Lionboy Part 16

"Charlie what?" said Rafi with a sudden alert look.

Charlie turned.

He heard Mabel's voice behind him, calling, "Come on, Maccomo, what's keeping you?"

He ran. Quicker than Rafi, because only Charlie knew that the race was on.

Straight to the ship, straight to the lionchamber.

Six sets of yellow eyes greeted him in the darkness of the cabin, and a new kind of energy awoke in him. He took the big, heavy old key from its hook, and unlocked the cages.

"How goes it, Lionboy?" came the voice of the oldest lion.

"Fine," said Charlie shortly. "Rafi is here. We're off. Now! Now!"

The oldest lion heard the urgency in his voice. "Ride the young lion," he said. "Quicker."

Charlie didn't hesitate. It was true that a lion could not hide so well in the shadows with a boy on his back, but it was even truer that a boy is slower than a lion.

He grabbed his jacket, shouldered his bag, gave the youngest lion a grin, and slipped out the door of the chamber. All was quiet outside, just as he had expected.

But Rafi was out there somewhere, and coming for him.

Charlie made himself look around carefully, before letting the lions slide out, then closed the door behind them and locked it. He remembered his mum's lab door, open when it should have been shut, right at the beginning of this adventure: his first warning of danger. His heart was pounding like a woodp.e.c.k.e.r: quick, light, relentless.

Charlie could hardly see the lions as they slunk against the walls of the cabins, in the dark areas where neither moonlight nor lamplight fell. Over by the gangplank, the sounds of voices and activity bustled and hummed. Laughter came over the water, and the lights twinkled. Way above, along the boulevard above the basin, streetlights and people and traffic were going about their business. Behind them lay the ship, and the ca.n.a.l, and the way they had traveled so far. Ahead of them lay the run down to where the ca.n.a.l met the river, then the river itself, which they had to cross to get to the station.

The rest of the night was dark and quiet, cool and damp and rivery. The moon was still low.

The lions hooded their eyes and disappeared-no more than dark shadows as they glided along the stern, breathing fresh air for the first time in months. It took no more than seconds for them to slide over the bal.u.s.trade onto the rope, a few seconds more to slither across the rope to the sh.o.r.e. They didn't give a second glance to the dark s.p.a.ce between the ship and the quayside, to the gleaming cold water at the bottom of the abyss, or the slimy green weed shining on the wall of the quay. Charlie, for a horrible moment, wondered how he he was supposed to get over. Could he clamber across the horrible gap, clutching the nasty, rough, slippery, salty rope? was supposed to get over. Could he clamber across the horrible gap, clutching the nasty, rough, slippery, salty rope?

The young lion was beside him.

"On," he whispered urgently, his breath warm in the darkness, and Charlie was glad to climb onto his long back and lie clasped to him, smelling the warm, sweet, furry smell and feeling the muscles move beneath him as the lion, like a river made flesh, slid over the railings and across the rope.

"Go! Go!" urged Charlie, his hands caught up in the young lion's s.h.a.ggy mane, his legs clutching tight to the golden back. Rafi could be under any tree, behind any bush. With luck he was on the ship, trying and failing to get into the lionchamber. But who could count on luck?

The young lion began to run, and Charlie realized he was panting. There was the shrubbery, and the shadows. He had counted on being safe hiding in the shadows, but now the shadows themselves held danger.

There was a shout behind them-angry, violent. His name: "Charlie! Charlie, you little graspole-"

Rafi. Definitely.

"Ignore it!" Charlie cried. "Go on!" The lions were quicker than Rafi-best to race ahead.

"Faster!" he hissed in the young lion's ear, and the young lion ran. So did the oldest lion. So did Elsina.

The lionesses did not.

They growled.

Behind him, as he hurtled through the damp night air, Charlie heard another shout, a human cry-a scream. A dreadful scream. And a splash. It chilled his soul.

He tried to look over his shoulder. "What was that?" he yelled. The young lion didn't slacken.

"Stop!" Charlie shrieked. "Don't!"

He didn't even know quite whom he was yelling to, or what he was telling them to stop.

All he knew, deep inside him, was the dreadfulness of that scream. Until he heard it, it had not occurred to him that the lions might not agree with him, might not obey him. Now that single sound reminded him: These are wild animals. They hunt for food. They've been locked up for years. That's an enemy chasing after them.

"Shut up," panted the young lion. "Shut up. Never mind."

Never mind?

Charlie closed his eyes and hung on for dear life. He had never seen the lions out in the open, with room enough to pick up their pace. They were quick. They were in the park alongside the Port de Plaisance in no time, hugging the walls and sprinting through the gaps. Rosebushes dangled their flowers above them; the high wall was to their left and the moored boats down to their right. In moments, they reached the end of the park. We have to go back, Charlie thought. We have to go back-that was a human being- Yes, but it was Rafi-and Rafi wounded and in the water was better than Rafi strong and angry and coming after them.

Of course they couldn't go back.

Under the high walls at the far end of the basin, the lions ran swift and silent over the cobblestones, avoiding iron mooring rings and posts. The noise of the traffic drifted down to them from the boulevard as they lurched along in the damp basin. The old stone wall was set with iron gates and mysterious doorways; racing past, Charlie had no time to wonder where they led. He just held on tight. A flurry of ducks, disturbed and quacking, scurried into the water with an unnaturally loud splashing.

The final lock before the ca.n.a.l met the River Seine was under a bridge. Signs said no entry, Pas de Pietons. Pas de Pietons. The lions swiftly sneaked under the bar and brought themselves to a halt in the silent darkness on the narrow footpath beside the ca.n.a.l, under the bridge. The lions swiftly sneaked under the bar and brought themselves to a halt in the silent darkness on the narrow footpath beside the ca.n.a.l, under the bridge.

"What happened?" gasped Charlie. "What have they done?"

The oldest lion gave him a curious look. "That was your enemy!" he said. "The one who stole your parents, you said. The one who threatens you."

"Yes," said Charlie, puzzled. It didn't seem that simple, though. "Yes, but . . ."

What if Rafi were dead? He didn't want to say it out loud.

The young lion c.o.c.ked his head. Elsina was breathing fast and smooth, looking back to where her mother must be.

And where were the lionesses?

They all stared back the way they had come. No sound. Nothing to be seen.

The lock was right beside them: horribly deep, and horribly dark, and shiny, and close. The drop into the river, beyond the pale green metal lock gates, was even deeper and darker. Trickles of water seeped through the metal plates, making a small echoing noise. On one side of the thin-looking gates was high dark water; on the other a deep drop into blackness. Charlie, rolling from the young lion's back, kept himself close to the wall. He was grateful to find a cold, narrow metal handrail to hold on to. All they needed now was for someone to fall into that black abyss. He was glad they only had to go alongside the ca.n.a.l. Crossing it would have been even worse.

They breathed and rested for a moment. Above them, beyond the bridge, there was a second bridge over the ca.n.a.l, and then, almost immediately, another. They had to pa.s.s under all three before they got to the river, wide and swift and dark.

"Charlie?" said the oldest lion.

At that moment a thundering dragon roared across the next bridge. Instinctively, they all flattened against the damp wall, staring wildly at the monster as it pa.s.sed. A few of the monster's eyes stared back-it was a metro train, full of people going home late. Some of them, staring out the window into the night, saw the reflective gleam of six yellow eyes, but they would never guess what it was that they had seen.

"Before another one comes," the oldest lion hissed.

"But the lionesses!" cried Charlie, his voice tangled.

"Trust them," said the oldest lion. "They're hunters. You mustn't be caught."

Charlie was not comforted to hear that they were hunters.

"Have they eaten him?" he whispered. Though Rafi was his enemy and meant him nothing but harm, he couldn't bear the thought . . .

"We are lions, Charlie," the oldest lion said softly. "We hunt. We eat."

Charlie stared at him.

Everywhere he looked in himself, he found fear.

"But we are not stupid," the oldest lion continued. "We eat at leisure. Not when we are escaping with our lives. We do not eat humans, on human territory. We are not stupid."

Charlie gulped. He was fooling himself if he thought he was in charge of anything here.

"Onward," said the oldest lion.

Just by the stern of the Circe, Circe, a lumbering, spitting shape was emerging from the dark, cold water, shattering the reflections of streetlights and circus lights into a thousand wet shards across the surface. His white hands clutched the stone blocks lining the quay, and he pulled himself heavily out of the water. His leather coat was soaked, and his face furious. His movements were stilted: One of his arms was weak, and in its hand he clutched a small clump of something wet and dark . . . a tiny handful of golden fur, sodden with the ca.n.a.l water. a lumbering, spitting shape was emerging from the dark, cold water, shattering the reflections of streetlights and circus lights into a thousand wet shards across the surface. His white hands clutched the stone blocks lining the quay, and he pulled himself heavily out of the water. His leather coat was soaked, and his face furious. His movements were stilted: One of his arms was weak, and in its hand he clutched a small clump of something wet and dark . . . a tiny handful of golden fur, sodden with the ca.n.a.l water.

As he came to standing, he wiped his pale face with his good arm, and then touched the bad arm. Even in the dim light, he could see on his fingers that the water dripping off him was mixed with blood.

"Troy!" he bellowed. A big slathery dog lolloped up to him, whimpering and limping from a wounded back leg.

He held out the clump of soggy fur to the animal's twitching nose. "Fetch," he said, and his voice was grim.

Charlie climbed slowly back onto the young lion's back. Though the lion was sure-footed, the towpath was narrowing and the water seemed just too close now. As the lion loped along, the black water raced past, just beneath his right legs.

Between the road bridge and the metro bridge a metal spiral staircase led up to street level to the left. A group of people went past on the road up there, laughing and playing around. Charlie and the lions ducked swiftly under the black, industrial-looking girders of the metro bridge. Had they been seen? A pigeon, confused by their presence there so late at night, flew suddenly out, flapping and fl.u.s.tering. Some small, black, fluttery shapes moved in the darkness. Bats.

Another small gap of sky, and then there was the third and final bridge over the ca.n.a.l: much bigger, more modern-looking-more of an overpa.s.s, a great concrete construction, twentieth-century probably, and the noise from it was thunderous as vehicles roared by overhead. The towpath continued underneath, and as they followed it out to the river, Charlie realized that he had made a big mistake.

The young lion and Elsina stopped abruptly.

The oldest lion, just behind, caught up with them.

The towpath, when they finally turned the corner and emerged from under the concrete overpa.s.s, led to a narrow ledge at the base of the great, high wall that separated the overpa.s.s from the river, and the ledge led not to the bridge over the river, the bridge they had to cross, but on and on as far as the eye could see, stuck between the deep mobile water of the Seine on the right and the forty-foot sheer wall sloping up to the left.

It was about a foot wide.

The bridge they needed, the bridge that crossed the river, was only a couple hundred yards away, but it was also a couple hundred yards above them, and there was no way up.

Charlie stared at it. The lions stared at it.

Charlie remembered again how his dad said it was good not to swear, because that way you kept the swear words for when you really needed them.

Charlie swore.

The mothers knew exactly what they were doing. The silvery lioness headed back the way they had come: onto the Circe Circe and off down the mooring rope on the bow, then along the water's edge to the tunnel leading under the Bastille metro, back into the Ca.n.a.l St. Martin. When she reached the third skylight, only dimly lit by the streetlights from above, she paused, and breathed, and waited. and off down the mooring rope on the bow, then along the water's edge to the tunnel leading under the Bastille metro, back into the Ca.n.a.l St. Martin. When she reached the third skylight, only dimly lit by the streetlights from above, she paused, and breathed, and waited.

The bronze lioness went across the park until she came to the high wall. She sloped alongside it, pa.s.sing the mysterious iron gates and doorways till she came to one that was open. She slunk in, and from within she climbed carefully onto the top of the door, where she paused, and breathed, and waited.

The yellow lioness, with blood on her claws, raced down to the lock, but she was too late to reach Charlie and the others. They had been here: She could smell them. And if she she could, that dog would too. The yellow lioness flicked her whiskers, squatted down, and then she peed, a lot. She stared through the gloom, trying to make out the other side of the ca.n.a.l, but she couldn't see clearly. Then, elegantly, carefully, she picked her way across the slender top of the lock gate: cold, deep water on one side, twenty-foot drop into cold, deep water on the other. At the other side she checked-yes, a huge, rusty, spiked metal barrier bolted into the wall blocked the towpath on that side. Clearly, people were not meant to use this side. She flicked her whiskers again. could, that dog would too. The yellow lioness flicked her whiskers, squatted down, and then she peed, a lot. She stared through the gloom, trying to make out the other side of the ca.n.a.l, but she couldn't see clearly. Then, elegantly, carefully, she picked her way across the slender top of the lock gate: cold, deep water on one side, twenty-foot drop into cold, deep water on the other. At the other side she checked-yes, a huge, rusty, spiked metal barrier bolted into the wall blocked the towpath on that side. Clearly, people were not meant to use this side. She flicked her whiskers again.

She had seen locks before. Her plan would work. She shivered, and she paused, and breathed, and waited.

They couldn't go back. They couldn't stay here. They couldn't do nothing. There was no time to think.

So were they going to swim? Charlie looked out at the Seine: wide, rushing, and undoubtedly cold.

He looked at the wall.

He looked at the ledge.

He thought of all that Sigi had taught him about balance and agility and trusting your body.

I have done handstands in the rigging of the Circe, Circe, he thought. I can do this. he thought. I can do this.

"Come on," he said, and he started to lead the lions out.

"One moment," said the young lion. "Take my tail."

So the young lion led, and Charlie held on to his strong, wiry tail. Elsina and the oldest lion followed behind, treading carefully on their sensitive cat feet and using their tails to balance. Way above and beyond them the whole of the great city of Paris was carrying on, its lights and its people, its busy roads and its chattering restaurants, its trees and its late-night shopping, its cars and bars and trains and parties, its hospitals and stations and harbors and circuses, and all alone, in the heart of the city, this little procession of lions and boy walked slowly, carefully, invisibly along an eight-inch ledge between the water and the wall, and n.o.body knew they were there.

Way beyond Paris, at this very moment, though Charlie could not know it, his parents were being taken from a huge parking lot, through a beautiful, moonlit subtropical garden full of palm trees and huge rounded rocks with a stream trickling over them, into a large, complex low-lying building. Not that Magdalen and Aneba could see it-they were still blindfolded.

"Hi there!" exclaimed a pretty, smiling receptionist in the entrance hall. She had a plant on her desk and her eyes were blue and round, and her clothes extremely clean. She didn't seem to notice that the two guests were handcuffed and blindfolded, or that the three men from the personnel department were propelling them at gunpoint. She didn't even seem to know that it was the middle of the night.

"Hi there! We have an appointment with the Chief Executive," smiled one of the personnelguys. "New staff arriving!"

"Hey, welcome to the Corporacy Gated Village Community, where we embrace our aspirations!" the receptionist said cheerfully. "And you are . . . ?"

Aneba and Magdalen said nothing. They couldn't-they were still gagged.