*But your eyes, they looked brown, you didn’t say —*
*The eyes are a late sign, as you know.* He rolls his up at me. *And if I had told you I was ill, would you have accepted our quest? Would you have let me carry you here?*
The harvest mouse, who had been clinging on to his horns, jumps off. *When the others in my nest were starving, when they were —* she pauses, gulps at the memory — *we used to do something, I don’t know if it would be any help now, but —*
*This is no time for a dance, Mouse.*
She looks hurt.
*I would never suggest a dance at a time like this. What kind of self-respecting harvest mouse do you take me for, my lad?* She scratches her nose crossly with her claws. *No, if you’d keep your thoughts in your head for just a single moment — we helped them like this.* And she hurries up the stag’s leg and on to his chest. The deer gives a low grumble, but doesn’t shake her off, as slowly, not missing a single bit, the mouse begins, with claws and teeth, to remove all the mud and thorns and twigs twisted in his fur.
I look round at the others. The stag is lying stretched out, surrounded by a circle of woodland animals.
Apart from the wolf-cub, who sits upright behind me. He whispers in the dark, *Normally this would be my chance to avenge the stag for the death of my father. I should tear his dying carcass to pieces.* The cub sounds matter-of-fact. *But I will not — for now — out of respect for you, Wildness.*
I turn on him. *He’s not dying! He’s not dying, OK?*
The wolf-cub shrinks away, cowering.
I turn back to the stag. *You didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you—*
*It makes no odds now. I have survived longer than I expected. I have carried you here, as the dream said I would.* The wind hits in rolling gusts, like jabs in the side, each one making us flinch. *Now you must go on and leave me here. Take the others, find your father and find us a cure. Find us all a cure. Hurry.*
I glance up at the darkening, brooding sky. *There is no way I’m leaving you here, not after everything—*
*All of that is meaningless unless you find us a cure. I will rest here until you return.*
I thump my fist into the ground, spraying him with a burst of loose soil. *We can’t leave you here, on the edge of the city. Who knows what could happen? Anyone could find you, cullers — or worse. You’re not well enough for us to leave you on your own!*
*You will go faster without me.*
*Then what’s the point of it all? Telling me to be the Wildness, telling me to make decisions, to take charge — and then when I do, you don’t listen. We can’t leave you here! You’ll die!*
*Maybe, Wildness,* says Wolf-Cub, nervous I will turn on him again, *that is what he wants.*
*But it’s not what I want!*
‘He can look after himself. He’s taken care of us all the way, hasn’t he?’ says Polly, touching me on the back.
The others begin to drift even further away from the stag, towards the lights, as if they have decided already.
I kneel down by him again. He is so weak I have to really strain to hear him.
*You are a good Wildness. I have trained you well. But you must trust me now. This is the right thing to do.* Foamy mucus drips out of his mouth on to the ground. *The only thing to do.*
I stroke his soft, wet nose and his chipped horns. He’s carried me so far. I didn’t have anything before I met the stag; and now –
*Oh yes, you did, Kester,* he murmurs, a glimmer of a smile in his burning eyes.
*Just promise me,* I say, trying to ignore my tears, *that you will be all right. And I promise we will come back and find you. And we will make you better.*
He grunts. Then his tone changes, just like the wind. *Go now. Before a storm comes — go!*
I need no further telling. I touch his warm head once more, stand up and turn around to face the city fence. As I do, my watch vibrates with a last spasm of energy. I glance down, and have to strain to see two words, only just visible on the dying screen:
GIVE UP
I turn the watch off. Give up? That is the one thing I am not doing, whoever or whatever is trying to tell me. I feel so full of fire, that I don’t think a whole regiment of cullers could stop me now — the wild is waiting.
Beyond the fence there are towers, lights, people and machines. Everything that used to feel normal. And now — I don’t know how it will feel.
But without waiting another second I start striding straight towards the fence, Polly hurrying behind me.
‘Where are you going, Kester? Wait! You can’t just walk into Premium with a hundred animals!’
Watch me.
Chapter 36
We enter the city through a hole in the fence, blown open by the wind.
Then we’re sneaking along alleyways, striding under shady bridges splattered with graffiti, breathing in as we slide along the narrow gaps in between buildings. Only Wolf-Cub keeps up with me, as we leave the last of the countryside behind.
Now we march up a white concrete ramp, which rises through the forest of towers and twists and turns on high pillars, raised above more wasteland far below, over slums filled with rickety sheds, caravans and piles of rubbish. Steam and another smell rises up, the smell of something oily that makes me gag — and the General’s antennae twitch eagerly.
Then the road swoops down again into the city proper, taking us along wide streets lined with grey old-fashioned buildings with tattered flags dangling outside, and small withered trees in pots standing in rows, like guards. We come to a sprawling block of shops and their never-ending windows. The old hare stops for a moment and peers at his reflection in them, gawping at the faded and peeling signs plastered across the giant walls of glass.
No more shops as the road leads into the heart of the city — just the towers we saw from the cliff, shining glass skyscrapers that climb into the clouds, each one home to thousands of people, the very top floors soaring high above even the pigeons.
*How do people live there? We couldn’t fly that high.*
*Yes, how do people fly up that high?*
‘Where is everyone, Kester?’ asks Polly, looking around at the deserted streets. ‘I thought Premium would be full of people.’
It is. But people frightened of animals, frightened of the plague they carry — perhaps people who have never seen a living one before now.
As we walk past the towers, there are pale faces pressed to ground-floor windows — blinds hurriedly slam down, lit rooms go dark as we pass. Headlights approach us, making the polecats start in alarm, but when the drivers see the animals they brake and reverse quickly or dive down a side street out of our way.
*Hah! None dare approach the mighty cockroach warrior!* says the General from my shoulder.
We continue down the street, past a silent government building that looks like a locked box, and over a bridge, taking us over the river, early-morning mist still curling along it, hiding the ships and cranes moored along its edge.
The River Ams. The river that was once a fish-road.
The fish-road that splits Premium in two, between the new half and the old half — where I once lived with Mum and Dad.
We stop to catch our breath, the animals peering through the bars of the bridge at the water flowing below. I look out further — to my right, where way down along the opposite bank, four tall and dark chimneys stick up through the fog. I can’t help but shiver, seeing them again for the first time in six years — the four towers of Factorium.
But we aren’t going there. After the bridge we turn left –
Then left — left again –