Lionboy by Zizou Corder

always costs more. Rafi hated spending money on anything except himself. He really didn’t want to spend any on this. It was upsetting his budget. And his pride.
    But Rafi was a realist, so he called the best research villain he knew: a young guy he’d met when he was in reform school for stealing phones. He told him: There’s a brown boy, in the city or on the waterways. Gave him the name, the description, the details. “He’s young and wimpy,” said Rafi. “He’ll probably just go back home. I want him. Soon.”
    Then he amused himself by thinking of all the ways in which he would pay Charlie back for the trouble he was making.
     
    At first Maccomo would not leave Charlie alone with the lions. But when he saw that Charlie’s knack of calmness around them continued, and that the lions were calm with him too and seemed, if anything, to like him, Maccomo relaxed a little. He wouldn’t let Charlie open their cages or feed them, but he did allow him to pour water into their drinking bowls. It was while he was doing this early one morning that Charlie was able to catch the eye of the young lion whom he had led back from the deck. The lion gave a big, distinct, yellow wink, and jerked his head back in a significant fashion.
    Charlie made a “What do you mean?” face, and checked over his shoulder to make sure Maccomo wasn’t looking. (He wasn’t; he was rolling one of his thin black cigarettes.) He made another face that meant: “Come over here and whisper in my ear,” and bent his head down to the bars of the cage. The lion padded softly over to him and whispered in his ear with a swoosh of warm breath: “We need to talk to you. Got some news. Important.”
    Charlie looked up in astonishment.
    “What news?” he squeaked in Cat—too loudly, for Maccomo turned, holding the black cigarette now between his even white teeth, and gave him a peculiar look.
    Charlie put his finger in his mouth. “Ouch,” he said unconvincingly. “Hurt my finger. Sorry to disturb you.”
    Maccomo stared a little longer, then struck a match on the heel of his boot and lit the cigarette, which began to emit an evil smell. Its tip glowed as he stared at Charlie a little longer, and then he said: “I hope it isn’t severe.”
    Charlie smiled weakly. And then—oh, miracle—Maccomo strolled out of the lionchamber, out onto the deck.
    Charlie whirled around to the lions’ cage.
    “What is it?” he cried excitedly. “What’s the news?” Lions, after all, are cats. Cats had been putting the word out to see where his parents had been taken. He should have asked the lions right away.
    The young lion glared at him.
    “Shh,” he said shortly, and turned to face the cage at the back of the chamber, where the biggest, oldest lion lived, and addressed him in the most respectful way—by name. (I would write the name for you, but alas it’s not possible to write lion names in the English alphabet.) “Sir,” he called quietly—and Charlie noticed that all the lions were facing the oldest lion’s cage now—“Sir, may I present the lion-speaking boy.”
    The oldest lion raised his shaggy head. Charlie had never before had a chance to look into his eyes, and he was shocked by what he saw there. This lion was tired, and sick-looking, and old; his great yellow eyes were cloudy and his movements heavy. Though his mane was large and thick, still it lay flat without movement, and his whiskers hung limp. He looked like a creature without hope. Yet Charlie had seen him leaping about in the ring, healthy-seeming and energetic.
    “Hello, sir,” said Charlie, recognizing that he should be particularly polite here. He gave a little bow. The lion, with a quiet half-smile, inclined his head.
    “Hello, Boy who speaks Lion,” he said in a low and courteous voice. He blinked slowly. And again. Charlie thought he might be going back to sleep. It wasn’t clear whose turn it was to speak. Charlie sort of expected the lion to say something, but he