The great tree and the denizens of its shade went about their business in silence. So did Gren and Poyly. When the marks they pursued turned along a side branch, they turned too, without discussion.
So they continued, horizontally and vertically, until Poyly glimpsed movement. A flitting human form revealed itself. Ducking among the leaves, it plunged for safety into a clump of fuzzypuzzle on a branch ahead – just the mystery of it, then silence.
They had seen no more than a flash of shoulder and a glimpse of face alert under flying hair, yet it had an electrifying effect on Poyly.
'She'll escape if we don't catch her,' she told Gren. 'Let me go and try to get her! Keep watch, in case her companions are near.'
'Let me go.'
'No, I'll get her. Make a noise to distract her attention when you think I'm ready to pounce.'
Shucking off her fruit case and sliding forward on her belly, she edged over the curve of the branch until she hung upside down under it. As she began to work her way along, the morel, anxious for its own safety in an exposed position, invaded her mind. Her perceptions became extraordinarily sharp, her vision clearer, her skin more sensitive.
'Go in from behind. Capture it, don't kill it, and it will lead us to the rest of its tribe,' twanged the voice in her head.
'Hush, or she'll hear,' Poyly breathed.
'Only you and Gren can hear me, Poyly; you are my kingdom.'
Poyly crawled beyond the fuzzypuzzle patch before climbing on to the upper side of the branch again, never rustling the leaves about her as she did so. Slowly she slid forward.
Above the soft lollipop buds of the fuzzypuzzle she spied her quarry's head. A fine young female was looking guardedly about, eyes dark and liquid under a sheltering hand and a crown of hair.
'She did not recognize you under your fruit cases as human, so she hides from you,' said the morel.
That was silly, Poyly thought to herself. Whether this female recognized us or not, she would always hide from strangers. The morel sucked the thought from her brain and understood why his reasoning had been false; for all he had already learnt, the whole notion of a human being was still alien to him.
Tactfully he removed himself from Poyly's mind, leaving her free to tackle the stranger in her own way.
Poyly moved a step nearer, and another step, bent almost double. Head down, she waited for Gren to signal as instructed.
On the other side of the fuzzypuzzle patch, Gren shook a twig. The strange female peered in the direction of the noise, her tongue running over her open lips. Before she could pull the knife from her belt, Poyly jumped on her from behind.
They struggled in among the soft fibres, the stranger grappling for Poyly's throat. Poyly in return bit her in the shoulder. Bursting in, Gren gripped the stranger round her neck and tugged her backwards until her saffron hair fell about his face. The girl put up a savage struggle, but they had her. Soon she was bound and lay on the branch looking up at them.
'You have done well! Now she will lead us -' began the morel.
'Quiet!' Gren rasped, so that the fungus instantly obeyed.
Something was moving fast in the layers of the tree above them.
Gren knew the forest. He knew how predators were attracted by the sounds of struggle. Hardly had he spoken when a thin-pin came spiralling down the nearest trunk like a spring and launched itself at them. Gren was ready for it.
Swords are useless against thinpins. He caught it a blow with a stick, sending it spinning. It anchored itself by a springy tail before rearing to strike again – and a rayplane curved down from the foliage above, snapped up the thinpin, and swooped on.
Poyly and Gren flung themselves flat beside their captive and waited. The terrible silences of the forest came in again like a tide all round them, and it was safe once more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEIR captive was almost speechless. She pouted and tossed her head in answer to Poyly's questions. They elicited from her only the fact that she went by the name of Yattmur. Obviously she was alarmed by the sinister ruff about their necks and the glistening lumps on their heads.
'Morel, she is too fearful to speak,' Gren said, moved by the beauty of the girl who sat bound at their feet. 'She does not care for the look of you. Shall we leave her and go on? We'll find other humans.'
'Hit her and then she may speak,' twanged the silent voice of the morel.
'But that will make her more fearful.'
'It may loosen her tongue. Hit her face, on that cheek you seem to admire -'
'Even though she is causing me no danger?'
'You silly creature, why can you never use all of your brain at once? She causes us all danger by delaying us.'
'I suppose she does. I never thought of that. You think deep, morel, that I must admit.'
'Then do as I say and hit her.'
Gren raised his hand hesitantly. Morel twitched at his muscles. The hand came down violently across Yattmur's cheek, jerking her head. Poyly winced and looked questioningly at her mate.
'You foul creature! My tribe will kill you,' Yattmur threatened, showing her teeth at them.
His eyes gleaming, Gren raised his hand again.
'Do you want another blow? Tell us where you live.'
The girl struggled ineffectually.
'I am only a herder. You do wrong to harm me if you are of my kind. What harm did I do you? I was only gathering fruit.'
'We need answers to questions. You will not be hurt if you answer our questions.' Again his hand came up, and this time she surrendered.
'I am a herder – I herd the jumpvils. It is not my job to fight or to answer questions. I can take you to my tribe if you wish.'
'Tell us where your tribe is.'
'It lives on the Skirt of the Black Mouth, which is only a small way from here. We are peaceful people. We don't jump out of the sky on to other humans.'
'The Skirt of the Black Mouth? Will you take us there?'
'Do you mean us harm?'
'We mean no harm to anyone. Besides you can see there are only two of us. Why should you be afraid?'
Yattmur put on a sullen face, as if she doubted his words.
'You must let me up then, and set my arms free. My people shall not see me with tied hands. I will not run away from you.'
'My sword through your side if you do,' Gren said.
'You are learning,' the morel said with approval.
Poyly released Yattmur from her bonds. The girl smoothed her hair, rubbed her wrists, and began to climb among the silent leaves, her two captors following close. They exchanged no more words, but in Poyly's heart doubts rose, particularly when she saw that the endless uniformity of the banyan was breaking.
Following Yattmur, they descended the tree. One great mass of broken stone crowned with nettlemoss and berrywish thrust itself up beside their way, and then another. But although they descended, it grew lighter overhead; which meant the banyan was here far from its average height. Its branches twisted and thinned. A spear of sunlight pierced through the travellers. The Tips were almost meeting the ground. What could it mean?
Poyly whispered the question in her mind, and the morel answered.
'The forest must fail somewhere. We are coming to a broken land where it cannot grow. Do not be alarmed.'
'We must be coming to the Skirt of the Black Mouth. I fear the sound of it, morel. Let us go back before we meet fatal trouble.'
'We have no back to go to, Poyly. We are wanderers. We can only go on. Have no fear. I will help you and I shall never leave you.'