Cries of alarm erupted. “What’s happening?” Berry shouted to Twig; there was fear in her voice.
“I hear you all! A sign!” Stinger yelled against the wind. Unlike the frightened animals surrounding him, his face was lit with exhilaration. “The Gathering has heard the Great Spirit! Stronghide is the Great Father!”
For a moment, there was only the howling of the gale. And then yelps of approval and excitement broke out.
“We must make it official!” Stinger was screaming to make himself heard now. “Who accepts Stronghide the rhinoceros as our new Great Father? I believe what I have seen! The baboons follow Stronghide!”
His words were passed back through the crowd, and quickly the responses came:
“The zebras follow Stronghide!”
“The cheetahs follow Stronghide!”
“The meerkats follow Stronghide!”
“The giraffes follow Stronghide!”
On and on, each group of animals bellowed their acceptance of Stronghide as the new Great Parent. Only the elephants stood aside, wordless and disbelieving, as branch after branch rolled and tumbled from Great Mother’s body, tossed by the wind. To Thorn, the Strider herd seemed torn by indecision, flapping their ears and shifting from one great foot to another, blowing and snorting in distress as more and more of their old matriarch’s body was revealed.
Then, one by one, they turned their rumps. They trudged away in a line, trunk to tail, Rain at their head.
Next to Thorn, Mud’s face was creased with worry. Thorn knew what his friend was thinking—the departure of the elephants didn’t bode well. But none of the others seemed to care.
Stinger’s snout was stretched in an ecstatic grin. He opened his arms wide, as if he wanted to embrace every animal of Bravelands. “It is decided. Stronghide is the Great Father of Bravelands! A new era has begun!”
Stronghide shambled into the watering hole, his huge feet stirring up eddies of mud. Stinger was the first to follow him, and Thorn and Mud joined the other baboons as they waded in after Stinger. Thorn’s head was spinning. Could it be true?
If Stronghide truly spoke to the birds, there could be no doubt. But Thorn felt nothing like the relief that had coursed through him when he’d thought it would be Sky. Maybe that was just because she’s an elephant, and that’s what we’re used to.
Wind tore and howled around the herds as they wallowed in the shallows, the water murky with disturbed mud and floating weeds. Many animals were left on the trampled shore, patiently waiting their turn. As was tradition, every creature would follow their new Great Parent into the watering hole and drink, pledging to follow his guidance.
The churned water was whipped into foamy waves by the blast of the wind; Thorn shivered as he placed his paws in the shallows. Cupping them, he scooped up water and drank; it tasted muddy, gritty, and sour, and he had to force himself not to spit it out.
Stinger was close by, his fur slick from immersion in the lake; the scar on his muzzle stood out more starkly than ever. He was studying Stronghide, his expression solemn.
The new Great Father’s head was tipped back, his massive horn held high above the water. His small eyes gleamed benevolently as the animals around him paid homage.
Thorn clenched his jaws. Perhaps this was not the disaster it seemed to be.
Maybe Stronghide will help me, he thought. Maybe today’s the day Stinger’s plans go wrong at last.
CHAPTER 7
Sky ploughed across the grasslands, battling the force of the wind. From behind her, where the watering hole lay, came an outcry, but she forced herself to carry on. She couldn’t do anything about it, any more than she could stop the violent gusts that tore at her ears and tail. Only one thing mattered now.
She stumbled to a halt by a bush with long curling leaves that thrashed in the wind. Kneeling, she fumbled with her trunk around its roots.
Where is it?
The sensitive tip brushed something smooth and curved; curling her trunk around it, she pulled it out. Sky gazed sadly at her recovered treasure. It was a bright, clean white shard, broken jaggedly at the end: a piece of Great Mother’s tusk.
Yesterday, the elephants’ sheltering baobab tree had come into full bloom. Dazed by its sudden beauty, Sky had broken off a branch heavy with creamy white blossoms, and she’d carried it to the lakeside to drape over Great Mother’s body.
As she’d laid it on top of the other greenery, a few flowers had fluttered to the sandy earth. Sky had reached to rescue them, and her trunk had brushed something half buried in the mud. And there was the tip of Great Mother’s tusk, cracked and broken. Sky’s heart had almost shattered with renewed grief.
Now, with her trunk, Sky gently turned the tusk shard over.
Nothing. Still nothing.
She should see something! She could read bones, couldn’t she? Not just those of her own ancestors—every elephant could do that. But when Sky had touched the skull of the murdered baboon leader Bark Crownleaf, a vision of the killer had rushed into her head.
So why couldn’t she read Great Mother’s tusk?
Sky yearned to talk once more to her grandmother. Only a few days had passed since her death, and already Sky had so many things she wanted to ask the wise old matriarch—things she wished desperately that she had asked her before. But how could I have known? How could anyone? A chorus of raucous cheers drifted from the watering hole. Gripping the tusk fragment, Sky hurried off in the opposite direction. I hope Rain can forgive me, she thought. But I have to leave.
The wind was at her back, carrying the scents of the herds at the watering hole, but its force was capricious; it gusted and swirled, catching Sky unawares and making her stagger. When her family had last come this way, at the end of the dry season, their tread had thrown up clouds of red dust. Now the terrain was an expanse of sticky, drying mud that caked Sky’s feet and made her clumsy. Grass was plastered to the ground. Creasing her eyes against the shrieking gale, Sky searched desperately for the distinctive gray slab of rock. It was the only guide that marked where she should turn off the trail.
There was no sign of it. Heart heavy, Sky trudged on. It seemed so much farther than she remembered, now that she was alone. Occasionally she paused to lay down Great Mother’s tusk and nibble at muddy, flattened grass or tug a leafy branch from a shrub, but she did not dare waste time. Although windswept billows of gray cloud still scudded across the sky, a line of intense gold lay along the eastern horizon, casting shadows that lengthened with every moment.
A squishing noise behind her made her start and turn. She knew the sound; it was the one her own feet made when she splashed into thick mud. Sky peered into the dusk, breathing hard, but trees and bushes and hillocks made confused, eerie outlines against the too-brilliant sunset. It was so hard to make sense of the landscape when her family wasn’t here to reassure her.
Sky’s heart thudded. Clutching Great Mother’s tusk she trotted on, faster this time.
Her ears twitched. There were definitely footsteps behind her. And they were speeding up as she did.
Sky bolted toward a clump of thorn trees. She slipped on a root, almost dropping the tusk, before stumbling on. The trotting footsteps were not light enough to belong to a gazelle or an antelope, and they weren’t the rhythmic hoof-beats of a zebra or giraffe. It wasn’t a rhino, was it? She gulped hard. Or a flesh-eater? Surely no lone flesh-eater would attack an elephant. . . .
Would they?
The dark glow of the sun was abruptly extinguished, leaving the savannah in a hazy twilight of gray and blue. Above her the dark clouds still raced in that high wind, impenetrably dense: not a single star was visible. Sky felt very alone, and horribly afraid.
The thorn trees were close, just a few trunk-lengths from the trail. Sky veered between two of them, then spun again, galloping clumsily through the trunks in the faint hope of throwing off her pursuer. She stumbled behind a dense thicket of brush and halted, trying to control her breathing.
; The wind howled through the leaves. And then footsteps squelched at the edge of the copse.
Sky’s insides clenched. Would the wind blow her scent away from that thing? Or would it gust in its wild way and betray her to her unseen enemy? Will I have to fight for my life?
A heartbroken wail rose on the wind. It drifted between the acacia trunks, lost and as lonely as she was.
“Where are you?”
Sky froze. “Moon?”
Shocked, she shoved back through the trees, thorns scraping at her sides. In the center of the copse, twisting and skittering on the spot in panic, was her little cousin.
“I’m here, Moon!” Sky cried. She rushed to wrap her trunk around him. His little body was shaking. “It’s okay,” she soothed, “I’ve got you.”
Moon butted his head into her neck, pressing his trembling flank hard against hers. “I couldn’t find you,” he whimpered.
Sky shook her ears in dismay. “Why are you here? Does your mother know you came?”
“I saw you leaving, so I snuck after you,” he said in a wobbling voice. “Nobody noticed me go.”
Sky cuddled him closer. “Oh, Moon. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I had to. Where are you going, Sky? Why?”
She ran her trunk over his bristly back. “I’m sorry, Moon. There’s something I have to do. You need to go back to your mother.”
“No!” Moon stared up at Sky in horror. “Please don’t make me go back, Sky. Please!”
Sky recognized the stubborn slant of his mouth and groaned inwardly. “But everyone will be missing you. Your mother will be so worried.”
“If I go back, won’t you miss me?”
“Of course. But . . .”
“Who will you play with, if I don’t come with you?” Moon pressed her. “Who are you going to tell stories to?”
Sky hesitated, her thoughts in turmoil. This was impossible. He should not have come, and yet she couldn’t send Moon all the way back by himself—it was far too dangerous, and he’d probably get horribly lost. Flesh-eaters might find him in the night, and then—
And if she took him back herself, Rain might stop her from leaving again.
Besides, if they guessed she and Moon were together, her family might worry less. Oh, this was an agonizing decision.
Moon blinked up at her. “Please, Sky. Let me come with you. I promise I’ll be good.”
Sky blew out a resigned breath. “All right.” I don’t have a choice. Oh, Star, I’m so sorry. “But you must listen to me and do what I say.”
“Yay!” Moon cheered. “I will, I promise! I’ll be so good you won’t recognize me.” His ears lifted and he cantered around her, his trunk and tail swinging. Sky couldn’t help smiling.
“Come on, then,” she said.
The winds tossed the clouds aside, revealing a slit of the sky. In its center, a single star gleamed. Its light seemed almost dazzling against the blackness of the looming sky; the jagged crowns of the acacias were fringed in faint silver. By its glow and her own night vision, Sky shepherded Moon safely back to the trail.
Sky raised her head to gaze up at the glittering star. Is that you, Great Mother? she wondered. Curling her trunk tighter around the tusk fragment, she hugged it close.
“Where are we going?” Moon asked, stamping a spray of starlit water from a muddy pool. “Is it somewhere nice?”
“It’s somewhere very important,” Sky told him. “We’re going to the Plain of Our Ancestors.”
CHAPTER 8
Fearless crouched on the hilltop, creasing his eyes against the fierce wind. At the watering hole below, the new Great Parent wallowed up to his thighs in the murky water, his horn held high. All around him, animals drank solemnly.
“A rhino seems a strange choice,” he mused to Valor. “They’re not exactly popular with the other animals. I met a few once, and they chased me out of their territory.”
“Well, of course they did,” she said scornfully. “Why did you go into rhino territory, anyway?”
“I didn’t plan it,” Fearless told her ruefully. “It’s a long story. But the Great Spirit knows what it’s doing, I guess.” He stared doubtfully at Stronghide, who was striking arrogant postures for the benefit of the admiring herds: tossing his horn, slapping the water’s surface with his forefoot.
Valor got to her paws. “Come on. Time to report back to Titan.”
Fearless was rising, stretching his legs, when his eye was caught by a brown blur of movement at the edge of the shore. A tall baboon was marching away from the watering hole, toward the woods below the lions’ viewpoint.
“In a moment,” he said. “I want to talk to Stinger first.”
Valor grunted. “We’re trying not to be seen, remember?”
“I’ll be careful,” Fearless promised her. “I just want to make sure the troop’s all right.”
Valor sighed. “You’re a lion, Fearless. Be a lion. You should forget those baboons.” But she sat down again, coiling her tail around her haunches. “Go on, then. Don’t be long.”
Fearless nuzzled her cheek, then slunk down the hill, careful not to slip on the mud-slick grass as he moved from the shelter of one tree to the next. Their foliage rattled and whipped in the wind, and when he reached a cluster of kigelia trees, he eyed their long fruit warily. His mother used to tell him not to sit under these trees, especially in high winds: You’ll be crushed either by the fruit, or by the elephants who come to eat it.
Keeping one cautious eye on the swaying branches, he crept on. He was only a few tail-lengths away from Stinger now. The baboon sat on a boulder, staring out over the water, rubbing the scar above his nose. Beyond him, hippos wallowed in the choppy water, but he was otherwise alone.
“Stinger!” Fearless hissed.
Twisting, the baboon peered through the swaying branches. His face lit up. “Cub of the Stars!”
He ducked under the tree limbs and wrapped his arms around Fearless’s neck. Fearless’s pelt prickled with happiness.
“It’s good to see you, my young friend.” Stinger smiled. “How’s life with the lions?”
Fearless sank to his haunches and huffed. “Things could be better.”
Stinger sat beside him and placed a long-fingered paw on Fearless’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything, Cub of the Stars.”
It was a relief to let it spill out: how cruel Titan was, and how Artful had blinded Fearless’s mother. How she was hardly permitted to eat. “Titan hates me,” Fearless finished. “If he hadn’t sworn that oath, he’d kill me.”
Stinger’s amber eyes were thoughtful. “But you’ve not considered leaving the pride?”
Fearless shook his head. “I’ll never leave Mother and Valor. And I need to stay close to Titan so I can take back the pride. For my father’s honor.”
Stinger smiled, his yellowed fangs gleaming. “I thought as much. You told me so when you were very tiny, when I’d just carried you down from the eagle’s nest. Oh, my Cub of the Stars, you will take back your father’s pride. But look at you: you don’t have your mane yet. You are only beginning to be the lion you will eventually be. You must wait until the time is right.”
Fearless wrinkled his muzzle. “But how will I know when that is?”
“Believe me,” said Stinger, patting his neck. “You’ll know.”
Above them the kigelia branches tossed in the gale, making the long fruit swing alarmingly. “We should move from here, Fearless.”
Fearless rose with him and padded at his side along the scrubby bank. Stinger picked up smooth pebbles as they walked and tossed them idly into the water. He paused, dusted his paws, and looked out at the hippos, the wind ruffling his fur.
“I’ve told you that Stinger isn’t the name my mother gave me?”
Fearless nodded. “You took it from the scorpions, because you like eating them so much.” He’d tried the crunchy little creatures himself at Stinger’s recommendation, but had found them little better than rot-meat.
r /> “That’s true,” Stinger said. “But it’s not the only reason. I admire the scorpions, Fearless. They don’t hurry. They’ll eat almost anything smaller than them. Bugs, lizards, even mice. But first they’ll make sure their prey is trapped, that there’s no escape. Only then will they”—he slapped his paws together—“strike. Do you see what I’m telling you?”
Fearless frowned. Was he the scorpion in this story, or the lizard? “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“I’m saying that you must do the same. Titan overreaches himself, Fearless. One day, he will go too far, and he will have no escape. You’ll see that your chance has come, and you’ll know that you must strike. But until then, you must wait.”
Fearless nodded slowly. It made sense when his friend and mentor explained it. “Thanks, Stinger,” he said. “It’s hard, but I’ll wait.”
“It will be worth it.” Stinger smiled. “Believe me, Fearless, the waiting is everything. It makes the final strike all the sweeter.”
Fearless gave him a sidelong glance, a little taken aback. There was something in Stinger’s voice that unsettled him, but he shook himself. “How’s everything with the troop, Stinger? I wish I’d been there when they voted you Crownleaf, I’d have loved to see that. And how are Mud and Thorn? And Berry and old Beetle and—everybody?”
To Fearless’s surprise, Stinger didn’t answer immediately; he gazed out pensively over the water. A rising worry nibbled at Fearless’s gut.
“I hope we’re heading for happier times now,” said Stinger at last. “But can I confide in you, my Cub of the Stars?”
“Of course you can!” blurted Fearless.
“The thing is . . . I’m not sure the whole troop is behind me.” Stinger rested a paw against the lion’s shoulder, as if he needed his physical support. “I’ve heard rumors that baboons are plotting against me. Baboons I’ve trusted their whole lives! Sometimes I even worry that they might . . . might try to get rid of me.” Stinger closed his eyes. “Like poor Bark Crownleaf, and Grub who came after her.”
Fearless sprang to his paws. “Who could do such a thing?” he snarled. “Do you want me to come to Tall Trees? I could guard you. They wouldn’t dare try to get past me!”