Part 16 (1/2)

”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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p and the quayside, to the gleaming cold water at the bottom of the abyss, or the slimy green weed s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 splas.h.i.+ng.

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 s.h.i.+ny, 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.