Storm (7 page)

There’s no escape.

I look through the poles into the cage on one side. I know the creatures that live inside there; I’ve watched them from the safety of my straw nest during the day. Two of them are enormous; they stand on legs far taller than me. And their necks look as long as their legs—like camels. But they’re different; they don’t have humps and their coat is patterned and they have little skin-covered horns. Right now they’re asleep on the floor, their legs bent under them, their necks curled backward so that their heads rest on their rumps. They won’t stay that way for long, though. They hardly ever sleep.

There are tortoises in there too, lots of types. And wild sheep like the kind back home. If there’s anything else, it’s too small or too still to see.

I creep to the other side and look into that cage. All I’ve ever glimpsed in there by day are two reddish-colored deer and some very large lizard-like creatures. Now I see there are other animals too, sleeping in scattered little mounds. No outlines show well in the dark, though.

I press my face against the poles that look out onto the long, dark corridor. There’s no doubt there are cages on both sides of it the full length of the ship. But who lives in them is anyone’s guess.

I turn around and sit with one shoulder leaning against a pole. I am alive. Somehow I survived the sea serpent’s bite.
Somehow I keep surviving. I feel I am living on borrowed time. I keep thinking the rain will stop. Then I’ll jump out the side hole and swim to the closest land. But it doesn’t stop. Rain, rain.

I listen to the night. Bats make leathery flaps around me. Good. This boat is swarming with insects. How much worse it would be without those bats.

Instantly I feel guilty. My eyes pick out the short-legged, nearly hairless creatures that bump around in the dark nearby, two of them—and, oh, it seems all the animals on this ship come in twos, a female and a male. They search with their long snouts, then use an even longer tongue to swipe up whatever they find. They have rabbit ears and claws that look as strong as a brown bear’s and a naked tail that gets thinner and thinner as it goes down to a point. I have no idea what they are, but I’ve watched them, so I know they’re eating insects. If they’re smart enough, they might resent those bats. They’d hate me for wishing away their food. All right—
let there be enough insects for all.

Something crawls on my arm. I smack it. Then I laugh apologetically.

As though in response, a quiet throaty rumble comes from somewhere across the corridor. It echoes in the vast space inside this boat. The little hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. Another rumble, lower, meaner, little bursts of rolling threat. My breath seizes in my chest and burns me from the inside. There’s a lion on this boat. A very large male, from the sound of him.

And if there’s a male, there’s also a female. Female lions are the more skilled hunters. Everyone knows that. Males sleep and mate and eat. Lionesses do all the work. Unless the male lion on this ship is so bored he’s ready to kill his own food.

I wait for the next rumble. When it comes, I quickly crawl away from the poles, deeper into the cage. My hands move flat on the wood floor, silent but for the whisper of the straw as I push it aside. The rumbles come short and close together now, at an accelerating pace, like the lion’s growing impatient. I move fast. When the rumble ends, I stop moving instantly. I count the seconds. And lose track by the time the next rumble comes. I use that extended rumble to lie flat and cover myself with straw.

How very stupid I am. That lion’s in another cage. He can’t get me. Yet his roar reduced me to a quivering mass of fear anyway.

And now I sense vibrations in the wood. I put my ear to the floor. The vibrations spread through me everywhere, all up the back of my legs, my bottom, my spine, my shoulders, my palms, which are still flat on the floor. These vibrations are like an even lower rumble, one that can’t be heard. They come from below. From the side holes, I figured there was a deck below as well as a deck above. Now I know the one below has animals too. Large animals, ones that can make floorboards vibrate even far away. But animals that are afraid of lions. What other reason would there be to send a silent message? If you want to threaten back, you go louder, not softer. No, whatever animal lives on the deck
below was sending a warning to others to watch out for the lion.

How many animals are there on this ship? And what types? And where, where, where is Screamer?

What kind of poles hold in those lions? They have to be strong. The food-monger wouldn’t dare walk on this deck if the poles weren’t reliable. Unless he carries a weapon. Still, no weapon is secure against a lion. And no one could protect against two lions together. Why didn’t I see them before? Where exactly is their cage?

And where is Screamer?

Thump!

Something slams against the side of the ship from the outside. I am tempted to go to the side hole and lean out to see. I know it’s raining. It’s always raining. But there’s a moon glow tonight too. It slides around the air near the side hole. I could see something if I looked. But if I move, the lion may rumble again.

He’s a bully. The air on this deck is husky with the noises of nocturnal creatures. But he doesn’t rumble at them. He rumbles at me. He knew my laugh made me different. He senses my fear.

Well, I won’t be bullied. I sit up quickly and crawl to the side hole.

The lion roars.

I freeze.

Something furry pushes against my thigh. I cry out and roll away. But it’s Screamer, just Screamer, wonderful Screamer.
With something funny dangling from his mouth. A mouse. Ha! Screamer has made his first kill.

I pat him on the head.

Screamer growls.

I shake my head ruefully and stand. I walk to the side hole, knowing that my silhouette is visible in the moon glow if the lion is watching. Do lions have good night vision? I was always told not to go anywhere alone at night for fear of predators. Lions. Or men. Well, all that is past, all those old rules.

I stand there, though the lion roars again. I will myself not to flinch. When the roar fades away, I peek out the side hole, then close my eyes and turn my head so my mouth fills with cold rain. It is delicious. It washes my face. It washes my hair. I open my eyes and let the water splash even them clean. And what? What is that? A rope hangs along the side of the ship. But I can’t see its source. Whatever side hole it’s coming from is high up.

I look in every direction. There’s nothing else of note, nothing unusual. That rope must have made the thump I heard as it fell from above. Who’s at the other end of it? I lean out farther. I climb onto the lip of the side hole and look up.

Screamer screams.

I look down at the black waters below. My stomach lurches. I dive back through the side hole into the straw. What could have possessed me to act so reckless?

I stand and hug myself and look out the side hole. Water, water, everywhere. This is the end of the world. This ship of
animals is floating nowhere. I shake uncontrollably. What a sad way for everything to end. Maybe I would be better off to drown.

Screamer bashes his head into my calf. It’s his way of asking to be held. At least he doesn’t climb me anymore. I pick him up and squish him into a ball of fur and blood and bones under my neck. He seems to find this comfortable.

We stand there.

I ignore the noises around us. It’s only the food-monger I’m truly worried about now. The other animals are behind poles. But the food-monger has the power of freedom. He won’t see me, though. His feet clack when he comes—my warning signal. And anyway, he comes in daytime. Over and over again, so I have to be constantly on the alert. But at least it’s always daytime. I can forget about him tonight.

Finally, finally, the sky looks nearly rosy.

And now there’s a different noise. A beat, beat, beat noise. I turn and look. That shrike has come back. He’s found the dead serpent that Queen covered with straw. He’s pecking at it. He pecks, pecks, pecks, all in the same spot, never taking a bite, just pecking like a thing possessed. Finally he clamps his beak around the snake. Ha! He’s cut off a length of it. And this length is manageable; he flies off with it.

I grin as the bird disappears into the dark center of the ship. That bird is smart. I sink to my knees, still holding the ball that is Screamer under my neck. He’s asleep, the crazy kit. The other animals will be waking now. I might as well sleep. I’m exhausted.

But,
oh, the shrike comes back. Peck, peck, peck. His head moves so fast, he seems maniacal. He flies off with another length of snake. How delightful. I choose to see the bird’s behavior as driven by persistence, not greed. And persistence is a virtue I admire.

The part of the snake that remains is short enough that I know the bird won’t have to cut it again. Mischief flickers in me. Where can I hide that last piece of snake? And how can I do it without disturbing Screamer? I don’t want to wake the kit, because he will scare the bird.

I stand and run a toe along the snake length. It’s smooth and cool to the touch, not at all disgusting, though it gives off a rotten smell. I pick it up between my big toe and the others and squiggle, moving my standing foot zigzag to the side hole, and drape the snake over the lip. Nicely done. I turn my back to the side hole and stand in front of it.

The shrike returns. He flies in a circle over my head. He flies closer and closer. Could it be? I hardly breathe; I stand perfectly still. The shrike lands on my head. There’s a bird on my head! He’s so light, so delicate. How could anything that vulnerable trust something as big as me? The bird hops from my head down to the side hole behind me.

I turn to watch him.

I’m pushed aside. It’s Queen. She reaches for the bird.

I clasp both arms around Queen and tumble with her to the floor, as Screamer shrieks and falls in a scramble of legs and
tail and the bird flies off with the snake and The Male looks ridiculously confused and excited and, predictably, aroused. I laugh. But Queen is staring at me with an intensity that makes me swallow the laugh. We are both squatting now, facing each other. Queen is not even half my size. But her jaws are strong, her teeth are big, her arms and legs can do so much.

“I didn’t mean disrespect.” I speak softly. “We live together, Queen. We have to get along.”

Queen just stares at me. The Male tries to mate with Queen, but she pushes him away.

“Maybe you eat birds,” I say. “Maybe you eat anything. Just like I do. But we can’t eat that bird. I’m sorry. That bird is special. He landed on my head.”

The Male won’t be put off any longer. He mates with Queen, but Queen keeps her eyes on me the whole time, so I know she’s serious. Usually they look at each other as they mate. I can’t read her expression. All I know is that Queen is thinking hard about me. An icy knot forms in the middle of my chest.

When Queen and The Male finish mating, I go to the side hole. “You’re right: I owe you something. Look, Queen. Look.”

Queen comes to the side hole.

I point. Queen looks at my outstretched arm, but she doesn’t look where I point. I pick up a handful of straw and squeeze it into a ball and throw it. It hits the side of the ship near where that other rope hangs, the one that didn’t used to be there. Queen watches the straw ball fly and then fall into the
water. But she doesn’t notice the rope. I want to scream. Queen would like knowing about that rope; she likes to be aware of everything. But I don’t know how to make her look at it. I don’t know how to repay my debt.

I sink to the floor with my back to the boat wall. I need Queen. I need her protection. And I need her company.

Queen squats in front of me. She runs a hand over my breasts. Then she passes it over my belly. Around and around and around. She seems to sway a moment on her haunches. Then she saunters off.

It’s over. Queen has forgiven me. Maybe.

It’s been a long night. I crawl under the straw and sleep.

W
hat’s this!”

My eyes fly open. Screamer jumps onto my chest. I pin him there with both hands. Both of us have to stay hidden until I can figure things out. I lift my head just a little and look toward where the voice came from.

A man walks sideways, practically skittering on those noisy sandals. The food-monger. “You didn’t do this.” The way he talks is odd, but I can understand anyway. It’s not a totally different language—not like when travelers come overland from far away to trade in the city near my home. I wince. Home.

Light comes through the side holes on both sides of the ship and catches on the stone the man holds high in one hand. It illuminates him. He carries it when he comes down the ladder.
I’d never seen a stone do that before. His back is toward me, so I don’t know what his face is like, but his hair is deep brown and long and curly, held back by a band that ties around his forehead. Beyond him is a cage made of tight latticework rather than simple poles. The openings are too small to see from here what animals are inside. He stops and points at the creatures inside there. “How did it happen?” His voice is an accusation. He stamps a foot. “It’s impossible.”

The light bounces off his stone just right, and for an instant I see patches of orange through the lattice. A
chuff, chuff, chuff
noise comes from within. A thoroughly scary creature. My cheeks go slack.

“You can’t reach that high even standing on your hind legs. And I bet you can’t get enough of a running start in your small cage to leap that high. Besides, we’ve fed you only squid and mackerel and shark. That’s what all you predators get. Filthy squid and the worst kind of fish! So how? How?” He kicks at a wooden bucket sitting on the floor. “Impossible!”

Now a roar comes. It’s my lion!

A matching roar meets it from the next cage. Who’s that?

“I am not taking the blame for this! It’s not my fault.” The man rushes off and clatters up the ladder.

Everything has changed; the very air is charged. The creatures in my cage stand motionless, their eyes on the spot where the man was. Even Queen and The Male stand tall on their back legs. Something is going to happen, and all the animals know it.