Wing & Claw #3 Page 2

  Now Echo had to extend his claws and splay them, which turned out to be a difficult feat for the little bat. Normally, when his wings were wrapped around him, his claws would be relaxed—meaning that they would be tightly clenched. Conversely, his claws were only extended when he was hunting, flying through the air with his wings outstretched. For Echo to close his wings and extend his claws at the same time seemed like the equivalent of that pat-your-head-and-rub-your-belly game—possible but not easy.

  Besides which, Echo could only keep his claws extended for a few seconds at a time. I’ll have to be quick, Raffa thought.

  Then it occurred to him that there might be a way to use Echo’s natural tendencies to advantage. After some hard thinking, Raffa made a small pile of straw and covered it with a piece of moss that he peeled off the wall.

  “Okay, Echo,” he said as he held the bat in his left hand, gently but firmly. “Claws out, please?”

  Echo stretched his claws, and Raffa poked them through the moss into the straw. “Now relax!”

  The bat’s claws curled. Raffa gave a gentle upward tug, and Echo’s claws emerged from the moss clutching a piece of straw.

  It might work, it really might!

  And it would hurt. A lot.

  Raffa knew one thing about pain, from observing his parents treat hundreds of patients over the years. The fear of pain—the anticipation, the worry—was often more upsetting than the pain itself. So the trick was to get it over with quickly.

  “We’re going to try it for real now, Echo,” he said. “Not straw this time, but glass. Are you ready?”

  “You ready,” Echo said.

  Raffa sat cross-legged on the straw pile. He held Echo carefully in his left hand, then closed his eyes and breathed in deep through his nose.

  “Claws out,” he said, and opened his eyes.

  As Echo stretched his claws, Raffa exhaled hard, from his mouth. At the same time, he plunged the claws on Echo’s right wing into the cut on his hand.

  The noise that came out of him was a strangled gargle; anything louder might have attracted the attention of the guards. Raffa blew out another hard puff of air to keep from screaming.

  “Echo . . . relax,” he panted, almost choking on the words.

  Tears clouded his vision; he could no longer see. The pain in his hand was so terrible, it was as if he were holding a live coal. Blindly, he lifted Echo away from his hand, which was now bleeding profusely. The searing pain increased a hundredfold, which he would not have thought possible.

  In that moment, he knew that if this didn’t work, he would not be able to do it again.

  Out of concern for Echo, Raffa kept his wits about him enough to put the bat down gently on the straw. Then he grabbed his right wrist and held it over his head, above his heart. He gasped between sobs, trying to get his breath back.

  BREATHE! he screamed at himself inside his head. Breathe—breathe—in—out—steady—steady . . .

  Blood was running down his wrist, but the flow was already beginning to slow. Meanwhile, Echo had unwrapped his wings and fluttered to perch on Raffa’s shoulder. He clung to the knitted wool of Raffa’s tunic with his left claw.

  In his right, he was clutching something.

  “Grass,” Echo said proudly.

  Raffa almost clapped in triumph—he stopped himself just in time. That would have hurt, he thought, looking at his hand ruefully. The success of the endeavor had muted some of the pain, but the cut was now a ragged mess. It needed a wash in pure water, a good poultice, and a clean bandage, none of which he had.

  First things first. In a clear space on the floor, he placed four straws so they formed a square, a little frame. Then he cupped his hand below Echo’s claw, and the bat released the sliver of glass.

  It was a little longer than the top joint of his pinky finger, but narrower, tapering to an oblique point at one end. Raffa wiped it clean, then placed it carefully in the middle of the straw frame. He was taking no chances that he might lose it.

  Next, he tore two strips from the bottom of his linen undershirt. “Sorry, Mam,” he muttered. “I promise to mend it myself when—when I . . . whenever.”

  Hard to think that there might someday be a time when everyone could go back to ordinary things, like mending a torn undershirt.

  He used one strip and most of the second as a bandage for his hand, the old one now too stained and smelly. He could not tie it as neatly as his friend Trixin had; still, now that the piece of glass had been removed, his hand felt a bit better.

  Echo hung from the perch necklace, watching him for a while. Then the bat flapped his wings and flew to a dark corner where the wall met the ceiling. “Sleep,” he said.

  “Yes, you sleep, Echo. I’m sorry, but I’ll need to wake you just after sunpeak, okay?”

  Echo grumbled.

  “Only for a little while, Echo. Then you can go back to sleep, I promise.”

  “Sunpeak sleep,” Echo said.

  Raffa could have sworn that the bat sounded a little petulant. Echo clearly thought that being awake with full sunlight blazing in your eyes was an absurd human habit.

  Raffa tore the remaining piece of linen in two, and began shredding one of the halves. The threads had been woven finely, but not too tightly, to create a soft fabric for wearing against the skin. Unraveling the cloth was fiddly work, especially with his right hand hampered. It took some time for him to produce a small heap of linen threads.

  Next step, more moss. He peeled several patches of moss off the walls, tore the patches into smaller bits, and piled them up next to the threads. Then he broke up some pieces of straw and mixed them with the moss.

  Raffa stood at the door and looked up at the slits in the stairwell wall. Narrow rectangles of sunlight slanted along the corridor floor. It would be a while yet, but the light would eventually reach his cell.

  He couldn’t remember exactly where the light had been the strongest the day before. For the moment, it didn’t matter. He had one more task to see to, and this one would take some time.

  He planned to position the shard of glass at the door, where the light entered the cell. But he knew he would never be able to hold the little sliver steady, and besides, no matter how he held it, his fingers would block a lot of the light. He had to figure out a way to wedge the piece of glass in place.

  Raffa took up several straws and split them. Using a simple over-and-under method, he wove the split straws into a tiny mat. When the mat was a bit wider than one of the door’s iron bars, he bent most of the remaining straws and broke them off. Then he made a second little mat. He tied the first mat to one of the iron bars and the second to the perpendicular bar.

  He picked up the piece of glass and experimented. It took a few tries, but he finally managed it: With the pointed end pushed into the weave of one mat, and the side edge leaning against the other mat, the sliver stayed in place. He removed the glass, untied the mats, and stored everything safely.

  Now all he needed was sunlight.

  Chapter Three

  BE ready, he told himself.

  If everything went as he hoped, he would escape from his cell and Echo would lead him to Da’s cell, and they would both get away from the Garrison.

  About five million things could prevent their escape. It was a tricky balance, trying to anticipate and plan for what might go wrong while not becoming completely disheartened by all the possible obstacles.

  Time crawled. No matter how he occupied his mind, he could not stop himself from checking the sunlight’s angle every few seconds. He tried deep breathing, and counting, and picturing himself and Da on the street outside the Garrison. Nothing calmed his twitching nerves.

  When he could wait no longer, he went to the corner of the cell to wake his friend.

  “Echo? Time to wake up.”

  No answer.

  Despite the tension knotting his insides, Raffa smiled. He had seen the bat’s head move. Echo was awake; he just wasn’t ready to let Raffa know i
t.

  “Echo, this won’t take long, I promise. And then you can sleep as long as you want, okay?”

  A grumpy click or two, and the bat fluttered down to the perch necklace.

  “Wait near the door,” Raffa said. “When I come out, I’ll need you to lead me to Da.”

  “Wait, Da,” Echo said.

  “That’s right. And, Echo, please don’t fall asleep again. I’m going to come out running, and we’ll need to move really fast.”

  “Sleep again.”

  “No, don’t sleep again.”

  Echo clicked and flew off. For about the hundredth time, Raffa breathed silent thanks that the tiny wondrous creature was part of his life.

  He returned to his vigil. At long last, the first corner of light was edging its way into the cell. Raffa made his best guess as to where the light would be the strongest and most constant, and he tied the little straw mats to the appropriate bars. Then he wedged the piece of glass into place.

  What seemed like a lifetime later, a shaft of sunlight hit the glass and was refracted onto the floor of the cell, a bright spot of hope. Quickly Raffa placed a few of the linen threads directly on that spot—and held his breath, staring so hard that his eyes started to hurt.

  Nothing.

  He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid that even a faint movement of air would snuff any spark. Please let there not be any clouds in the sky today. . . .

  The light remained steady.

  Was it—yes, a tiny wisp of smoke! It vanished so quickly that Raffa wondered if he had imagined it. But then there was another, and another, and now he could see the threads turning bright orange. Gently, slowly, he put more threads on top of the sparks.

  His shoulder muscles were cramping, he was so tense! But at last he saw the orange threads merge into a minuscule tongue of flame, which reached out greedily for more fuel. He placed the remaining piece of linen fabric on the tiny fire and watched as the flames grew.

  Now, in contrast to all the waiting he had been doing, he had to work fast. As soon as the piece of fabric was ablaze, Raffa sprinkled the fire with bits of moss and straw; the straw kept the fire alight while the moss smoked instead of burned. He fed the fire still more of the moss and straw combination, and the cell began to fill with smoke.

  The moment of reckoning.

  Raffa took one more deep breath.

  “FIRE!” he screamed. “HELP! FIRE—”

  He began coughing as hard as he could, hoping the coughs sounded convincing. Overhead, he heard the clomp of guard boots.

  COUGH! COUGH COUGH COUGH!

  He wasn’t actually having any trouble breathing, but he was hoping that the guard on duty could hear his coughs. He lay on his side near the door, so he could see both the stairwell and the cell’s interior. When the guard came down the stairs, Raffa closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

  “Wha’s going on there?” the guard said. “HOY!” She stopped, turned, and went partway back up the stairs. “FIRE!” she shouted, presumably to her unseen colleagues. “FIRE HERE!”

  Raffa opened his eyes a mere slit, so he could watch as she unlocked the cell door, opened it, and entered. She advanced into the cell, her attention on the smoky little fire.

  Raffa stifled a gasp of surprise. She had left the keys hanging in the lock. It was an unbelievable bit of luck: He had thought he would have to try to snatch the keys from her hand.

  “Faults and fissures!” she exclaimed, waving her hand to try to clear the smoke. She began stamping out the flames.

  In a flash, Raffa was on his feet and out of the cell. He slammed the door shut, turned the key, and yanked it out of the lock. Then he was running down the corridor with Echo flapping overhead.

  Behind him, the guard was cursing at the top of her lungs. Raffa knew he didn’t have much time: Other guards would surely hear her shouts and be giving chase any moment now.

  He followed Echo through the narrow corridor and past several empty cells. Echo swooped and turned; Raffa almost tripped as he tried to keep up. More turns—three, four, five—and he lost all sense of direction. Where was Da’s cell?

  Angry voices filled the corridor behind him. It sounded like an entire army of guards.

  “Echo, where is he? Where’s Da?” Raffa’s voice was pitched high in panic.

  “Where Da,” Echo said, and alit on the bars of a cell door. “Here Da.”

  And there was Mohan, sitting on his pile of straw. His beard, usually trimmed, had grown out wildly, and his face looked gaunt and tired, but his eyes blazed with joy on seeing Raffa.

  “Da!” Raffa cried out.

  “Raffa!” Mohan jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  Raffa was already trying keys in the lock. There were so many! At least a dozen of them, all nearly identical . . . Which was the right one?

  His right hand injured and bandaged, his left hand slippery with sweat, he fumbled with the keys and dropped them, not once but twice. He wanted to scream in frustration. The sounds of the approaching guards grew louder.

  “Raffa, you have to go,” Mohan spoke quietly but urgently, and reached through the bars to take the keys from him. “If I can get out, I will.”

  “No! I’m not leaving without you!”

  Da grabbed Raffa’s good hand and gave it a squeeze. “Raffa, I’ll be fine—I promise. And we’ll be together soon, but you have to leave. It’s up to you now. You have to stop them. Find a man named Fitzer. He can help you.”

  “But Da—”

  “NOW, RAFFA!” His father’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.

  With a last anguished look over his shoulder, Raffa began running again.

  “Out, Echo,” he panted. “Get us out of here.”

  Raffa smothered a bellow of frustration. He had been so close to being with Da again! Leaving him behind made Raffa feel as if his heart were being torn partway out of his chest.

  But there was no time to linger over regrets. Echo led him up a flight of stone steps and along yet another narrow corridor. Then the bat flew into what looked like a closet.

  “Echo! What are you about?”

  Even as Raffa spoke, he was following Echo into the small space. I have to trust him—what choice do I have?

  With a quick glance, he saw shelves and wall pegs holding an assortment of items, including jugs, bowls, and mugs, presumably for the guards’ meals. Why had Echo brought him here? They didn’t have a second to spare—

  At that moment, he saw Echo alight on an empty peg.

  “Raffa rope?” Echo squeaked.

  Hanging on the peg next to Echo were his rucksack and his rope!

  Raffa snatched them off the peg and threw them over his shoulder; Echo had already left the room. As he came out, he saw a guard at the far end of the corridor.

  “THERE HE IS! THIS WAY!” the guard roared.

  Raffa grabbed a jug and hurled it as far as he could toward the guard; he followed it up with a bowl and another jug. All of them shattered into pieces; he hoped the shards of pottery would slow his pursuers at least a little. Then he dashed down the corridor after Echo.

  Echo made another turn. Through the doorway ahead, Raffa could see the Garrison’s courtyard. Whether by accident or—more likely—Echo’s design, they were about to emerge from the door nearest the gate.

  Echo good, Raffa thought; he didn’t have the breath to say it aloud.

  Then another stroke of luck: Raffa heard a rusty metallic squeal he recognized. The gate was being opened!

  A wagon had just made the turn off the street and was now blocking the entry. Raffa ran into the courtyard and pounded over the cobblestones toward the gatehouse. The guards pursuing him streamed out of the door.

  Raffa was nearly at the gate—he could see the street beyond—but he was trapped between the guards and the wagon.

  To his astonishment, all the guards came to an abrupt halt. He saw them looking toward the wagon, and swiveled his head to see what they were staring at
.

  The driver of the wagon was standing and holding up his hands in a “stop” gesture.

  It was Jayney!

  Raffa almost choked on his next breath. The last time he had seen Senior Jayney was in the cell four days earlier. Jayney, the Chancellor’s second-in-command, was determined to recapture Roo, the giant golden bear. He had made a cruel and terrible threat: If Raffa refused to reveal Roo’s whereabouts—

  Da! He said he’ll torture Da until I tell him what he wants to know!

  “He’s mine,” Jayney said to the guards, in his slow, deep voice. “No one else touches him.”

  Jayney crossed his arms over his broad chest and showed his teeth in what must have been a grin, although it looked more like a grimace. “Greetings, young Santana,” he said. “Don’t know how you got this far, but you’ll go no farther. You and I, we have dealings today. And of course, your father is invited, too. Wouldn’t dream of leaving him out.”

  Fear chilled Raffa’s whole being. His legs felt as weak as straws, and the rest of his body began trembling violently. He envisioned Da on his knees, wracked by terrible pain . . . Da, broken and bleeding in agony . . .

  A wave of hopelessness surged over Raffa. I have to tell Jayney everything I know. If I do, maybe he’ll leave Da alone. . . .

  Then he heard Da’s voice in his mind.

  “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  That was what Da had said. He didn’t want Raffa to worry about him.

  “You have to stop them.”

  Them: the Chancellor, and Jayney, and all those who served under their command. Their plot to use animals against people had to be stopped, and Da was counting on him.

  Echo had flown to the gate; Raffa saw him waiting there, hanging from the gate’s framework. If only I could fly like Echo, I could go right over—

  Raffa went very still as an idea came to him.

  Not over. Over was impossible. But under . . .

  Raffa lowered his head and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. With a grunt of satisfaction, Jayney sat back down on the wagon seat and picked up the reins. Raffa took a quick breath and uttered a silent plea.