Chapter Eighteen

IT was late morning by the time they got back to camp, Kuma carrying Twig on her shoulder. Raffa kept thinking about everything that needed to be done. The thorns had to be soaked in nettle essence. The knitted sacks had to be finished and filled. Yet another council meeting, to present their idea for Roo . . .

And the whistles. I keep forgetting about them. We need to make a whole bunch of them.

It’s too much. I’ll never get it all done, we’ll never be ready. And even if I get everything done, the problem is bigger than that. If everyone is too scared and can’t bring themselves to do what needs doing, nothing else will matter.

His breath shortened; he found that he was almost gasping for air.

As they entered the clearing, Elson was the first person they met. He greeted Kuma with a hug, then looked at Raffa with a frown.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” Raffa said. “I’m just— There’s so much to do, I don’t know—” He had to force the words out one at a time.

“Put your hands on your knees, son,” Elson said. “Head down.”

Raffa shrugged. “It’s okay—I’m all right—”

“Not asking you,” Elson said, kindly but sternly. “Go on. Five breaths, deep ones—in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Raffa liked and respected Elson too much to disobey, even though he thought the command a waste of time.

He was wrong. By the end of the third breath, his head had already cleared and steadied. No more panicking, he told himself firmly. The only way to get everything done is to do one thing at a time.

When he straightened up, he saw Elson gazing at him intently.

“Thanks,” Raffa said, with a small wave. Elson nodded and patted his shoulder.

Raffa turned to Kuma. “Will you tell him about your idea for Roo? I need to get these thorns to the pother tent.”

“An idea for Roo?” Elson said, with a smile. “I like the sound of that.”

Raffa poured the nettle essence into the buckets holding the thorns. He gave the thorns a good stir with a wooden paddle; they would steep and become thoroughly saturated. He covered the bucket with a cloth and set it aside.

Then he joined Garith and Jimble, who were transferring the blue-goo—which was what Jimble had christened it—into smaller jars. With the three of them working together, it didn’t take long. Raffa had the last jar in his hand when Jimble turned his head toward the tent door.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Raffa heard what sounded like a distant clowder of cats and kittens, mewing, meowing, yowling. He nudged Garith and touched his own ear.

They all went outside. The noise continued, coming closer, although Raffa still couldn’t see anything.

“What do you hear?” Garith asked.

Raffa shook his head. “It sounds like cats”—he put his hand near his face and tweaked invisible whiskers—“but that can’t be right.”

“Oh!” Jimble exclaimed. “I can hear Camma and Cassa!”

He took off running. Raffa and Garith followed him. When they turned the corner onto the central path through the camp, Raffa saw the source of the noise.

A ragged flock of small children was making its way through the camp. Almost all of the children were crying pitifully, which was why, from a distance, they had sounded like cats. There were several dozen of them being shepherded by three adults and five teenagers, including Jimble’s friend Davvis. Raffa recognized one of the adults, Mannum Abdul, whom he had met earlier at Kuma’s settlement.

By the time Raffa and Garith caught up with Jimble, he was down on one knee, surrounded by his tearful siblings. Camma and Cassa clung to either shoulder, while toddler Brid held on to the front of Jimble’s tunic. Davvis was there, too.

“What’s going on?” Raffa asked.

Jimble looked at him over Camma’s head. “They’re taking all the little ones to one of the settlements. To keep them safe.”

Davvis spoke up. “My mam said I had to help take them there. But I’m coming back after they’re all steadied.”

Raffa surveyed the group quickly. It looked as though every young child was leaving. At some point, Kuma had mentioned the council’s decision: children under twelve to be moved to the settlements; twelve- to sixteen-year-olds would assist around camp. Only those over sixteen would be assigned to battle squads.

Jimble was ten.

“Do you need anything?” Raffa asked. “We can run and fetch it for you.”

Jimble looked puzzled. “Why would I need anything?”

“I meant, to take with you.”

“Take with—” Jimble stopped. A dark scowl appeared on his usually sunny face. “Oh no. No, no, nooooooo. You think I’m leaving? Faults and fissures, never in a hundred years! No, a thousand! No, a million!”

Raffa was saved from having to respond by the twins, who immediately began to clamor.

“Jimble, you’re coming with us, right?”

“You have to come!”

“We won’t go without you.”

“That’s right. We won’t go unless you come.”

“Look at me, I’m sitting down.” Cassa sat down in the dirt. “I’m sitting down and I’m not getting up until you come with us.”

“Me, too,” Camma said, “I’m sitting down, too. And so is Brid.”

She tugged on Brid’s arm. The little boy lost his balance and started to fall, but Jimble caught him before he hit the ground. Brid thought it was a game. He stopped crying and clapped his hands. “More!” he said.

Raffa had encountered Jimble’s younger sisters and brother once before, when he had found himself just as bewildered as he was now. An only child, he was utterly unaccustomed to multiple siblings. It was hard for him to believe that there were just three little Marrs; he would have sworn from the clamor they created that there were at least ten of them.

Jimble seemed oblivious to the noise and spoke right over the top of it. “You can’t make me leave. Only my da could do that, and—and maybe Trixin. And they’re not here.”

Raffa thought for a moment. On the one hand, Jimble was right. Raffa did not have any real authority to order him around. At the same time, Raffa felt responsible for him: Trixin had sent Jimble to help him more than once, always on the condition that Raffa keep him out of trouble. He decided to try an appeal to Jimble’s own sense of responsibility.

“You’re right, Jimble,” Raffa said. “They’re not here, which makes you the oldest. The one who has to make the decisions. When you left Gilden, your da and Trixin—they told you to look after the little ones, didn’t they?”

Jimble stuck out his bottom lip and said nothing, which Raffa took as a sign that he was on the right track.

“How are you going to do that, if you don’t go with them now?”

“You just said that I’m the one who gets to make the decisions,” Jimble countered, his eyes narrowing.

Caught out, Raffa scowled. “Yes, but only if you make the right ones,” he muttered. If he doesn’t leave, and—and something happens to him, it would be too awful. And Trixin will—what’s that she always says?—she’ll skin me alive.

“You don’t understand,” Jimble said. “I look after them every single day. Those times in Gilden when I helped you—those were practically the only times I ever got to do anything without them. And now I have another chance, and—and it’s not just fun, it’s important, and you can’t make me go!”

Raffa was taken aback by Jimble’s outburst. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at Garith, who was studying their faces carefully.

Garith pulled Raffa aside. “I didn’t follow everything,” he said, “but you think he should go and he doesn’t want to, right?”

Raffa nodded.

“I know leaving would be safer for him,” Garith said, “but he’s a big help with the pothering. He listens good, and he’s got a knack for it. We’ll need him.”

Still undecided, Raffa looked around. The rest of the group had moved on ahead. At the rear, he saw Mannum Abdul turn and walk back toward them, with a determined, no-nonsense expression on his face.

“I’ll look after him,” Garith went on. “You have to meet with people and talk to them and all that. I’ll be staying in the pother tent; I’ll keep him with me. He’ll be safe enough there.”

Raffa sighed. It seemed too big a decision for him and Garith to make, but at least they were making it together.

By now Mannum Abdul had reached the Marr siblings. Jimble handed over Brid. But Camma was still hanging on to one of Jimble’s legs, and Cassa the other.

“We have to get going,” Mannum Abdul said. “The wagons are ready to leave.”

Raffa pointed at Jimble. “He’s staying.”

“Oh?” Abdul frowned. “I don’t know—”

“We need his help with the pothering,” Garith said.

Jimble’s eyes lit up with surprise and thanks. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I’m helping out in the pother tent.”

Mannum Abdul nodded. “Steady work to the three of you, then,” he said. “We’re all counting on you.”

He hoisted Brid onto his shoulders. Jimble pulled Camma to her feet, then turned to do the same to Cassa. The second he let go of Camma, she sat down and grabbed his leg again.

Jimble groaned in frustration.

Cassa stopped in midwail. “Jimble, what’s that on your hand?” She had spotted the smear of blue-goo, which was still glowing.

Of course, Camma had to see it, too, which meant that she also stopped crying. “It’s a blue light,” she said to Cassa.

“A pretty blue light,” Cassa agreed. “I want one.”

“Me, too,” Camma said. “I want a blue light on my hand.”

Then Raffa remembered that he had left the pother tent holding a jar of blue-goo, which he had put in his pocket at some point. He pulled it out and held it up before the twins.

“Camma and Cassa, if I give you a blue light, will you go with Davvis?”

The girls looked at each other.

“No,” they said in unison.

Raffa sighed. I was sure it would work—I’ll never understand little kids. . . .

“Two,” Camma said.

“Two each,” Cassa said.

Does that mean—?

“Okay,” Jimble said. “Say it, Camma.”

“Two blue lights and we’ll go with Davvis,” Camma said.

“Cassa?”

“No, don’t ask her. I said it for both of us,” Camma said.

“I don’t want you to,” Cassa objected. “I want to say it myself.”

“Oh, for quake’s sake, then say it!” Jimble exclaimed.

“Okay, okay,” Cassa grumbled, then paused. “What am I supposed to say again?”

Davvis and Mannum Abdul shouted with laughter, which set everyone else laughing, too. Raffa rubbed blue-goo on the backs of the twins’ hands and on one of Brid’s. They hugged and kissed Jimble good-bye and finally departed, waving their glowing blue hands in front of them.

“Shakes and tremors!” Raffa said.

Jimble grinned. “That was easy,” he said. “You should see when they put up a fuss.”