Lionboy (24 page)

He smiled, and his smile made him brave.

And then it was the end of the show. All the horses and the zebras came into the ring, with colored lanterns on their backs, and took up their positions. They were forming, Charlie realized, a giant carousel: circling, dipping, and jumping in concentric rings going opposite ways, each one level up from the one outside it, so the form seemed to rise to a pyramid in the center like a wedding cake. And there at the top, where the bride and groom would be, tiny white ponies circled a rearing black stallion. Garlands and balloons and streamers of all colors fell from the ceiling, glittering and glinting in the shaft of colored swirling light. Rose petals flurried about, the band played on, and the big top roof opened to the sky and fireworks streamed up into the starry darkness. Charlie would have been beyond delight, but instead he was on his feet and running.

CHAPTER 17

T
he lights came up, the applause died down, the audience was drifting up the grand staircase saying, “Wasn’t that fantastic? Wasn’t that wonderful? That bit when the . . . And how about when the . . . And that girl! I’ve never seen anything like it . . .” The last sparks of the fireworks were drifting back down to sink in the murky waters of the canal basin. Charlie, out on the deck, invisible in the shadows, heard them plop and fizz.

He saw Mabel and Maccomo, heads together, emerging from the main entrance with the crowd. Rafi was with them. He sauntered a step or two behind, with the dog Troy on a leash. Every now and again he leaned forward to say something. When he did, Maccomo turned back to him with an ingratiating smile. Charlie, keeping himself invisible in the crowd behind them, got the impression that Maccomo had arranged to meet Rafi, but didn’t want him hanging around. He was being polite, though. It wasn’t often that Maccomo took the trouble to be polite.

The trio headed out on to the gangplank.

“Go on, go on,” breathed Charlie.

They were leaving.

Charlie ducked through the crowd and out into the gardens, where he was able to overtake them. Lurking in the shadow of the shrubbery, he could see their faces in the crowd. Mabel looked annoyed—she had wanted to be alone with Maccomo. Rafi had moved up, between her and the lion trainer, and was saying something. As they passed by Charlie’s hiding place, Charlie strained to hear, but couldn’t make anything out.

Then the men turned and, excusing themselves from Mabel, moved away from the path, the light, and the crowd. Charlie melted into the darkness. They were coming toward him. His heart pounding, he slipped behind a tree.

Rafi and Maccomo, in the shadows, hidden from the crowded path by a bush, were standing and pretending to pee. Charlie could see and hear them clearly. He could only hope that they could not see or hear him. He breathed lightly. His asthma attack had passed, and he felt fit and strong and ready.

“So, Maccomo,” Rafi was saying. “If your lionboy can do what you say, then obviously I have clients who would be interested in that. Any genuine unusual talent, genetic variation, skills—that kind of thing can always sell. You know that. But I’ve got to know that it’s genuine. I can’t turn up with some trick—this is science, not the circus, know what I mean? So you enjoy your dinner with your young lady”—here Rafi seemed to suppress a laugh—“and tomorrow I’ll come and have a look at him, and we’ll see what we can do. All right?”

Charlie, deep in the shadows, gave a dark smile. So that was it. Maccomo had told Rafi about the Cat-speaking. Rafi sells skills and talent—so Rafi had stolen his parents in order to sell them. And now Rafi wanted to sell him too. Whom to? The same people who have his parents? That would be one way of getting to where they were . . .

Stupid . . .

But Rafi obviously didn’t know that the Cat-speaking lionboy is Charlie Ashanti. How long before Maccomo lets slip Charlie’s name, and Rafi realizes that the boy with the talent is also the boy he was after anyway?

The moment Maccomo tells Rafi my name, thought Charlie, I am in deep doo-doo.

Rafi was still talking. “So my compliments to Ms. Stark,” he said smoothly, “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They started to move away, toward the bright lights. “By the way,” said Rafi. “Where is he now?”

“What, the lionboy?” said Maccomo, in his soft voice. “He’ll be back on the boat somewhere, maybe with the lions . . .”

“What’s his name?” said Rafi.

“Sharlie. Ch—arlie.”

“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!
”

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 woodpecker: 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 canal, and the way they had traveled so far. Ahead of them lay the run down to where the canal 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 balustrade onto the rope, a few seconds more to slither across the rope to the shore. They didn’t give a second glance to the dark space 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
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 shaggy 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 canal met the River Seine was under a bridge. Signs said no entry,
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 canal, 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 cocked 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 canal. 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 canal, and then, almost immediately, another. They had to pass 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 passed. 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 . . .