I lead him to the same kind of wide-leafed plant Borjigin hid beneath. We tuck under the leaves and wait.
Beneath my feet, a small tremble. A regular tremble, not the mad stampede of animals. O’Malley feels it, too—he looks at the ground quizzically.
“Uh, Em…just how big is this predator?”
Something’s wrong. When the snake-wolf came, I didn’t feel anything like this. The vibrations grow stronger, thump-thump-thump-thump.
Memories of our time on the Xolotl come rushing back. A rhythmic pounding, an organized stomping. Getting louder and louder. Shaking the ground.
O’Malley figures it out a split second before I do.
“Marching,” he says. “But it would have to be so many. Thousands.”
He looks at me, half in fear, half in disbelief.
“Springers,” I say, and ice creeps across my heart.
I stand, scan the jungle. I need to get higher and see what’s going on. There, a big tree, the trunk massive and gnarled, wider than most. If it’s wider, maybe it’s also taller.
I hand O’Malley the shovel.
“Stay here,” I say.
Thick vines run up the big trunk, creepers that root in the ground and cling to the bark with hundreds of thin white tendrils. The vines—still wet from the drizzle—hold my weight, let me climb high enough to grasp a branch. I move quickly but carefully, mindful that everything I touch and step on is damp and slick.
Higher.
I draw even with the canopy, see the tops of trees all around me. I was right: this tree is taller than most.
Higher still.
The leaves rattle harshly just above my head—something yellow and small leaps from the tree. Arms spread, skin flaps catch air, and the animal is gone in an instant, banking to slide through vines and out of sight.
My heart hammers. That thing startled me…maybe I startled it. It was the same kind of animal I saw when Spingate and I were walking through the jungle. This close, though, I saw more of it. Seemed like it was holding something…maybe a stick?
I climb higher.
The trunk narrows, the branches thin. I reach the top—here the trunk is so slim the tree wobbles from my weight.
As if the gods are real and want to help me, the wind drops off and the last of the drizzle stops. One of the two moons escapes the clouds and turns the jungle into a maroon landscape.
I look out across the trees.
“Oh…oh no.”
The canopy blocks most of my view, but through it I see so many Springers it looks like the entire jungle floor is moving.
A line of them march shoulder to shoulder, hopping in unison. The line stretches off into the distance. I can’t even see where it ends.
Some carry muskets. Most carry other weapons: axes, knives, swords and spears.
Behind the first line, a second.
And a third.
Thousands of them. My people are hopelessly outnumbered. The war machines will be our only hope of survival.
Closer the marchers come. I have to move soon or I won’t be able to get down without being seen.
Wait…in the middle, straight out from me, behind the second line. Springers hacking at trees and vines, cutting away underbrush. Stretching out behind them, a maroon streak through the jungle—they are clearing an old road.
Something on that road. I squint, lean forward, as if those extra few inches can make a difference. I recognize the design. The toys Barkah showed me, the ones with the long, straight wooden tails, the carts that smashed spiders…they weren’t toys at all. They were models of something real.
These are too big to call carts—I think wagons is a better word for them. The tent-poles-without-a-tent frameworks brush against overhanging branches. The thin, straight tails stretch out twice the length of the wagons themselves.
The wagons are big enough for several Springers to ride on top, although no one is riding. Instead, there are five Springers on each side, pushing the wagons over the broken, bumpy, just-cleared road.
Springers are marching on our city. They are prepared to take on the spiders and win.
My people will be slaughtered—I have to go back, I have to warn everyone.
The way the Springer lines angle away…
I turn and look back, see the city of Uchmal rising out of the jungle. Oh no…there is no way O’Malley and I could make it to the gates without the Springers seeing us. The only hope of escape we have is to continue along the trail as fast as we can go.
The Springer church…the cellar where Barkah hid Spingate and me…
Omeyocan’s second moon slips from behind the clouds, adding pale blue light to the jungle. It’s too bright—if even one of those thousands look up here, they’ll see me.
I start down, dropping fast. My hands and feet slip on wet bark. I smash my knee, then my shin, but the pain doesn’t slow me. I lose my footing a third time, fall into a branch that hammers my ribs. Can’t stop—if I stop now we’re dead.
Branches, vines, feet, hands…faster and faster.