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‘Unless this Kraa throws poachers who don’t pay up to them,’ murmured Ben. He was probably not alone in adding in his thoughts: ‘Or his prisoners.’ He looked at the other cages. In the twilight that filled the nest, you couldn’t tell whether they were all occupied.
‘I’m sure they’d like troll too,’ muttered Hothbrodd. ‘They remind me of the crabs that used to bite me as a child when I was gathering driftwood on the beach. Although those didn’t have golden stings.’ He hit the woven network of twigs so hard with his fist that the basket cage swung back and forth like a pendulum. ‘What do those monkeys think I am? A dratted bird?’ he bellowed. ‘Maybe I ought to have a word with these twigs!’
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ said Barnabas. ‘If the twigs let us go a little too suddenly, you’ll probably survive the fall, but Ben and I are rather more breakable. And then there are those jackal scorpions. They love to tear their victims to pieces with their pincers. After paralysing them with their stings first.’
Ben looked down at the shining scorpions again. Barnabas was right. Even if those guards hadn‘t been there, escape seemed impossible. The baskets were hanging so high that they’d be sure to break their necks. Of course, with wings it would have looked different…
No. No! He’d forbidden himself even to think of Firedrake. Ever since Ben had seen the griffins at close quarters, he was grateful for every mile that lay between them and the dragon. Even though he was sure that Shrii and Firedrake would have got on well with each other, in spite of all those griffin-versus-dragon stories! But where was Shrii? None of the basket cages that Ben could see was large enough for a griffin.
Barnabas came to stand beside him and looked through the twigs.
‘I’m rather disappointed by this nest,’ he said. ‘Look at its walls. I’ve read that griffin nests are adorned with fantastic reliefs that can compete with the reliefs of Persepolis.’
‘This is only the prison nest. Kraa’s nest is covered with pictures.’ The voice came from a basket hanging only a few metres away from theirs. ‘They shine as if they were set with jewels, but it’s only dead beetles and butterflies. The monkeys catch them.’
The boy Ben could see behind the twigs looked younger than he was. His English was very good, although he spoke it with an Indonesian accent. A tiny creature with smooth, brown fur sat on his shoulder. The face pressed to the twigs consisted almost entirely of two huge eyes, and a tail without any fur was wound around them.
‘Who’s your furry friend?’ asked Ben.
The boy tickled the tiny creature behind the ears. ‘This is Berulu. He’s a kind of brownie-maki, and a very talented spy.’
Berulu twittered, sounding pleased by the flattery. His delicate, fur-less fingers clinging to the twigs that formed the bars of the cage reminded Ben of Twigleg. He hoped that Lola and the homunculus had done better than he and Barnabas. If so, they would probably be looking for them. But did they want to be found? He heard the cry of a griffin from outside. No. Tchraee wouldn’t even notice if he swallowed up Lola’s plane, along with everyone in it.
Berulu was staring down at the scorpions. What did the world look like, seen through such enormous eyes? His master stroked his head soothingly.
‘At least we know now how my mother’s parrots feel,’ he said. ‘If we get out of here alive I’ll set them all free! That’s a promise, and you’re my witness!’ He pressed his face to the network of twigs forming his cage. ‘Are you birdcatchers?’ he called to Ben. ‘Monkey-dealers? Rich hunters who’ve lost your way and come to this island? No, wait… it’s said that the Kucing-Burungs sometimes pluck fishermen out of their boats to feed them to their young! But you don’t look like fishermen. More like the white-faced tourists who go from island to island on enormous ships.’
‘Kucing-Burungs?’ asked Ben. ‘What’s that?’
The other boy laughed. ‘You’re their prisoner. Did their monkeys catch you?’
‘Yes – I admit the urgency of our mission made us rather careless,’ said Barnabas. ‘May I introduce myself? My name is Barnabas Greenbloom, and this is my son Ben. The green person you can see through the bars is our friend Hothbrodd.’
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The troll turned his back to them. He was still investigating the network of twigs woven into a cage. The maki’s big eyes were turned on him with interest and anxiety. The expression on his human master’s face was more one of curiosity.
‘What kind of monkey is that? Or is it an ape?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen such a large one! Even orang-utans are small by comparison!’
‘Tell him I’ll shrink him to the size of his furry animal if he calls me an ape again,’ barked Hothbrodd.
‘What are you doing with the Kucing-Burungs?’ Barnabas asked the boy, trying to change the subject. ‘We came here to buy one of their feathers, but we seem to have met the wrong griffin. May I ask what you did to annoy them? Excuse me, but will you tell us your name?’
‘Winston.’ The boy couldn’t take his eyes off Hothbrodd, although he certainly couldn’t see much of him. ‘Winston Setiawan. I come from one of the neighbouring islands, and I’m here because I followed a fairy tale. In our village they say there’s a ruined temple brim-full of treasure on this island. I wouldn’t say no to a chest full of gold, but there’s supposed to be something even more exciting there: one of the cast skins of Nyai Loro Kidul.’
‘A famous queen of the sea,’ said Barnabas, in response to Ben’s enquiring glance. ‘She is sometimes a fish and sometimes a snake.’
‘Yes, and when you put on her skin,’ Winston went on, ‘you change shape. You turn into a pit viper! Imagine that. There are two boys in my village who make life hell for me. How surprised they’d be if I suddenly had black scales and venomous fangs!’ He heaved a wistful sigh. ‘Of course I didn’t find the temple. Instead I found myself in the clearing where the Kucing-Burungs leave their prisoners for poachers and animal-catchers to pick them up. I know I never should have touched the cages, but all the same…’
Winston fell silent, and stared at the basket where Ben and Barnabas were imprisoned. One of the twigs was slowly coming away from the woven structure, and beginning to wind its way through the air like a dancing cobra.
‘These twigs have minds of their own,’ grunted Hothbrodd, ‘and a very peculiar sense of humour – but they can understand me!’
Another twig pulled itself out of the basketwork. Right under Ben’s feet.
‘Hothbrodd!’ he cried in alarm. ‘Do you want us to fall to our deaths?’
The troll gave a disapproving grunt, and muttered a few incomprehensible words, whereupon the twigs, if with obvious reluctance, went back to their original places.
