amusing?”
Lemon sulks.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Neal says. “Perhaps it is just as well that we all see what there is to fear from lions.”
Zephele comes striding up alongside Malora. “I want you to teach me,” she says in a fierce undertone.
“Teach you what?” Malora asks.
“Teach me how to kill,” she says.
Malora turns and stares at her friend. “What are you talking about?”
Zephele’s eyes are wide and pleading. “I’m not talking about murder, you needn’t worry about that. I’m talking about self-defense. Malora, I don’t
ever
want to be like that hippo. I don’t ever want to stand by and let myself be savaged by some wild beast. I won’t hunt them. But neither will I let them hunt me. I want to be able to defend myself without having to depend upon you or Neal or Dock or anyone else. I want you to teach me how to kill so I can protect myself.”
Malora searches Zephele’s face and sees that her friend has never been more serious. “What about the Edicts?” Malora says.
“I’ll follow the Edicts in Mount Kheiron, but out here in the bush I can’t afford to. Will you help me? I’d ask Neal, but he’s too fearful of my father.”
“Very well,” Malora says at last. “But please don’t ever tell the Apex. Neal isn’t the only one who fears him. I know he’d never forgive me. He might even turn me out.” As she says this, she realizes that in spite of the fact that she knows howto make her way in the bush, she fears being turned out as much as any centaur—that’s how powerful the claim civilization has made on her.
That day, and every day after that, Malora gives Zephele lessons in archery. After they have made camp, Malora leaves Dock and Neal to hunt while she stays behind and sets up a shooting range for Zephele. All the while Malora is doing this, she finds herself thinking of her mother, who taught her how to use a bow. As she instructs Zephele, she hears her mother’s voice in her ear: “Feet shoulder-width apart, weight equally distributed on your feet. When you pull the string back, you want to use your bones, not your muscle.…”
The first time she does this, Malora takes a stub of charcoal and makes a target on the wide smooth trunk of a baobab tree. Zephele misses the target the first few times but keeps trying with a determination Malora finds impressive. When the arrow flies wide of the target, Malora tells Zephele, “Remember always to look at what you are aiming at, never at the arrow. Burn a hole with your eye into the target and the arrow will seek it.”
Just as this advice made a difference for Malora, so does it now serve Zephele. As the days pass and the practice sessions pile up, the centaur maiden starts hitting the target more often than missing it. On the eve before their arrival in Kahiro, Neal returns early from hunting and watches as Zephele hits the direct center of the target at twenty-five paces. Malora notices a new expression in Neal’s eyes when he looks at Zephele.
“What you lack in the strength of your arm you more than make up for in the acuity of your aim,” he says toZephele. “All that time spent in the stitchery has sharpened your eye and steadied your hand.”
Zephele lowers her bow. “Thank you, Master Featherhoof,” she says primly. “And I intend to strengthen my arm.”
Neal merely nods as if he didn’t doubt her.
That night, they camp in fine white sand near a stand of towering date palms. Monkeys chatter in the treetops, and Malora hears the cries of birds she doesn’t recognize. The next morning, when she emerges from her tent, she spots big, bright-red-and-green-plumed birds flapping in the treetops.
“Parrots,” Honus says, eyeing them through his opera glasses. “They look comical, but don’t be fooled. They can snap your finger with those hooked bills.”
For the first time, Malora is wearing the disguise, the horns and the saruchi, but Honus seems more interested in the parrots than in
Lemon sulks.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Neal says. “Perhaps it is just as well that we all see what there is to fear from lions.”
Zephele comes striding up alongside Malora. “I want you to teach me,” she says in a fierce undertone.
“Teach you what?” Malora asks.
“Teach me how to kill,” she says.
Malora turns and stares at her friend. “What are you talking about?”
Zephele’s eyes are wide and pleading. “I’m not talking about murder, you needn’t worry about that. I’m talking about self-defense. Malora, I don’t
ever
want to be like that hippo. I don’t ever want to stand by and let myself be savaged by some wild beast. I won’t hunt them. But neither will I let them hunt me. I want to be able to defend myself without having to depend upon you or Neal or Dock or anyone else. I want you to teach me how to kill so I can protect myself.”
Malora searches Zephele’s face and sees that her friend has never been more serious. “What about the Edicts?” Malora says.
“I’ll follow the Edicts in Mount Kheiron, but out here in the bush I can’t afford to. Will you help me? I’d ask Neal, but he’s too fearful of my father.”
“Very well,” Malora says at last. “But please don’t ever tell the Apex. Neal isn’t the only one who fears him. I know he’d never forgive me. He might even turn me out.” As she says this, she realizes that in spite of the fact that she knows howto make her way in the bush, she fears being turned out as much as any centaur—that’s how powerful the claim civilization has made on her.
That day, and every day after that, Malora gives Zephele lessons in archery. After they have made camp, Malora leaves Dock and Neal to hunt while she stays behind and sets up a shooting range for Zephele. All the while Malora is doing this, she finds herself thinking of her mother, who taught her how to use a bow. As she instructs Zephele, she hears her mother’s voice in her ear: “Feet shoulder-width apart, weight equally distributed on your feet. When you pull the string back, you want to use your bones, not your muscle.…”
The first time she does this, Malora takes a stub of charcoal and makes a target on the wide smooth trunk of a baobab tree. Zephele misses the target the first few times but keeps trying with a determination Malora finds impressive. When the arrow flies wide of the target, Malora tells Zephele, “Remember always to look at what you are aiming at, never at the arrow. Burn a hole with your eye into the target and the arrow will seek it.”
Just as this advice made a difference for Malora, so does it now serve Zephele. As the days pass and the practice sessions pile up, the centaur maiden starts hitting the target more often than missing it. On the eve before their arrival in Kahiro, Neal returns early from hunting and watches as Zephele hits the direct center of the target at twenty-five paces. Malora notices a new expression in Neal’s eyes when he looks at Zephele.
“What you lack in the strength of your arm you more than make up for in the acuity of your aim,” he says toZephele. “All that time spent in the stitchery has sharpened your eye and steadied your hand.”
Zephele lowers her bow. “Thank you, Master Featherhoof,” she says primly. “And I intend to strengthen my arm.”
Neal merely nods as if he didn’t doubt her.
That night, they camp in fine white sand near a stand of towering date palms. Monkeys chatter in the treetops, and Malora hears the cries of birds she doesn’t recognize. The next morning, when she emerges from her tent, she spots big, bright-red-and-green-plumed birds flapping in the treetops.
“Parrots,” Honus says, eyeing them through his opera glasses. “They look comical, but don’t be fooled. They can snap your finger with those hooked bills.”
For the first time, Malora is wearing the disguise, the horns and the saruchi, but Honus seems more interested in the parrots than in
Similar Books
