Rampage! (21 page)

But it was no good.

Alex yelled in horror as Aries vanished beneath a flurry of pounding fur. Bringing down its terrible paw, the cat sliced through the harness, sending the godly gifts flying in all directions, before continuing to drag it all the way down Aries’ flank. Five brilliant stripes of red sprang up as blood poured down Aries’ leg and splashed on to the sand below. Bleating desperately, he lumbered backwards, his face twisted in agony.

The jaguar hung on, bouncing and tossed, riding like
some demented jockey. Drool whipped from its mouths, as it looked teasingly one last time at Alex, before bringing its three heads down on to Aries’ back to sink its death bites into the ram’s spine.

‘No!’ screamed Alex.

Gagging from the now overpowering stench of rot, Alex lunged forwards, seized the tip of the spilled thunderbolt and dragged it across the ground. Sparks burst into the air and scorched his fingertips as, with his shoulders burning from effort, he hoisted the dazzling zigzag of silver into the air and, spinning round like a shot putter, slammed it hard into the jaguar’s side.

WHAM!

The animal squealed, jerking upright as power surged from the thunderbolt and engulfed its body. Darts of burning energy crisscrossed its tawny fur, singeing and hissing, tangling its flailing limbs in a net spun from lightning. Alex leaped back as sparks exploded around the howling creature as, paddling the air, it toppled sideways on to the sand. For a split second the jaguar lifted its heads towards him, its eyes dimmed with pain and confusion, before a deafening clap of thunder rent the air and the creature exploded in a cascade of black stars and yellowed bones that bounced down over the sand and splashed into the river.

Alex gaped, breathless, hardly able to believe that the creature was actually gone.

As the snakes coiled around his feet, he looked out into the river, staring as the last cage of rib-bones sank
beneath the water and felt a ridiculous tickle of laughter rise in his throat.

Then he turned to Aries.

The ram lay on the sand, his chest barely moving.

‘Aries?’ whispered Alex.

Feeling a fresh flash of panic, he stared at the wide gashes in the ram’s side, ragged-edged and livid. His broken horn glinted in the sunshine, the light twinkling on the gold dust peppering the twist of bone. A cloud of stained sand fanned out beneath his back and rump.

‘Aries?’ whispered Alex more urgently.

But there was still no response. Stumbling the last few steps, Alex dropped down beside him.

‘We’ve done it!’ he insisted desperately.

Leaning back, he shook Aries’ shoulders, horribly aware of how leaden the ram’s body felt beneath his fingers.

He stared, willing him to move.

A flicker of life trembled over Aries’ eyelids.

Then there was nothing.

XXII

G
LUM
A
ND
G
LUMMER

 A few hours later, Alex was certain that he’d never felt worse in his life (or death). Even being strapped to the plinth in Medea’s crypt back in London, with a deadly snake on his chest, hadn’t made him feel half as helpless as he did now, hunched over Aries’ limp body, stroking the ram’s brow.

In the time since he’d destroyed the jaguar, he’d kept everyone busy and particularly himself, in that rather desperate way that people do when things have gone so badly wrong that they can’t even begin to think about them properly and choose to do something practical instead.

First he’d built a makeshift shelter around Aries to protect him from the sun. Slung together from straggles of bamboo, tied with hammock ropes and covered with palm leaves, it stood in an upside-down V-shape over them both. But now that they were finally inside it, he realised it was lop-sided and a bit wobbly. Worse, he’d missed a bit in the corner and, staring at the sunlight shining through, he felt a stark hollowness in his chest, knowing that if Aries were well, he’d be prodding Alex with his
horns and pointing out that the sun was burning his hock, and how, precisely, was he supposed to make himself comfortable when his ankle was scorching? Except that, of course, Aries said nothing at all, and the only thing Alex heard was the dull thump of blood in his ears.

A lump rose in his throat and he tried to concentrate on inspecting the patchwork of grubby dressings he’d put on Aries’ wounds. For these he’d used Jason’s hammock – tearing it up furiously – before slathering each strip of calico with a paste of crushed Amazon buttercups. This was because Grass Snake had insisted that the yellow flowers growing along the riverbank reminded him of the pain-killing blooms Hippocrates had used to dress the injuries of Greek soldiers. Of course, no one could be sure if he was right or not, but they had nothing else to try and besides, all that wriggling along the water’s edge, stuffing as many of the plants as they could find into their mouths before scooting back to spit them out into Alex’s lap, ready to mash up, had given them something else to do.

Then whilst Gorgon had bossed Viper into collecting the spilled godly gifts and sent Adder slithering off to retrieve the sword of Achilles, Alex had searched the ferns to find the missing twist of Aries’ horn and tucked it safely in his pocket.

Lastly, he’d built a fire to keep predators away.

But now that there was nothing else he could think of to do to help Aries, he laid his hand on the ram’s quivering neck and gave in to the tidal wave of misery
he’d felt in his heart ever since he’d killed the jaguar. Hunching his knees up below his chin, he sank his face down and cried. Hot, furious tears ran down his face, soaking into his filthy jeans as he wished with every cell in his body that he’d listened to his best friend when he’d insisted that Jason was a fraud. Sobbing, he realised just how frustrated and hurt Aries must have felt every time Alex refused to believe him. He felt his heart tighten with longing, desperate to tell him that yes, he believed him now, that he was right, that Jason was nothing but a cheat, a fraud and an absolute coward. And what was more, if they ever made it home again, he’d tell everyone in the Underworld too. He’d shout about their ‘wonderful’ hero from the roof of the Tropical House of the Zoo until he was too hoarse to yell any more. The thought stemmed his tears for a moment, at least until a darker thought overtook it: that Aries might not ever wake up again for him to tell him anything.

At that moment, the call of a solitary night bird echoed through the darkness, trilling the same four notes, over and over again. It sounded sad and bewildered, and, listening to it, Alex felt as though it was mourning his own miserable state.

If only he’d listened.

If only he’d believed Aries when he tried to tell him that Jason would always let them down, that he didn’t do teams.

Moaning under his breath, he remembered how he couldn’t, no, he
wouldn’t
see it, because he’d been so keen
to learn how to be a real hero. But he saw it now, clearly, and the realisation made him feel utterly stupid. Duped, and trusting as a puppy, he’d chased after Jason, desperate to learn, like some ridiculous mini-Argonaut.

They should have been walking into the village by now. They should have been on the cusp of completing their quest. Instead, Aries was badly hurt and they were abandoned in the jungle. Jason had fled and taken the key to the Underworld with him. Rose was still in danger and there was nothing Alex could do about it because he absolutely couldn’t leave Aries’ side. And, any time now, Medea would probably try something else.

Again, the bird’s call echoed through the night, but this time, as he listened to its pained cry, Alex began to feel his remorse crystallising into something else.

Anger.

This was all Jason’s fault.

He punched the sand and, startled, the snakes peered into the mouth of the shelter, their faces – hooded, horned, mottled, stripy and green – all wearing the same expression of worry, staring at him like a
Greek chorus
about to break into a miserable lament, and he knew that they wanted him to say something encouraging.

Like what?

Unbidden now, a memory returned to him of his grandfather’s long-gone pottery studio in old Athens. He saw the rows of orange and black painted pots, drying in the sunshine, depicting all the marvellous things that Jason had done, and knew with cold certainty that the man he’d
seen today couldn’t possible have done any of them. Imagining knowing the truth about Jason all those years ago, his fingers twitched as he pictured himself pitching those shelves on to the floor, smashing the pots and stamping on the fragments until every line, every blush of paint, every trace of every last stupid, lying portrait of the
great
hero was no more than scattered rubble ready to dump in the rubbish pits of Attica.

Heroes didn’t run away.

Not proper ones, as Rose would have said. They stood and they fought and they saw it through no matter how hopeless things seemed. They stuck together and they risked themselves for each other, because where was the glory in succeeding, of winning any prize at all, no matter how glittering, if you left your friends to die?

Now looking down at Aries in the fading light, he recalled him, hot and miserable, persevering through the jungle, enduring Jason’s endless bragging. He saw him manhandled from the opera house and squashed into the little flying machine. He remembered his face, twisted in terror and absolute determination as he tried to throw the monstrous jaguar off his back and realised something else about proper heroes.

They didn’t give up.

Oh, blimey.

Everything is going a bit pear-shaped, isn’t it? And talking of pear-shaped, have you ever seen a picture of a Common Potoo bird? He’s the night warbler that was
trilling his little heart out so sadly in the last scene. Personally, as a pick-me-up at this most gloomiest of moments, I’d suggest cranking up the computer and checking him out on the net. Go on. Have a look! I guarantee he’ll make you smile. He’s like a flying feather duster with mad googly-eyes.

And indeed, how he might have cheered Rose up that night by zooming over her hammock. Except that, obviously, he didn’t, meaning that Rose lay exactly as she had done for the past couple of hours, hot and horribly irritable. Tonight the snores around her seemed as loud as jets and her bed felt stitched from wire as she twisted over again, considering that ever since she’d left it that morning the day had grown steadily worse. Which, when you’ve already raised a ghost before most people sit down for breakfast, is saying something.

For starters, the lagoon had been nothing like the magical place she’d imagined from the way Medea had described it the day before. An eerily silent spot, secluded by jungle, it had been a wide stretch of night-dark water, and as soon as Rose had seen it, her father’s frightened words flashed back into her mind, loud and clear:
Water so dark, Rose, water as black as oil
… Shivering, she’d stared across its glassy surface, trying to tell herself not to be so silly, because there must be lots of lakes, equally drear and desolate, dotted throughout the rainforest. Except that despite trying hard to rally her common sense, her skin still prickled icily under the heat of the sun, and her stomach raged with furious butterflies and
she couldn’t help but wonder if any of those other pools of black water gave off quite such a dreadful sense of menace.

Trying to calm herself, she’d studied the high bluff of rock that loomed at the northern edge of the lagoon, tracing its cracked face with her eyes. Ridged with terraces and crags, and dotted with outcrops scattered with stones, it looked ancient, majestic even. Yet all she’d been truly aware of was the way it cast its cold shadow over the caimans dozing in the treacly water below.

Whilst she and Wat had uneasily hung back, watching an anaconda, as thick as a car tyre, swim over the water’s surface, Medea had skipped down to the shoreline. Delighted, she’d clapped her hands as gaily as if she’d happened on the most perfect of boating lakes, the sort that has painted rowboats, islands all clucky with ducks and a charming ice-cream café to boot.
47

Right before she’d turned round, smiled icily and refused to return Wat to England again.

That’s right.

Even though he’d kept his end of the bargain like a gentleman, she had simply shaken her head and walked away up the slope towards the jungle, explaining that really, she didn’t have enough magic to waste on silly little spells like that.

Now bristling against her hammock, Rose remembered
how Wat had vanished into the jungle in a flurry of silk and lace, brandishing his mallet overhead, whilst she’d watched, her stomach churning like a mad concrete mixer filled with shock and dismay. All the way back to the village, Rose had been too furious to speak a single word to Medea and, despite the delicious smell of stew and freshly baked manioc bread wafting from the
molucca
as they’d arrived in the village, had found her appetite had completely deserted her too.

Throwing off the light blanket, she curled up into a ball, disgusted at herself for even feeling surprised at the sorceress’s behaviour. After all, what was breaking your word to a ghost compared to the awful things that Medea had done in her lifetime? A big fat nothing, thought Rose. Apart from the fact that Medea couldn’t have abandoned Wat here at all, if Rose hadn’t helped her with the summoning spell. Making it just as much her fault as Medea’s that Wat was stranded thousands of miles from home, from his family and from everything he loved and understood.

Just like her father.

Her face burned with the shame of it. And now, just to top off her wretched mood, some ridiculous bird had started crooning gloomily on the tree outside.
48

Trying to soothe her conscience, she reminded herself that bringing Wat back had been an essential step in retrieving the El Dorado gold that would cure her father.

Yet at what cost?

She felt her heart sinking, imagining him out there, stumbling through the jungle in the dark. How could it
ever
be right to trade one person’s happiness for another’s? To break promises as carelessly as Medea? She sat up in the hammock, frowning indignantly. Surely she didn’t have to let it happen, did she? Couldn’t she use her own stash of Reversal Potion to send him home again? After all, it had worked on her father, maybe only for a short time, but mightn’t it be powerful enough to put this injustice right? For a moment she settled back, feeling a cool calmness wash through her. Until, like a pebble tossed into a pond, a darker thought rippled through her mind: what if she was fooling herself? What if learning sorcery was bound to turn you into a bad person anyway, however hard you tried? What if its power warped you from the person you wanted to be and made you just as mean as Medea?

Freshly miserable, she found her mind returning to the scroll-journal that she’d picked up the day before and the phrase that had so surprised her: ‘
To lovingly protect him with sorcery’.

Lovingly protect?

That hardly sounded like the Medea she knew. She scowled as the notion jumped about in her mind like an irritable flea until, certain that sleep was impossible, she slid out of the hammock and walked over to the window. Then, taking the scroll-journal from the pocket of her shorts, she unfurled it, letting the moonlight splash on to its pale vellum.

But only a few sentences into the first column, she felt her heart sink, realising that this wasn’t Medea’s teenage diary at all, or a diary belonging to any other young woman for that matter. Bridling her frustration, she looked at a detailed sketch of a ship drawn in the top left-hand corner, and waited as the Greek letters written beneath its bowsprit melted into the vessel’s English name:
Argo.

Rose’s eyes widened in astonishment.

The parchment suddenly felt dusty beneath her fingers, musty and frail with age, and she scanned the first column of writing. It comprised a list of men’s names written against the jobs that they must have done aboard ship: