First published in Great Britain in 2018 by
Andersen Press Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.andersenpress.co.uk
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
Silent Spring by Rachel Carson
Copyright © 1962 by Rachel L. Carson, renewed 1990 by Roger Christie
Reprinted by permission of Frances Collin, Trustee
First printed in the United States of America in 2018 by HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
The right of Katherine Applegate to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Text copyright © Katherine Applegate, 2018
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978 1 78761 149 8
For Michael
In nature nothing exists alone.
Rachel Carson, Silent Spring, 1962
endling
noun ∼ end•ling ∼ \`en(d)-ling\
– Imperial Lexica Officio of Nedarra, 3rd edition
Long before I heard the word, I was used to being last.
I was the runt, the youngest and by-far-and-away smallest of my seven siblings, which meant I was the last to drink, the last to eat, the last to be protected.
As the lowest-ranking member of our dwindling pack, I accepted my place without resentment – much resentment, anyway.
It was, perhaps, only fair. My failings were many, or so I was often told.
I was too young to be clever, too small to be helpful.
My feet were large and clumsy. They tangled when I ran.
My coat was untidy, my manners dreadful. I once ate an entire leg of anteleer before my rightful turn.
I was curious to a fault. I wandered too far and wondered too often.
I was, in short, a disappointment at my only task in life, which was to do my best, like all dairnes, to stay quietly alive.
* * *
Those days, you’d have been as likely to pet a unicorn as you would to sight a dairne.
Our packelder, Dalyntor, white muzzled and frail, liked to speak of a time when our ancestors roamed in great bands, hundreds of dairnes at a time, across the Nedarran plains. At night they would form into family groups, gathering around to prepare wild grasses and berries, or perhaps cook the stray badger or cotchet.
But all that was long ago. Now there were just a few of us left in our part of the world, a single band of four families cowering together, meek as mouselings.
Hiding from humans, those most unpredictable of predators.
Hiding from the sun itself.
Some said there were more dairnes far away, living in mountain caves or on distant islands. Some said those sightings were the result of misguided hope. Dairnes were often mistaken for dogs. We share many physical similarities.
Dogs, however, lack opposable thumbs. They can’t walk upright. They aren’t able to glide from tree to tree. They can’t speak to humans.
And dogs aren’t – forgive me – the sharpest claws in the hunt, if you catch my meaning.
In any case, whether there were more of us or not, Dalyntor feared we would all be gone soon, slaughtered for our warm and silky fur.
Like the Carlisian seal, hunted by humans to extinction.
Or the red marlot, devastated by disease.
Or the blue-tufted ziguin, wiped out when its territory was destroyed in the Long-Ago War.
It seemed there were many ways to leave the world forever.
We didn’t want to believe our days were numbered. But here is what we did know: once we’d been many, and now we were few.
My parents feared I would be the first among us to die when trouble came, and trouble, they knew, was fast approaching.
I was small. And sometimes disappointing.
But I knew I could be brave as well. I was not afraid to be the first to die.
I just did not want to be the last to live.
I did not want to be the endling.
The end began not so long ago, the day some butterbats came to visit.
It was early afternoon when I first heard them. I tiptoed past my sleeping family, nestled together like one great animal.
Dairnes are not night creatures by nature, but we no longer ventured out until the sun was long gone. We feared the giant cats called felivets, who hunted at night. But we feared poachers and the soldiers of the Murdano, Nedarra’s ruler, even more.
Still, I was restless. And I was sure I’d heard something just outside the door: the air, moving beneath wings both delicate and powerful.
My sister Lirya yawned and opened one eye. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat you, Byx,’ she murmured.
‘She’s too scrawny to eat,’ said my oldest brother, Avar.
I ignored their teasing. I was used to ignoring my siblings.
It took some effort, squeezing through the door of our latest temporary home. An abandoned mirabear hive, it resembled a huge wasp nest that had fallen to earth. It was shaped like a honeycomb, with holes the size of large boulders, and glistened in the light like raw honey, though it was rock-hard to the touch. My father said the hive was made of volcanic ash, sulphur, and sand, mixed with sap from a bulla tree.
Dairnes used to fashion circle camps on the plains, or weave tree nests when we moved through forests. We didn’t do that any more.
There were many things we didn’t do any more. Or so Dalyntor, our teacher, the holder of our history, told us. He hinted at much more, but there were parts of the dairne story too harsh for our young ears.
Tree nests were too easy to spot, too vulnerable to arrows. Instead we moved from place to place, sheltering in caves or deep gullies, or within bramble patches in the heart of the forest. We left no evidence of our passing, no hint of nests or camps. We slept at the bases of cliffs, on remote beaches, in the deserted homes of other creatures. Our little band once spent the night in a large abandoned hunter’s lodge.
That was the closest I had ever come to humans, one of the six great governing species. Those six – humans, dairnes, felivets, natites, terramants and raptidons – had once been considered the most powerful in our land. But now all of them – even the humans – were controlled by the despotic Murdano.
I’d only encountered two of the other great governing species. I’d scented felivets, huge, graceful felines, gliding through blackest night. (No one ever hears them.) And I’d seen raptidons, lords of the air, carving arcs through the clouds.
Never, though, had I glimpsed a natite.
Never (thankfully) a terramant swarm.
And never a human.
Still, I knew more than a few things about humans. Dalyntor had taught us pups about them, drawing stick figures on a dried playa leaf. From him, I learned that humans have two eyes, a nose and a mouth filled with blunt teeth. I learned they stand taller than we dairnes, but not by too much. I learned a great deal about their habits, their clothing, their villages and cities, their culture, their weapons, their languages, how they measure time and distance.
And I learned, most importantly, that humans were never to be trusted, and always to be feared.
I emerged from the mirabear hive into slanting sunlight.
The sound grew nearer, and then I saw them above the hive.
Butterbats!
There were four of them, easily three tails wide and almost as long, with shimmery wings that wove rainbows out of the tree-filtered light. They must have thought there were still mirabears there, butterbats being great lovers of honey – and great thieves besides.
Despite the stiff breeze, they had no trouble hovering silently overhead like huge hummingbirds.
‘Byx.’ The voice was soft, part concern, part scold. I turned to see that my mother had joined me. She looked weary, her dark gold fur mussed, her tail listless.
‘Butterbats, Maia!’ I whispered.
She followed my gaze. ‘So beautiful. They’re heading north, I expect. It’s migration time for them.’
‘I wish I could go too.’
‘I know it’s hard sometimes, this life.’ She stroked my back. ‘Especially for you little ones.’
‘I’m not little.’
My mother nudged me with her nose. ‘Not so little any more. True enough.’
I sighed, leaning into her. She was as warm and safe as a patch of sun.
‘I’m bored Maia. I want to have fun. I want to chase my tail. I want to learn new things. I want to go on adventures and be brave.’
‘No need to rush towards bravery,’ she said softly. ‘No rush at all.’
‘The big ones call me runt. And whelp,’ I moaned. ‘They say I ask too many questions.’ I was rather enjoying feeling so sorry for myself. ‘I hate being me.’
‘Byx,’ my mother said, ‘don’t ever say that. There’s only one you in the whole wide world. And I love that you ask so many questions. That’s how we learn.’ She paused. ‘I’ll tell you something. Something none of the other pups know yet.’
My ears flicked to alert.
‘The adults had a meeting last night. We’ll be leaving here at sundown. Heading north, just like the butterbats. Myxo will be leading us. She said we’ve searched in the southlands long enough.’
Myxo was our pathfinder. She had the keenest nose and the best instincts of anyone in our pack, and she’d travelled far and wide looking for more dairnes. Still, though we’d heard rumours of dairne sightings, nothing ever came of them. Our pack was down to twenty-nine members.
‘This is a big move,’ my mother said. ‘A sort of migration of our own. We’re going to search for the First Colony.’
‘But Dalyntor taught us they’re long gone.’ I remembered our lessons about the First Colony, the original group of dairnes who migrated to Nedarra long ago. We’d had to memorise a poem – an extremely long poem – about them.
I love learning more than anyone in my family. But even I have to admit it may have been the most boring poem ever spoken:
Sing, poet, of the Ancients who dared forth –
Brave dairnes, o’er mountains treacherous and cruel,
Who crossed the frigid waters of the north
To Dairneholme, living isle and floating jewel.
That’s all I recall. If Dalyntor hadn’t let us draw maps while he recited it, I would have fallen fast asleep. Most of the other pups did.
‘Maia?’ I asked. ‘Do you really think there might still be a colony in the north?’
My mother looked across the meadow to the dark, wind-fretted forest, but didn’t answer. ‘It’s not impossible,’ she said at last.
Dairnes do not lie. There would be no point, since we can always detect an untruth, not just from our own kind, but from anyone.
No other species has this ability. Dalyntor often called it ‘our burdensome gift’, although I didn’t understand what he meant by that.
Nonetheless, although dairnes don’t lie, we do sometimes... hope.
‘But you don’t think so?’ I pressed, although I could already tell her answer.
‘No, my love.’ It was almost a whisper. ‘But perhaps I’m wrong.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong. I’ll bet we’ll find hundreds of dairnes. Thousands, even!’ I stopped myself. ‘It’s not wrong to hope, is it?’
‘It’s never wrong to hope, Byx,’ said my mother. ‘Unless the truth says otherwise.’ She gave me another nose nudge. ‘Now, it’s back to bed for you. We have a long night’s walk ahead of us.’
The butterbats still circled, dipping and twirling just beyond reach. ‘A few more minutes, Maia,’ I pleaded. ‘They’re so pretty.’
‘Not too long,’ she said, ‘and no exploring.’ She turned, then hesitated. ‘I love you, my pup. Don’t ever forget that.’
‘I love you too, Maia.’
A long time passed before the butterbats moved on. Maybe they were amazed to have happened upon some dairnes. Or maybe they were simply enjoying the waves of warm air rising from the sun-touched hive.
As I turned back towards the entrance, something strange, something I couldn’t quite place, caught my attention.
Not a sound, exactly, or a scent.
More like a hunch.
I took a few steps towards the small meadow separating me from a dark line of trees. Beyond it stretched the sea.
I consulted the scents on the whipping wind. The air was heavy with stories.
Was that treefox I smelled? Brindalet? It was hard to pin things down in the zigzag wind.
The forest called to me, silent but compelling, willing me to approach. Golden ribbons of light threaded through the trees. I’d never been there in daylight, only in the dead of night.
No, I told myself. We were forbidden to leave the pack, especially during the day, and most especially without permission.
And I didn’t leave – not much, anyway.
I’d ventured to a stream fizzing with green bubbles. I’d sought the company of a friendly zebra squirrel and her babies. Yesterday I’d visited a cluster of star flowers, scented like sage and sea. It was a lovely spot for tail-chasing.
I never took big risks. Never went far. But how could I possibly learn about the world if I never got to see it?
I knew I shouldn’t go. But before we moved on, before we trekked to the next dark place, wouldn’t it be wonderful to view the sea, just once, in daylight? I had only ever seen it by starlight.
My mother was back in our nest. I checked the freshening breeze: no danger.
Only a few minutes to cross the meadow, dropping on to all fours to run. Only a few minutes more to pass through that intimidating but enticing wall of trees.
Just a moment, I told myself. Just a glimpse of the sun, dancing on water.
A moment or two, and then I’d return, having never been missed.
I emerged from the towering wood on to a winding pathway. The trees kept their distance from the cliff’s edge, as if they were leery of heights.
The grass was dry and warm, almost brittle. It was nothing like the feel of night grass, cool and damp with dew.
I came upon the remains of an ancient building, squat and crumbled. A watchtower, probably. Dalyntor had taught us a bit about human dwellings. Some were remarkable, he said. And some were remarkably ugly.
I clambered over great, rough-hewn stones that formed a crude stairway. At the top I stood in an ivy-laced gap that was no doubt once used by archers.
And there it was: the sea.
It was nothing like I’d imagined.
This was not a placid, rippling lake. Not a busy, musical stream. The sea reached forever, as humbling and endless as the sky. An army of waves marched towards the shore, crashing violently in plumes of white spray. Black rocks veined with silver, the ones I’d heard called ‘Sharks’ Teeth’, pierced the water’s edge like glistening swords.
The rush and rumble of the surf was deafening. I felt as if I were drowning in smells, rich and mysterious.
The breeze stiffened. My ears lay flat and my eyes stung. I looked to the sky and saw an advancing wall of iron-grey clouds. A storm was coming.
To my right a cliff curved in a great arc, nothing but jagged stone besieged by relentless waves. To my left the arc ended in a jutting finger of rock. At the very edge of that sloping peninsula stood a gnarled, leafless tree.
Only then did I spot the rowing boat and its lone occupant.
It wasn’t much to look at, more toy than boat, bobbing on the grey-green swells. Each surge brought it nearer to the cliffs. If it hit – when it hit – it would be smashed to kindling instantly.
I had to squint to be sure there was a creature in the boat. I wished I could smell the animal, scent being so much more precise than sight, at least for us. But when I tried to unbraid the air, all I smelled was the complicated sea.
Nonetheless, there was something down there in that boat. Something small and brown, pointlessly attempting to paddle.
Was that...? I was almost certain: it was a wobbyk!
‘What can a wobbyk possibly be doing in a rowing boat?’ I asked of no one.
The noise of pounding surf was huge, but I thought I might have heard a faint but desperate cry for help.
Which made sense. Because, though I couldn’t quite make out the occupant of the tiny craft, one thing was clear: whether wobbyk or some other creature, whoever was in that boat was doomed.
As I watched, a menacing claw of water lifted the boat high. It hurled the tiny craft and its tinier occupant towards the looming cliff.
I held my breath. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to know. Death was seconds away.
To my shock, the same sea that had propelled the boat forward showed temporary mercy, drawing the boat back and away.
But it wasn’t far enough. The respite would be brief. Another surge or two, three at most, and the wobbyk – I was convinced that was what he must be – would die.
Once, when I was very young, my mother made us a dinner of wobbyk. We’d been living on grass and grubs for far too long, and it was the first meat we’d had in ages. If we hadn’t been so hungry, I doubt it would have tasted as good as it did, but even now the memory makes my mouth water.
Still, despite the fact that wobbyk can make an unsatisfying but healthy addition to a dull diet, I wasn’t thinking about eating him. I didn’t wish his death. (Truth be told, I was a feeble and soft-hearted hunter. In fact, I’d never actually killed anything, except a few bugs.) Instead I was amazed to find that part of my brain was already busily considering a rescue, analysing angles, rates of descent and the probable weight of the little creature.
Even as I was calculating, the wobbyk looked up at me, desperate, his mouth open and moving.
I heard a faint ‘Help!’ Or maybe I only imagined the sound, but there was no imagination needed to see the fear, the frantically waving paws.
‘I can’t,’ I said, and my words flew back at me like windblown leaves.
I could use my glissaires, the thin extensions of our coats that we use for brief glides. Maybe, with incredibly lucky timing, I could actually manage to snatch the wobbyk.
But short of a miracle, I’d never be able to carry him.
Not far, anyway. Just a few yards. Just enough to...
The ocean sucked back, uncovering a narrow strip of sand in a cleft between the rocks.
No, the timing would be impossible.
The wobbyk looked at me, speaking unheard words. He was begging for life.
My father had a saying: ‘To rush is not necessarily to arrive.’ He said it to me often. He meant: think first.
And so I did.
On the one hand, I would probably die.
On the other hand, what a great story to tell around the fire. How impressed my siblings would be!
On the one foot – but I stopped myself there.
I’d been so absorbed in the wobbyk’s peril that it took me a moment to register the too-sweet smell of domesticated dogs, followed by the unmistakable stench of horses.
A third smell hit me, new and unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar, but not unknowable.
Only one species travelled with horses and dogs as company.
A drumbeat of hooves vibrated the pads of my feet. I turned towards the trees and saw startled birds flap skywards.
How could I have missed such obvious scents? The damp forest, the frantic wind, the distraction of the drowning wobbyk?
I heard a warning call, the piercing howl we use that signals danger.
Strange: it hadn’t come from a dairne. The pitch was wrong. Was that a human sound?
The dense trees ripped open like a clawed hide. Horses emerged behind me. And atop those horses were what could only be humans.
The men were imposing, their limbs thicker than I’d expected, their shouts more terrifying.
Could they be the Murdano’s soldiers?
I flashed on the rhyme Dalyntor had taught us: ‘If you encounter silver and red, run away, dairne, or end up dead!’
The clothing these humans wore was motley, a mix of dun and grey. Their weapons were mismatched. Two of their horses carried, instead of humans, roped stacks of furs and hides.
Poachers.
The same voice, the one that had signalled danger, was screaming, ‘No! No! Don’t kill it!’
The leader of the poachers, a great bow in his left hand, rode a towering black and white horse. Both man and beast stared at me with deadly intent.
With his right hand, the man plucked an arrow from his quiver. He fitted it to the string in less time than an eye can blink.
‘No!’ I cried.
My heart banged madly in my chest, all rhythm lost.
I watched in horror as the man’s muscles strained and the bowstring drew back.
His eyes saw nothing but me.
I saw nothing but the glittering arrowhead. The fingers that released. The string that snapped.
And then I leaped.
Dairnes cannot fly.
We can glide, but we can’t defy gravity. We can only soften it, turning plummeting falls into slow arcs.
I spread my forelegs, exposing my glissaires. With all four inches of my deadly back claws digging into crumbling stone, I kicked myself away, thrusting towards the boiling clouds.
Arrows sliced through the air like deadly rain.
I caught the wind.
The knife-sharp tip of a Shark’s Tooth grazed my tail, just as the blustery wind filled and lifted me.
Panting horses pranced and reared at the cliff’s rim. I saw furious human faces glaring down at me. Hard, experienced eyes planned trajectories.
An arrow shot past, faster than a diving raptidon. It flew so near that I could see the colour of the feathers, the design painted on the shaft, the trident head. And the thin filament that would allow me to be hauled back.
A poacher’s arrow.
I let go the wind from my glissaires, gathering speed, and risked a mid-air cutback.
Far below me and almost as far ahead, the wobbyk stood in his boat, waving, mouth open, eyes wide.
The boat was rising on the biggest wave yet. I banked left, aiming at this moving target.
I felt the swift passage of time and distance as the boat smashed into a pillar of black rock, shattering the wood and splintering it.
The wobbyk screamed. This time I had no trouble hearing him.
He leaped upwards. Not a great leap – wobbyks are stout little creatures – but enough.
Maybe.
I was gliding faster than I had ever done before. Between us an arrow shot past. I dodged beneath the filament as the wobbyk began to fall away.
I spilled more air and surged like lightning.
The wobbyk reached desperately.
‘Here!’ he cried.
I snatched one paw.
The effect of his weight was like hitting a wall. Dairnes cannot carry anything heavy in a glide.
I somersaulted through the air. I wobbled and plummeted. But momentum carried us forward as the sea retreated and there, there it was: the narrow, V-shaped patch of sand.
We ploughed in a tangle through bubbling surf that grabbed at us both, tugging at our feet as though willing us to fall and be carried away into the depths.
But one foot somehow found a fragile grip on wet sand. Another foot, and to my amazement, I realised that I still had hold of the wobbyk’s paw, and he had hold of me.
I staggered and we fell into the surf. I sucked saltwater into my lungs and coughed.
I wondered if I was going to die.
I wondered if my parents would be mad at me if I died.
The waves were quickly returning, gathering strength to crush us against the cliff face. The first fat drops of rain fell.
‘Up!’ I gasped. ‘Climb!’
Black rock lay before us, rock that in a second would be underwater, but we were all frantic claws, scrabbling, fighting for every handhold, slipping, banging elbows and knees.
I pushed the wobbyk up and away.
The wave crashed around me. I was helpless against its power. It lifted me, holding me as I paddled futilely, all sense of direction lost.
This was it.
This was how my life would end.
Foam covered me. Water filled my mouth and forced its way down my throat.
But then I felt it.
Something grabbing the fur at the back of my neck.
It was a tiny paw, a weak grip, and yet it was enough to buy me a moment more.
In the extra second I’d been given, I found a handhold and then a foothold. I windmilled hands and feet, panicked, indifferent to bruises and cuts, and my head came up and out of the water.
Air. Yes. Air.
I climbed. Just ahead of me the wobbyk climbed.
‘Look out!’ he yelled, and an arrow clattered against the rock, so close it parted the fur near my ear.
Seconds more, and all at once we were over the top of the rocky spur, falling down the far side where no arrow could touch us.
The poachers couldn’t reach us there, not without running their horses down the greensward and across a deep-cut channel.
A burst of lightning lit the sky. The black clouds ruptured, pelting us with icy rain.
I looked at the wobbyk. The wobbyk looked at me.
We breathed.
‘Greetings,’ said the wobbyk. ‘You’re so very kind to rescue me.’ Wobbyks are known for being remarkably polite.
I was not feeling polite.
I was soaked, cold, trembling. And feeling far from safe.
I shook my head. I tried to focus.
The cliff. The poachers. The arrows.
My rattled brain replayed the details of my desperate dive. I had the feeling I would relive that scene many times in dreams, the kind that wake you up at night, gasping and sweating.
The downpour drenched us while lightning carved the clouds. Thunderclaps drowned out the sea’s roar.
I blinked away rain and stared at the wobbyk. He was small, perhaps a third of my size, and comical-looking, especially in his waterlogged state. His silver-blue fur was bedraggled, as were his three tails. Huge white oval ears extended from his head like giant wings.
Everything else about him was round: round head; round, protruding stomach; round eyes, big and shiny as river plums. Even his paws – white, like his ears and muzzle – were round as lily pads. The lower half of his face reminded me of a fox, with its black nose, long whiskers, and upturned mouth that looked perpetually amused. He wore a leather belt low on his sizeable belly. Attached to it was a small drawstring pouch.
‘We have to hide,’ the wobbyk said. ‘They may still come after us.’
With a sigh, I forced my body, leaden with the dulling effects of fear, upright. The wobbyk was correct. We had to keep moving.
We picked our way down the rocks on to a stretch of sandy beach.
‘Walk in the surf,’ I suggested. ‘It will cover our tracks.’ We dairnes are experts at concealment.
‘I wonder if I might... if I might inquire as to whether you have a plan?’
‘My plan is to avoid arrows!’
The wobbyk fell silent, head drooping. I felt a bit guilty, so I added, ‘Let’s make for the shale ahead. Hopefully, our tracks won’t show quite as much there. We’ll climb where the cliff has collapsed and make our way through the forest. I have to get back to my family.’
‘I don’t see anyone following us.’
‘And I don’t smell them,’ I replied, panting. ‘But this rain masks sounds and smells as well. We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.’
‘My name is Tobble,’ said the wobbyk. ‘I am most grateful to you. And I don’t wish to be a burden.’
‘Too late,’ I said, only half joking.
I reminded myself that the wobbyk hadn’t brought the poachers.
On the other hand, he certainly had tried to row a boat into a cliff.
‘How, by all the Ancients, did you end up stuck in a rowing boat?’ I asked.
‘I was taken prisoner by a pirate ship.’
I blinked. ‘Did you say—’
‘Pirates,’ the wobbyk confirmed.
‘And how does a wobbyk end up with pirates?’
‘The usual way.’
‘The usual way?’ I asked. ‘How can there possibly be a usual way to be captured by pirates?’
‘If you’re fishing for sticklers and have a full coracle, well, pirates are certain to want your cargo,’ Tobble said. He gave a little shrug. ‘Even pirates like grilled stickler.’
‘Do they?’
‘Indeed! My brothers managed to leap off the coracle, but I was tangled in the net and they left me.’ He didn’t seem upset by this fact but, seeing my disapproving frown, added, ‘I’m the youngest. My brothers often overlook me.’
There we had something in common.
Tobble studied me. He tilted his head so far to one side, it nearly touched his shoulder.
‘Would it be impolite if I were to inquire as to what kind of animal you are? You look like a dog, but you walk upright and you can speak—’
‘Dog?’ I repeated. ‘Are you joking?’
‘So what are you, then?’
‘Hungry, for one thing. Cold, for another. And wet.’
‘I too am hungry. I am also a wobbyk.’
‘And I am a dairne. Of course.’ I said it with all the pride I could muster.
Tobble warbled a high-pitched laugh. Even wobbyk laughs are comical. ‘Yes, and I’m a four-headed wood sprite.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Wolf family? Perhaps. But your fur is golden, much finer than a wolf’s coat. Hmm. You can glide, like a flying squirrel. You have a pouch, like a marsupial. You have hands with thumbs, but doglike paws for feet. You stand erect, and you’re a female.’
‘Thank you for stating the obvious.’
‘There’s almost a human-ish quality to your demeanour.’ Tobble circled me as we walked. ‘On the other hand, I just watched humans try to kill you.’ Another head tilt. ‘Still and all, humans are well known for killing each other.’
‘I’m a dairne,’ I repeated firmly. ‘And you’re a wobbyk. And for the record, dairnes eat wobbyks.’
Tobble snorted. ‘There are no dairnes,’ he said, as certainly as if he’d just stated that water is wet. Which was certainly proving to be true.
‘And yet here I stand before you, wet and cold and hungry. I’ll admit there aren’t as many of us as there used to be. But I can assure you that I know what I am.’
We scrambled up the fallen cliff face and plunged at last into the shadow of the trees. The rain still fell, but the canopy of branches overhead kept most of it from hitting us.
‘I just don’t understand,’ Tobble continued. ‘Dairnes are... no more.’ His voice was low, as if he were telling me a scary bedtime tale. ‘My father said so. My grandfather. My great-grandfather. You’re, if you’ll excuse the word – I realise it’s a bit harsh – you’re extinct.’
I stopped moving and stood as tall as I could manage. At full height, I towered over the little wobbyk. ‘Now I’m certain I’m going to eat you.’
‘You saved my life. You can’t eat me.’
‘Setting aside the fact that I don’t exist and so cannot be held to any rule, why is that?’ My own whisper was too loud, and I reminded myself to be quiet.
‘It’s just not done. It’s impolite.’ Tobble twisted his head around, raised one of his tails, and licked it. ‘So who was that trying to kill you?’
‘Poachers,’ I said. ‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘And now I shall thank you for stating the obvious.’ Tobble smiled. ‘Poachers don’t bother wobbyks much.’
‘Probably because you taste like turtle.’
‘I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.’
‘They kill us for our fur,’ I said.
‘May I?’ Tobble asked, pointing to my arm. When I shrugged, he timidly patted my shoulder. ‘Even damp,’ he marvelled, ‘you are remarkably soft.’
I shrugged. ‘My father says the whole world is trying to kill dairnes these days.’
A branch snapped, and Tobble grabbed my arm.
We froze in place.
I studied the air with my nose. Tobble’s left ear swivelled like the head of a skittish owl.
‘There!’ He pointed. ‘They’re waiting for us!’
I motioned for the wobbyk to stay low – unnecessary, given that a wobbyk standing on tiptoes is still shorter than a dairne creeping on all fours. Leading the way, tree trunk to tree trunk, I calculated each step for silence.
The scents of human and horse and dog grew stronger. I strained my ears but heard nothing but my thudding heart.
It was the dogs I feared. The nose of a dog is almost as talented as a dairne’s. But the breeze was my friend, blowing them to me and concealing us. One human was nearer, I was sure of it. The others were further back with the horses.
With movements so slow and cautious that I doubted any predator, human or otherwise, could detect them, I pushed aside the brambles of a billerberry bush.
And there he was.
He stood alone near a fallen log in a small clearing, intense concentration on his face. Slender and tall, he was dressed in simple peasant clothes: a faded brown shirt beneath a leather jerkin, fastened with a belt, woollen trousers, and tall buff leather boots.
I knew almost nothing about human emotions, and yet I sensed, somehow, that this one was anxious.
No, more than that: he was angry.
‘Did ya ever catch sight of it again, guide?’ It was not the slender boy but a yell from deeper in the forest.
‘No, master,’ the boy called back. ‘Drownt in the sea, most likely.’
I heard the faint sound of horses stamping their hooves impatiently. Nearby I heard two sets of feet – human, I thought – plodding through the underbrush.
Two bearded men came into view on either side of the boy. One was short and heavyset. The other, tall and gaunt, I recognised as the leader of the poachers. They were dressed in cast-off bits of armour over leather jerkins. Each had a sword, a bow and two knives.
‘What was it, d’ya think?’ asked the leader.
‘Thought it was a wolf, or a dog, maybe,’ said the other. ‘But the way it practically flew right off that cliff? I’m thinkin’ it had to be a dairne.’
‘Never seen a dairne in my life. Never met a soul who’s seen one.’ The leader leaned against a thick pine tree, arms crossed. ‘Boy, what d’ya think it was?’
‘I’m not sure,’ the guide answered. ‘S’pose we’ll never know.’
‘They say dairne fur’s the softest and warmest in the world. One pelt’d feed us all for a year, and then some,’ said the short man.
‘True,’ said the guide, ‘but I daresay a dairne would fetch far more alive, rare as they are.’
‘Cursed creatures.’ The short man spat. ‘My grandfather saw two back when he was a boy. Claimed their noses were bewitched. They can smell a fart a hundred furlongs off.’
The leader grunted a laugh. ‘Here’s hopin’ where there’s one dairne, there’s more.’
‘If we do catch sight of one,’ said the boy, ‘please don’t kill it.’ He paused when the leader sent him a dark look. ‘I just mean to say it’ll be more coin in our pockets if we can capture it.’
‘Worth plenty dead, and quicker by half,’ the leader grumbled. ‘Speakin’ o’ which, I ever hear you scream, “Don’t kill it!” in the middle of a hunt again, and it’ll be your pelt we’re takin’ to market.’
The boy looked at the ground. ‘Yes, master.’
‘Where to, then, boy,’ asked the leader, ‘seein’ as you’re so clever?’
The guide turned, then stood still as stone, staring into the trees.
He was looking in our direction. Despite the thick cover of the billerberry bush, I sensed that he saw us.
The men fell silent.
The guide closed his eyes.
‘He’s catchin’ the trackin’ spell again,’ the first man said.
‘Then shut your gob and let him at it.’
The guide’s eyes opened. In spite of the distance between us, I could see that they were deep brown, heavy lidded and thoughtful.
‘Head north,’ he called to the men. ‘I’ll grab my mount and catch up with you.’
The older men moved away. The boy waited in silence, taking in the scene. Then he too departed.
But before he disappeared into the trees, he stopped and glanced back towards us, and I thought, though I could not be sure, that he was smiling.
As soon as the danger had passed, my stomach began to whine, as if it had been waiting to complain until things were safe.
Tobble startled. ‘What was that?’
‘My stomach. I’m hungry.’
‘My stomach growls when it’s hungry.’
‘Ours whine.’ I stood carefully, nosing the air for any sign that the poachers hadn’t actually left. ‘That guide,’ I said. ‘I feel certain he saw us.’
‘But why wouldn’t he have said something?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shook my head. ‘It makes no sense.’
I realised at that moment that I was utterly exhausted. The mad leap off the cliff, the impossible glide, the saltwater followed by rain, the cold, the fear: I just wanted to be home, safe in the huddle of my sleeping family.
I’d been curious enough for one day.
I looked at Tobble and wondered what to do with him. I didn’t know much about hunting. But I had the feeling you weren’t supposed to converse with your prey.
Tobble seemed to sense what I was thinking. ‘You do realise you cannot eat me until I return the favour of saving your life?’
Despite myself I smiled. ‘You’re going to save my life?’
‘What I lack in stature I make up for in spirit.’ Tobble dusted wet dirt off his rear end. ‘Besides, it’s Wobbyk Code. You saved my life; I must save yours three times.’
‘Why thrice?’
‘Because that’s the rule.’
‘But why is that the rule?’
‘Because I have three tails.’
I frowned. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I don’t make the rules. But I do obey them.’
A noise like thunder rumbled again in the distance. We both flinched, worried the noise might now signal returning hooves rather than angry sky.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I said. Especially, I added silently, since under different circumstances I might well be feasting on you for dinner.
‘So. Where to?’ asked Tobble.
‘You’re not coming with me. My pack has been living on worms and bark for weeks. They’ll eat you in a flash.’
‘That’s a risk I’ll simply have to take.’
‘You may not come,’ I said firmly, surprising myself with the voice my parents so often used on me.
‘And yet I shall.’