CHAPTER NINE: CHASING RAINBOWS AND RESCUING CHERUBS.
Three paces from the chasm's edge, Blain and another equally hefty villager heaved on a lever lodged under the planks. Their grunting increased, and then they gave a mighty roar. Immediately an avalanche of wood rumbled and rattled its way down the chasm's side. Blain shouted again: 'Now ladies – now!' and from the other side of the river, a second avalanche of wood hurtled downwards. The bridge or, rather, its planks were reunited. As if they were performing a well rehearsed dance, villager women took turns to hurl armfuls of woodland debris over the chasm's side, twigs and leaves knitted themselves into the bridge's planks. Meanwhile, to patch up any weak spots, their men folk strategically aimed small boulders into the wooden bank. Within seconds the river's waters slowed to a trickle.
Neb patted Balkind. 'See – all gone – water all gone.'
Blain's plan had worked. His makeshift dam of jumbled planks, jammed with branches, bracken, and boulders, filled the basin of the chasm. But on the other side of the barrier, the water was already noticeably higher and continued to rise. The makeshift nature of the dam worked in their favour though. Water found its way through cracks and crevices, and the trickle grew into a stream, relieving some of the pressure. Balkind peered down the slope with interest, then looked away. Neb curled his arm around Balkind's leg, and leaned out over the chasm, seeking the ledge Samara had spoken of. He saw her huddled against the slope, just where the river curved. She hunched on a barely there ledge, about twelve arm's lengths above Luke's body. Now only pools of water and mud surrounded the child, but the mud would be quicksand soft and treacherous. And at any moment, the river could burst through the dam.
Blain called again: 'Go – fly! What are you waiting for?' The giant continued to shovel tree limbs down onto his dam, but Vander led a posse of men towards boy and griffin. It wouldn't be long before their perplexed expressions turned to anger. Time was running out.
Reaching up, Neb tugged Balkind's head down to his, and rested his brow against Balkind's brow. Balkind nibbled at his tunic's shoulder, and Neb flinched. 'Balkind, look,' he angled Balkind's head so the griffin could see into the ravine.
'See Balkind, see? Cherub.' He used the term for a baby griffin, folded his arms and made a rocking motion. Balkind clucked in alarm and rushed forwards. Neb placed a warning hand on his withers. 'No, no, Balkind. Balkind – catch – catch cherub.' Balkind clucked uncertainly, and cocked his head to one side to peer down the ravine again. 'Yes, catch. Good Balkind!' Neb reached up, grabbed Balkind's snout and placed his brow against Balkind's again. He blew softly through his nose, into Balkind's nostrils. 'Behave Balkind. Behave – best behave.' He let go of the griffin's head, and pressed on the griffin's shoulder. Balkind crouched, and snuffled with pleasure at his own obedience.
The villagers' mutterings were audible now –
'He's scared'
'lost his nerve.'
'You can never trust an outsider.'
Vander shouted, 'I'll fly the bloody griffin,' and broke into a run, just as Neb threw his leg across Balkind's back. Balkind's wings puffed out, he flapped them twice sending Vander and his gang diving to the ground. Neb pressed his feet into Balkind's flanks, and pressed his palms against the edge of the griffin's wings. The griffin's wings unfurled, its haunches coiled and Balkind leapt into the chasm.
Balkind’s wings sliced into the air and forced it downwards, creating a slip stream behind him and his rider. Then, like a swimmer reaching forwards with both arms to propel through the water, the griffin’s massive wings stroked upwards again, captured another wingspan of air and pushed it down and behind them. Neb's palms rested on the griffin’s main flight veins, protruding either side of the animal’s shoulders. His own heart kept time with Balkind’s hearts as they increased their tempo. Within five wing-beats, they were over the chasm. Neb squeezed his left hand against Balkind’s vein, and the griffin responded by lowering his left wing. They flew over the red haired women, and circled over Blain’s dam.
The rush of exhilaration that always accompanied those first moments of flight should be draining; the sight of thousands of tons of water battering at Blain’s dam should scare him senseless. But instead of Neb's senses leaving him, they heightened. He saw the world with new eyes; as a child does. Everything appeared magnified – he could see the individual fronds that made up Balkind’s feathers. He watched buds unfurling from a distant chestnut tree, and the delicate scent of blossom filled his nostrils. Yet at the same time, the world shrunk. He was outside his body, looking down on the scene: A griffin stretched its silvery wings to glide over a muddy ravine; a boy with startling white blond hair crouched on its back, urging the beast onwards and downwards. Something barely seen streamed alongside the griffin and his rider. Neb focused on these ribbons of dancing light. Strands of glistening yellow, gold and copper raced along, inches from the ground. They flowed around and through trees, grass and villagers; and every living thing they touched glowed with a new light.
I’ve been blind. I’ve never really opened my eyes before, he thought. It seemed the saddest thing to leave this world of lightness behind and plunge deeper into the dank chasm. But Balkind was a griffin on a mission, intent on reaching the “cherub”, and without waiting for instructions, descended into the chasm. With a stab of regret, knowing this world of high spirits was not for him, at least not yet, Neb concentrated on guiding his griffin. Balkind’s wing tips fluttered against the mud banks, which towered above them. The newly exposed earth reeked of mould and vegetation. A dampness pervaded everywhere. From far behind he heard water battering against a solid object. They were skimming yards above the river’s bed now, and up ahead, a tree protruded from the mud. Neb brushed his knees against the outline of Balkind’s shoulder muscles. The griffin’s forelegs un-tucked from his belly, and stretched outwards. Immediately, their flight faltered and slowed. The bundle of clothes attached to the tree stirred, and the tree settled deeper into the mud.
We wasted too much time, I wasted too much time; we’ll never reach him in time. Instead of an effortless swoosh-swoosh, Balkind’s wings scrabbled at the air. A tremendous blast sounded from behind: Blain’s dam had been breeched; an ice cold wind swept through the muddy channel. The uproar of churning water increased, already the first sprays splashed along the basin. Balkind squawked in anger, and flapped his wings harder. From above and to Neb's right, a voice shouted ‘Now Luke, now! Get ready!’ The tree trunk rolled as Luke struggled to sit upright. His eyes were wide and fixed on Balkind. They were only wing beats away, but a churning mass of water thundered on Balkind’s tail. The griffin shied upwards, they were almost upon the child – but the river surged directly below Balkind. This was a race they could not win. Samara’s voice screeched again ‘Now Luke!’
A determined look flashed across the child’s face; he pulled his feet under his haunches, and just as the river’s waters smashed against the tree trunk, sweeping it free from the rocks and sending it hurtling downriver, Luke jumped with out stretched arms.
‘Catch, Balkind, catch!’ Neb shouted.
Balkind’s forequarters tilted forwards – his wings beat double time, adding to the unbearable crescendo of noise filling the chasm. Neb thought he heard Samara scream, a strange rippling noise came from below Balkind, as though something dragged in this maelstrom. Ahead of them, the river’s channel curved. Balkind’s mouth was open, and he wheezed with the effort of negotiating the bend. As they straightened up, Neb leaned forwards and peered down. Beneath them, the river was in full spate again, it raged inches below Balkind’s belly. Luke dangled from the griffin's talons, submerged up to his waist. Up ahead, the waters swirled and frothed as if in a boiling cauldron. Neb knew what this meant: Another outcrop of rocks, this time fully submerged, waited to rip Luke’s body from the griffin’s grasp.
Neb's skin, already drenched with damp, goose bumped painfully. With a sob, he curled his hands around the edges of Balkind’
s main wing arteries. He pulled his knees up until they pressed together over Balkind’s back, and lodged his feet against Balkind’s wings. Then, summoning every ounce of strength, he yanked Balkind’s wing edges up. His biceps strained with the effort, and his shoulders rippled with pain. Balkind squawked as he yanked the griffin’s wings upwards again. Neb's feet scrabbled for purchase, his knees slipped and he flattened the length of his body against the griffin’s back. He pulled at Balkind’s wing edges again, adding his strength to Balkind’s powerful muscles. Pain shot through his lower back, sizzled up to his shoulders and nestled in his arms. Unbidden tears spurted from Neb's eyes. But they were climbing. The air became fresher, the trench’s sides widened. Still he kept his hands hooked over Balkind’s wings, his arms spread along Balkind’s flight feathers. They flapped in unison with Balkind, and he became part of the griffin. He felt the griffin’s triumph in his own chest, and when Balkind bellowed, he bellowed too.
Balkind’s wing stroke returned to its usual casual swipe against the air currents. His skin convulsed, as if to shrug off excess water. Neb scrambled to regain his seat, just in time to stop Balkind performing a full and thorough shaking of his feathers. ‘No! Balkind, no,’ he said. With his hands back in riding position, he directed the griffin’s flight. They circled back to the villagers, who huddled together once more and cheered. Neb sensed Balkind getting ready to soar into the skies and perform a victory dance. ‘Steady, steady,’ he said, and kept a gentle pressure against the griffin’s sensitive wing veins. The hot humid air that usually surrounded the griffin in flight was back, but still Neb shivered in his damp clothes. Poor little Luke, first dipped in ice cold water and now dangling from Balkind's talons, would perish from cold and shock if they didn’t land soon.
‘Steady, steady,’ Neb repeated, stroking his hands across Balkind’s flight veins. The beautiful dancing lights had vanished, a sickening throb had returned to his shoulders, and the villagers shouting at him were an unwanted distraction. Neb's eyes swept the landscape; there were no handy haystacks or even a bushy tree nearby. A shout caught his attention; he looked down to see a giant racing towards them with exaggerated leg movements. It was Blain, and his belly bounced with the effort of running with thick mud dragging at his feet. An unusual sensation bubbled in Neb's chest, and he giggled. Blain, now running directly underneath Balkind, scowled up at him and shouted again.
‘Drop the child!’
Of course – Luke! Neb giggled again at his own silliness, leaned forwards and shouted, ‘Balkind, drop!’ He heard a thump, followed by an ‘oomph,’ and leaned sideways to peer down at the ground. Blain lay spread eagled in the mud with the child splurged face down over his stomach. As Neb watched, Lydia, Lillian and a few other women streamed towards Blain and Luke, both struggling to extract themselves from the mud.
‘Good catch!’ he shouted, as Balkind soared up into the sky. This time, Neb didn’t try to restrain him.
Balkind had earned his victory dance.
Neb whooped as they roller coastered through the skies. Balkind bellowed, and a deep throaty bellow answered. Neb twisted his head to see Fletcher flapping towards them. His golden wings pushed down against the air with the greatest of efforts, and the old griffin’s head drooped with weariness. No wonder. On his back sat Romulus. Behind Romulus, another stout man rode pillion. Even from here, Neb could see the Griffin Master’s lips set in a thin line. Sensing his rider had sobered, Balkind stopped cavorting. Romulus stretched his arm out straight and then dropped it; his order was clear: “down.”
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Neb signalled Balkind to land. The griffin touched down and then crouched for its rider to dismount. As he slid from the griffin’s back, Neb saw that Balkind had landed conveniently close to the remains of some roasted fish. But there was no time to caution Balkind to behave; Fletcher landed, and also crouched for his rider to dismount. The older griffin shot Balkind a warning look and cackled. Romulus stomped towards them. The unscarred side of the Griffin Master’s face was puce and his lips worked furiously to push aside spittle. Romulus literally foamed at the mouth. Neb stood to attention on legs that had turned to jelly and tried to control his trembles. From the corner of his eye, he saw Balkind slobbering over fish bones. That decided him; Neb screwed his eyes closed tightly and hoped that his punishment would abate Romulus’s rage. At least most of the villagers appeared to have deserted the river’s bank. Apart from a couple of men rolling one of the pickle barrels towards the woods, there would be no one to witness his humiliation. The smell of griffin sweat swept over Neb, the searing pains in his shoulders chose that moment to return, and he clenched his fists, thinking: Don’t faint. Whatever happens, don’t faint. At that moment, a woman’s scream rang out:
‘Wulfstan! Husband – Luke’s safe! The griffin rider saved our child.’
Neb's eyes sprung open, black spots danced inches from his nose. Through them, he saw Lady Lydia, her skirts hitched up and her legs flashing as she sprinted from the woods towards her husband. Both Wulfstan and Romulus turned towards her, both with identical expressions of surprise. The black spots danced again; they magnified to flood his vision, and Neb's conscious thoughts simply slipped away.
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