challenges to my leadership. This comes at a time when unity is crucial to the survival of our troop, and it is unacceptable. First old Beetle, and now Mango chooses to question me. That’s why I have decided that Brightforest Troop will be safer without the mischief-making of its Council. From this moment, Councilors are ordinary Highleaves and have no extra authority over any of you.”
In the eyes of more than a few baboons, Thorn recognized glee.
“Do you all understand?” finished Stinger. “Do you clearly understand?”
It wasn’t just the ones who had looked delighted at the Councilors’ demotion; every baboon in the troop nodded, keen to be first to answer. Their eyes bright with fear, even some Council members shouted in agreement.
“Yes, Stinger.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Long live Stinger!”
Stinger surveyed the troop for a moment longer, then nodded. “Then get back to your duties. My Strongbranches will assist and oversee you.” He turned to them. “Make sure everyone plays their part.”
“With pleasure.” Grass grinned, shifting his grass stalk to the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Fly.” The pair bounded toward a cluster of Deeproots, barking orders to forage for food.
Worm made straight for the shocked Mango. “Come on, you. Find fresh bedding for the Strongbranches.”
“That’s not my job!” blurted Mango, her eyes wide.
“It is now,” said Worm, with menacing sweetness. “Or would you like to make your own way in the world, like Beetle?”
Mango stared at her for only a moment longer. Then she turned, shoulders sagging, and padded off to do as she was told.
“Thorn?” Stinger turned to him. “What’s the delay?”
He must not show any sign of the revulsion that surged through him, Thorn knew. He padded dejectedly toward Mud, who stood with a group of Lowleaves.
“Hunting,” he managed to croak. “You need to go hunting. There are lizards on top of the escarpment.”
Mud said nothing; he didn’t even meet Thorn’s eyes. In unified silence, the small group began to climb the slope. Thorn stared after them, his heart clenching.
I’ve got to do something, I’ve got to force him to reveal what he really is. . . .
Swallowing, he glanced around the sunbaked earth. No one was watching. Quietly, he loped to the den and crept into the darkness of Stinger’s sleeping cavern.
His paws crunched on scorpion remains, and he shivered. There were plenty of those up on the plateau, too; no wonder Stinger looked cheerful and well fed. Crouching, Thorn picked through them, then turned to the pile of bedding and searched that too. Wriggling his arm deep into the soft solanum leaves, his fingers closed at last on something cone-shaped, hard, and ridged.
He drew the rhino horn carefully out.
For some reason, Stinger doesn’t want Bravelands to know what the rhinos did.
It seemed a very good reason to make sure that Bravelands found out. Clutching the horn tightly, Thorn crept back through the tunnel and edged out of the hyena den.
His heart flipped as he caught Grass’s eye. The big baboon was watching him, and his grass stalk had gone still in his lips. Thorn hesitated, then nodded cheerfully to Grass and loped on. He hated that Grass had seen him, but what could the big brute say? As far as Grass knew, Thorn was going about his Strongbranch business.
Still, his stomach squirmed with fear as he bounded across the plain, and he was seized by an even greater urgency. In the burning distance he could make out the shimmering shapes of a zebra herd, and he ran toward them, gasping with the heat.
The herd looked aimless and hungry, ripping desperately at the parched grass; Sleekfriend’s diminished herd, he guessed. They didn’t look as if they’d fared well without their leader. An edgy-eyed young stallion was making some attempt to coax them to move on to new grass, so Thorn raced up to him.
“Baboon?” The zebra blinked his long lashes. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got terrible news,” Thorn panted. There was no time for polite conversation, and he held out the broken rhino horn. “This was taken from Great Mother’s body after she was killed. The rhinos were responsible.”
The zebra craned his striped neck forward and sniffed in astonishment. “What?” He flared his nostrils. “Yes, it smells of Great Mother. Is this a trick?”
“No trick,” said Thorn grimly as the other zebras gathered, muttering and braying in shock. “Tell as many as you can. Bravelands has to know the truth!”
Without waiting for their response, Thorn spun and ran; wildebeests were grazing by a thin tree line. He trotted to a halt, just out of reach of their twisted horns. Once again he stretched out the horn toward their stunned faces and told his story.
There was no time to waste. Leaving them neighing and bellowing in horror, he cast around and spotted the next group of animals: a sounder of warthogs, snuffling and digging in the drying mud by the watering hole. With grim determination he ran to them and began his tale again.
“And the rhinos can’t get away with it,” he concluded. “Tell—”
“Thorn. Thorn Strongbranch!”
The familiar voice made his heart lurch. He watched aghast as Stinger strode across the grassland toward him, the Strongbranches at his side. Grass spat out a stalk and smirked at him; so he had told Stinger what he’d seen. Every muscle in Thorn’s body tensed to fight for his life.
But Stinger’s face was calm; he was even smiling slightly as he padded up to Thorn and the warthogs.
“Thorn Strongbranch,” he intoned gravely, with a respectful nod to the warthogs. “Thank you for your service.”
What?
Stinger paused to let Thorn speak, tilted his head, then gave a tiny shrug and went on. “Thorn is right,” he told the warthogs. “All of Bravelands must know the terrible truth about our so-called Great Father.”
“Is it true, Stinger?” grunted a male warthog.
“I’m afraid it is.” Stinger closed his eyes in pain. “We have been betrayed. All of us. It is time for Bravelands to confront the deceivers.”
Thorn could hardly breathe, let alone speak. How did Stinger do it? He had turned the situation to his advantage yet again, and yet again he’d effectively pinned his own sins on another creature. Had Stinger meant for this to happen? Had he known Thorn would find the horn and do his dirty work for him?
It was impossible to tell anymore, but a tiny voice in Thorn’s head told him not. Stinger hadn’t wanted this, but now that it was done, the cunning baboon could twist the truth as easily as peeling a scorpion.
That didn’t mean Thorn wasn’t in trouble. A lot of trouble. He swallowed.
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Stinger studied him, his expression still mild and almost friendly. “Did you hear me, Thorn? I said you should go back to the den with the other Strongbranches. I’ll carry on the good work here.”
Thorn knew he had no choice. All he could do was fall in between the Strongbranches and trudge with them back toward the hyena den. His four escorts remained silent the whole way; none of them met his eye.
I’ll slip away later, he thought. I’ll go back to the watering hole, find out what lies Stinger has told those herds. I’ll get away from the Strongbranches somehow.
His plan was a doomed one. As the sun sank toward the western horizon, Thorn’s hopes faded with it. If he thought he was unwatched and tried to edge away from the den, Fly or Grass would miraculously appear. When he wandered toward the pile of food, Worm walked with him, preventing him from slipping away. Even when he plodded to his sleeping area, thinking he could escape later, Fang followed. The big baboon smiled broadly and sat down next to him, picking his sharp teeth.
When he tried to imagine what Stinger was up to, out on the savannah, panic almost engulfed him. How could he thwart Stinger when he was never allowed to be alone? When the Strongbranches dogged his every step?
There’s nothing I can do. Nothing.
CHAPTER 25
Sky had thought it would be easier descending the mountain, but as she picked her way gingerly down the sun-scorched track, her legs jolted and ached. Behind her, Sky could hear Rock’s slow, careful footfalls, and ahead, Silverhorn’s stocky legs slithered on the loose shale. Above them blazed a dazzling white sun, its baking heat relentless.
No one spoke. Rock and Silverhorn were focused on the path; Sky was turning the old vulture’s words over and over in her mind, struggling to accept them. How could any of it be possible? And how did I understand his words at all? Her steps felt no lighter, and the loose stony path was no safer beneath her feet. How can the Great Spirit be in me?
“So, what happened up there, Sky?” asked Rock at last. “You were gone a long time.”
Sky opened her mouth and closed it again. She wasn’t ready to share this with anyone, not until she believed it herself.