Lionboy Part 13

Two hours later, in the back of a truck parked on the side of one of the few remaining European motorways, Magdalen and Aneba read the letter from Charlie. Magdalen managed to unfold it, and Aneba wriggled into a position where he could read it aloud. A lone streetlight sent its weak gleam in through the grubby window of the truck.

"It's upside down," Aneba said very quietly. He didn't want Winner overhearing. "Turn it to the left a bit so it's in the light."

Darling Mummy and Daddy, Darling Mummy and Daddy, It was really good to get your letter. Everything's going okay for me. Brother Jerome is taking me to visit Rita's sister, and I know you are expected there too. If you get there first, try not to leave too soon, as I hope I can see you there. I am doing a project on pet cats. I wish I could ask you about it. Please tell me all you can when you reply. I am being a very good little boy like you said. Hope to see you very soon. I will bring some friends-bigger kids-to Rita's sister's. It was really good to get your letter. Everything's going okay for me. Brother Jerome is taking me to visit Rita's sister, and I know you are expected there too. If you get there first, try not to leave too soon, as I hope I can see you there. I am doing a project on pet cats. I wish I could ask you about it. Please tell me all you can when you reply. I am being a very good little boy like you said. Hope to see you very soon. I will bring some friends-bigger kids-to Rita's sister's. Lots and lots of love from Charles Lots and lots of love from Charles "Rita's sister!" said Aneba. "What's that about?"

"Rita's sister is named Paris," said Magdalen, smiling broadly in the dimness. "Clever little blighter."

"So that's where we're heading. How does he know?"

"Cats," said Magdalen. "It's got to be. And the project on pet cats . . ."

"Yes," said Aneba.

Magdalen folded the letter up again and held it firmly in her fist.

"He's finding out about the whole thing, presumably," she murmured.

"I suppose. I suppose the cats are telling him."

"The Allergenies and everything?"

"I suppose," said Aneba quietly.

"We were right not to tell him, though, weren't we?"

"Of course. What do you think they'd do with him if they thought he knew about it? And if they knew what he can do?"

"I hate to think," she said very quietly.

"Sorry," said Aneba.

"Yeah," she said.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"You know," she said. "I wrote out the formula-the basic formula-and told him that if he ever had to go anywhere, he should take it with him."

"You WHAT! WHAT!" shouted Aneba, so loud that Winner wondered for a moment what was up in the back. "You what? what?" More quietly and intently.

"I don't know why. I suppose so that . . . if anything happened to us, at least one honest person would have that knowledge."

"One honest child, child," hissed Aneba. "One honest ignorant kid, who if they knew what he had would be totally at the mercy of these people. And if they knew what he can do as well . . ."

"Yes." She sat miserably. "Should I not have?"

"No, you shouldn't have," he whispered furiously. "Now not only is he the only Cat-speaker, he's also got the formula-did he take it with him when he set out into the world, all alone, totally unprepared? We don't know, of course. Oh, G.o.d . . ."

Magdalen was crying, softly. Aneba didn't hear because he was too angry.

"Keep your voice down," she murmured. "Don't tell everybody. It's bad enough."

"He's out there, on his own, with the formula and and the language, and he doesn't have a clue about the Allergenies or how they came about, or anything." the language, and he doesn't have a clue about the Allergenies or how they came about, or anything."

"No," said Magdalen. "But we we don't know how they came about either. And he's learning. Remember? His 'project on pet cats'? He's a clever kid, Aneba, and he's finding out what he needs to know, and telling us he's doing it. We must get a letter back to him telling him as much as we can. But how's that cat going to find us again? And where don't know how they came about either. And he's learning. Remember? His 'project on pet cats'? He's a clever kid, Aneba, and he's finding out what he needs to know, and telling us he's doing it. We must get a letter back to him telling him as much as we can. But how's that cat going to find us again? And where are are we?" we?"

"Heading to Paris," murmured Aneba. "If Charlie's right."

But they weren't. They had pa.s.sed Paris, and as soon as Winner had had his breakfast they would be moving on again. Not with Winner and Sid, though. Three large men from the Personnel Department arrived, punched Sid and Winner, just because they could, and then bound and gagged Aneba and Magdalen, who, being handcuffed, couldn't fight back. Magdalen had hidden the note in her boot, so that was all right. Not much else was, though. "You have an appointment with the Chief Executive," was all the men would say, and they said it with a sneer. "He'll tell you all you need to know about the position."

Rafi was getting very frustrated. He'd had no luck with the zoos. No luck with the waterways. No luck in the city.

He decided to go back to the fish stalls to bully Mr. Ubsworth. He felt like hitting someone, and in the absence of Charlie, Mr. Ubsworth would do.

By noon, the great crimson s.h.i.+p was swanning slowly along the Ca.n.a.l St. Martin in the warm suns.h.i.+ne. It would have been a graceful sight, but for the noise it was making: The Calliope was in full voice. What a racket! It had been loud enough the time before, on the river in London, but here, with the buildings all around, it blared and farted out like a troupe of carnivals on a summer's day, a noise full of fun and nostalgia at the same time-an irresistible noise. Charlie noticed that a lot of the circusguys were down on the banks of the ca.n.a.l, handing out fliers with the details of the circus on them. The people were looking at the s.h.i.+p, laughing at the Calliope, reading the leaflets and putting them in their bags and pockets. They all wanted to come to the circus.

Then there were four more locks to negotiate on the Ca.n.a.l St. Martin. Charlie was again amazed by how snugly a s.h.i.+p fits into a lock: like a fat man in a bath, it's a wonder there's any room for the water. But there is-just enough to allow that curious, staggering, slightly nauseating motion as the boat tries to keep still and not bang against the edges. The locks sprayed their smelly foam as the water tumbled and flooded in and out, the metal bars set in the lock walls gleamed beneath their green weed, the lock-keepers called Bonjour! Bonjour!, and the lock bells rang. Pale green footbridges arched over the water, so high that the people who stopped at the top to admire the circuss.h.i.+p seemed to be standing on the branches of the trees, in among their sweet green leaves.

Charlie was just getting used to it all, knowing that they were nearly at their destination, when the Calliope, which had been cranking away, suddenly wheezed and hiccuped to silence, and the s.h.i.+p drew into the Temple lock. The smell of her fumes wafted back over them as she drew to a halt and idled. It was here that a cat called out to Charlie from the bank.

"You're to be told they've gone on!" she called.

"What?" called Charlie. "Come here-come on board!"

The cat shrugged. With a great rush and tumble the water began to flood out of the lock chamber, and the Circe Circe began to sink down beneath him. Charlie rushed to the side nearest to the cat and cried back: "Gone on? When? Where to? Is it Venice?" began to sink down beneath him. Charlie rushed to the side nearest to the cat and cried back: "Gone on? When? Where to? Is it Venice?"

"Bof," said the cat. "I suppose. Only you're to be told they have gone on. I don't know more."

Ahead, the s.h.i.+p was facing a brick wall. At the top of it Charlie could see the back of a statue's head, with a pigeon sitting on it, and a formally clipped dark green hedge. At the base, he noticed, way down beneath him when he peered over, a low stone arch.

"Come here," he called to the cat urgently. "Please! Come and tell me more. When did they leave?" If only he knew how they were traveling and for how long, perhaps he could work out how to catch up with them.

"Please!" he called. Hissing, so that he wouldn't be noticed.

"I don't know nothing more," said the cat, and as the s.h.i.+p sank down into the lock, she sauntered off.

Cursing the cat, Charlie spun on his heels. Julius was giving him a most peculiar look.

"Why were you yelling and spitting at that cat?" he asked.

"For luck," said Charlie quickly. Then: "Oh, my-look! What's going on?" He found himself looking down at the tiny arch ahead of them. They were heading right for it.

"We can't go in there!" he cried. "It's tiny!"

It wasn't so much tiny as far away, far down. It looked like a manhole. Charlie had a moment of panic. It was too steep! How could they go down so far in such a short distance? They seemed to be tumbling and sinking into the bowels of the earth.

Even when the lock chamber was empty and the gates at the other end opened, the s.h.i.+p was still way too big and the arch still way too low. It would be like crawling into a small cave, a dark little entrance to the Underworld. But as they edged out of the lock chamber, he realized they were just entering another. This was a double lock, a steep set of watery stairs, and they were now going even deeper into this dark, wet hole. Charlie couldn't help thinking about the story of Orpheus, who went down to the Underworld to get his wife, Eurydice, back from the land of the dead. But his parents weren't here to get. They'd already left.

The damp, wet, dangerous hole matched his mood precisely.

Suddenly all the sunlight was gone. In place of the lovely spring day they had just been enjoying with its blue sky and fluffy clouds, its red geraniums on wrought-iron balconies, the white shutters and black lampposts of Paris, they were surrounded now by slimy green walls and foaming yellow water. Looking back, Charlie could see the beautiful day disappearing behind them. A few wet, green ferns framed it as it slid away through the curved arch astern. They were going into a huge, dark, damp tunnel.

At first Charlie could see by the strong, beautiful stonework that it was really old, but then he could hardly see anything. There was a path along the right-hand edge, cobwebs dangling from the roof, and strange-looking skinny stalact.i.tes, black with white tips. He could feel the wetness, and smell the mildewy, watery old smell of it, and it chilled his bones. But he couldn't see much. He felt he was plunging into a wrong direction, a further journey, new problems. He had thought he had taken on the idea of Venice, but now he just felt as if he had no idea how to get there, what to do when he got there . . .

In front of the Circe Circe the water was smooth and black; behind, it was dirty and foamy with their wake. the water was smooth and black; behind, it was dirty and foamy with their wake.

"Tunnel!" whispered Julius beside him. His voice echoed spookily , up to the roof, down to the water. "Napoleon built the ca.n.a.ls, and then . . ." But Charlie wasn't listening to him. He was s.h.i.+vering. He didn't like it at all.

Then up ahead he saw an oval shaft of greenish-gold light drop from the roof to the surface of the water-and indeed through the surface: It lit up the smooth green water and transformed it into a sort of milky column. For a moment it made Charlie think about how deep the water was, and what it would be like on the bottom of this underground ca.n.a.l. If the light had been at all comforting, this thought took all comfort away.

"What's that?" he whispered urgently to Julius. He didn't feel like hearing the echo again.

"Skylight to the road above," he said. "There's traffic and everything going on up there. The ca.n.a.l used to be open to the air like the first part, but they covered it over."

The skylight drifted away above them. As they pa.s.sed under it Charlie craned his neck to look up: High above he could see sky through a metal grille, and a framing of leaves-the skylight must have been positioned in a garden or a park.

"Is it very long?" asked Charlie warily. He wanted to be outside again.

"Nope," said Julius. "Nearly there." The tunnel seemed to be curving. Charlie felt as if his stomach were being left behind, and maybe other parts of him too. He could see now that in fact the Circe Circe herself was s.h.i.+ning a light, up ahead, to see her way. Another weird, faded-looking skylight appeared in the roof, letting loose its spooky, glowing shaft before dropping away astern. The darkness closed around him again. And stayed. herself was s.h.i.+ning a light, up ahead, to see her way. Another weird, faded-looking skylight appeared in the roof, letting loose its spooky, glowing shaft before dropping away astern. The darkness closed around him again. And stayed.

Nearly there, Charlie thought. If only. And anyway, when I get there, then what?

Then another shaft of light. And another.

Looking back and forward, Charlie could see a pattern of arches and shafts of light, darkness and reflection, where the columns of light fell through from the outside world to the dim, smooth green water. It was beautiful, like molten gla.s.s ahead, and a rus.h.i.+ng river behind. There were immense iron rings set into the stonework of the curved walls. If he'd reached up, he could have touched the crumbly stone ceiling.

"How nearly there?" asked Charlie softly.

Suddenly, a completely different kind of light, bright, electric, and colorful, appeared in the dank wall beside them: a panel, modern and s.h.i.+ny, flas.h.i.+ng the words BIENVENUES AUX CANAUX DE PARIS. Welcome to the ca.n.a.ls of Paris.

"Ha!" thought Charlie, not feeling at all welcome.

Above his head pigeons were cooing and pooing and nesting on iron girders. Then there was a bra.s.sy, gla.s.sy tunnel crossing their path overhead, with a train rus.h.i.+ng through it-Bastille metro station.

And then they were spat out into the sunlight again-real, full, glorious, s.h.i.+ning, warm, beautiful sunlight. Charlie was happy to be in it and out of the tunnel, but his low mood clung to him.

They were there: Port de Plaisance de Paris a.r.s.enal, once the moat of the Bastille prison, where aristocrats went in the French Revolution to await having their heads chopped off, where prisoners trained rats to carry messages for them, and where people were jailed and forgotten about for years and years and years. The high wall on the right was the remains of that great fortress. It was pretty different now, crowded with pleasureboats and marketboats and cruisers and ma.s.ses of people, and a park with playgrounds. But Charlie felt like a prisoner, a scared and desperate prisoner who has sworn to escape but . . . actually . . . doesn't know if he dares.

The crowds seemed to be expecting them. Residents came running out from their boats, popping their heads up out of their c.o.c.kpits like gophers from their holes. The Lucidi family swung down to the quay even before the s.h.i.+p had docked, scattering fliers, and the Calliope started up again, wheezing and grunting like a sentimental old man singing the dance tunes of his youth. Everybody else was on deck, waving and making a big noise to show that the circus was in town. Major Tib's voice came back to Charlie: "We are not a a circus, boy-we are circus, boy-we are the the circus, the finest and best, the most daring and the most astounding, the most magnificent show on earth! We are Thibaudet's Royal Floating Circus and Equestrian Philharmonic Academy!" circus, the finest and best, the most daring and the most astounding, the most magnificent show on earth! We are Thibaudet's Royal Floating Circus and Equestrian Philharmonic Academy!"

Later, everyone would eat, and rest, then they'd prepare themselves and their animals for the parade to take place that evening. All the work of the past few days-the mending and cleaning and practicing-was about to come to fruition.

The Circe Circe swung around to dock. Looking back to the ca.n.a.l tunnel, Charlie could see, way above, beyond the metro platform in its gla.s.s tunnel and beyond the stone wall and the treetops, a golden winged figure that seemed to have landed with one elegant leg on top of a great tall column. With arms outstretched and wings flaring, it looked as if it might take off again at any moment. swung around to dock. Looking back to the ca.n.a.l tunnel, Charlie could see, way above, beyond the metro platform in its gla.s.s tunnel and beyond the stone wall and the treetops, a golden winged figure that seemed to have landed with one elegant leg on top of a great tall column. With arms outstretched and wings flaring, it looked as if it might take off again at any moment.

"What's that?" he asked Julius.

"It's a monument to the French revolutions," said Julius. "That square is the Place de la Bastille, where the prison was, and that statue is in the middle."

"But what's the statue of?" said Charlie.

"Liberty," Julius replied.

Liberty. His parents' liberty seemed further off than ever. (It was lucky he could not see them at that moment, tied up in the back of the personnel department's van, racing south, bouncing down the highway.) The lions' liberty was a scary challenge to be achieved. Charlie felt hollow inside. For everyone else, all was fuss and excitement. For him, it was more work and more worry and more fear.

So Venice it was. They'd leave after the performance and head straight for the train. After lunch, Charlie was about to go and check out the lay of the land, and work out their route to the station, when Maccomo called him back to the lionchamber. "Here, boy," he said. "Put these on."

He tossed Charlie a bundle of clothes. A red velvet suit, with gold braid at the shoulders and down the front, and twisted gold down the side of the pants, and a pair of black boots too big for him. Charlie stared, and then he put them on.

Charlie had continued to give Maccomo some of the lions' medicine each day, and the trainer had changed visibly. He was less controlled, less quietly intelligent. Before, he had looked as if nothing in the world would ever worry him; now he was moody and inconsistent. It didn't make him less frightening.

Maccomo looked at him in the outfit. "Good enough," he said, and then taking Charlie roughly by the head, he swiftly wrapped something around him, twisting and tucking, and when Charlie stood straight again, he found he was wearing a turban.

"Good," he said. "In the parade you ride your friend."

There was silence for a moment.

"I what?" said Charlie, bewildered.

"You ride your friend," said Maccomo simply.

"What friend?" said Charlie, hoping very much that Maccomo did not mean what he thought he meant.

"Your friend the lion," said Maccomo. "Him." He gestured shortly. The young lion stared sleepily ahead, his nose on his paws. He seemed not to notice that he was being gestured at.

"But I . . . I can't," stuttered Charlie. "I can't ride a . . ." When he'd said to Major Tib that he could do a handstand on a lion's back, he'd been joking, of course. You can't do things like that. A lion is a wild animal. A creature of strength and dignity who could, and quite possibly would, rip you to shreds and eat you. Just because these lions were in a circus didn't wipe out their lion instincts.

"I know," said Maccomo, "what you can do." His face was as still as stone and his expression blank, but his eyes were twitching.

Charlie's knees went a little weak.

"I know exactly," said Maccomo. "I have heard you."

What had he heard? And had he understood?

"So you say to your friend that you are riding him today," said Maccomo. "And then you ride him. In the parade. And then for the show, I will tell you later what you are to do."

"But-" said Charlie. He didn't know what to say.

Maccomo suddenly moved close to him. "Do you think," he said, very quietly, "that you are the first ever to have spoken to them? Do you really think some little London boy would be the only person ever in the history of the entire world to have that gift? Why would it be you, little boy? Why? Why?! Why?!"

And Charlie knew, suddenly, that Maccomo was jealous; that when he said "Why you?" he was really saying "Why wasn't it I, Maccomo, who was given this gift?"