The Orphan. Peter Lerangis

to save a friend’s life. For weeks I’d tried to find a cure for Frada. I’d gathered remedies from the markets, oily salves and herb tonics from apothecaries in exchange for running errands. Nothing had worked. If anything, she’d been getting worse. In the time of the Good King, all Babylonians partook of the fruit’s magic. It was not thievery then. It was welcomed.

      In a just world, it would still be thus. But we were in the time of Nabu-na’id now.

       They beat to death a man who stole a tiny clipping! What will they do to someone who steals a magic pomegranate?

      They would kill me. Of course. But did I have a choice? How could I live with myself if I allowed my friend to die?

      I adjusted the empty pouch that hung from my belt. Carefully I drew a gray shawl around my head and tied it in place, to hide my blue eyes, bright red hair, and fair skin. Those qualities made me stand out in Babylon. On a day when I was about to break one of the king’s most sacred laws, my appearance was like a bull’s-eye on my back. Dressed as I was, I would look like any other girl—or even boy.

       Go. Now. Before you lose your nerve.

      I stepped through the gate.

      The warmth and beauty filled me with hope. Pathways wound through arbors and among flower beds. Waves of fragrance, strong and exotic, wafted over me. And these were merely the formal outlying gardens, acres and acres surrounding the grandest achievement of Babylon—Mother’s Mountain.

      This was a structure of extraordinary height, spilling with the rarest and most colorful flowers. It was named for Queen Amytis, the wife of Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, who was called the Mother of All Babylonians. Nabu-na’id insisted we call it the Hanging Gardens, to erase the memory of the Good Queen. Now it loomed proudly in the distance. In a place so peaceful and lovely, how could there not be magic?

      I stood close to a wealthy noble family, hoping people would think I was their servant. As soon as we were past the first bend, I peeled away. I wound through stone-paved paths, intoxicated by waves of perfume. When I reached a stone fountain, burbling with water spouted by stone fish, I stopped in my tracks.

      There, rising high over my head, was the wall of the Inner Grove.

      It was made of clay bricks and mortar, the height of at least three Darias. Guards marched to and fro, clad in gleaming metal chest pieces and headgear ornately crafted in bronze and iron. Each had a spear in hand and a sword on his belt. Any of these weapons could slice me quicker than I could open a pomegranate.

      I stilled my pounding heart. But a person did not survive in the streets without wiles. I knew that my eyes were my best allies. I had to trust what I saw. I lingered by the fountain, pretending to daydream but watching fiercely.

      The guards were bored and tired. They were also walking at a regular pace, back and forth, so that the closest section of the wall remained unguarded for … how long?

      I counted slowly. At exactly the count of seven, a guard appeared again. Then he vanished and I counted again. Eight. That gave me a good idea of how much time I had.

      Just above the wall I saw the spindly branches of a tree rising from the other side. If I climbed to the top, I could grab on and slide down inside. It would not hold the weight of a full-sized thief, but I am light—and fast.

      I waited. The guards’ footsteps receded, leaving the wall to me.

       Go!

      I leaped toward the wall, digging my work-toughened fingers and sandaled feet into the nooks, crannies, and vines. But they were tiny, and the wall was slickened by sap. I would never make it in time.

      As I reached for the top, I heard rustling directly below me and felt my grip slipping.

      The guard’s voice shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?” as I pulled myself up, ripping free the last vine I held.

       CHAPTER THREE

      MY EYES BLINKED open. I was on the ground. Facing upward.

      I sprang to my feet. Where was he? Where was the guard?

      I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice—but it was from the other side of the wall. I had fallen inside the Inner Grove. He could not see me, nor I him! “Hiding behind a bush—sleeping, Marcellus?” grunted the voice. I had to adjust it in my mind. He was speaking Judean. “I should report you!”

      “But you won’t,” another voice replied, “because I’ll tell the king you called him a fish-footed lizard!”

      The two guards laughed. But in truth, they didn’t care. I suppose they disliked the king, too.

      Most important, they hadn’t seen me.

      The air was damp and heavy. I glanced around. The king’s Inner Grove was choked with plants, trees, shrubs, flowers, vines. I tried to feel good that I’d made it inside. There were places for me to hide, but my mind held only one thought:

      What is hiding from me?

      I saw shadows everywhere. I tried not to think about the Babylonian legends that passed in whispers at night. The Unspeakables. The monsters who were said to roam the grove at night, watching over Mother’s Mountain—giant black birds with metal for skin, monkey-like creatures who spat fire—all were guarded by the biggest monster of all, the evil sightless Kranag.

      Nonsense. Childish. Even when I was hardly old enough to carry a full water jug I didn’t believe these tales.

      I steeled myself, thought of Frada and how frail and near death she seemed, and I pushed forward, toward the Tree of Enchantment.

      And then the dense brush ended abruptly, and there was the pomegranate tree. In the afternoon sun, its leaves seemed to dance with the passing breeze. I was no stranger to gardening. I had seen magnificent plants and trees before. I had coaxed dying plants into glorious life. But this was like a living, breathing being, as thick as clouds, as glorious as a song.

      I drew closer, eyeing a half-dozen fist-sized fruits, right at my eye level. A tree that size should have carried dozens, maybe hundreds of pomegranates, but its offerings were few. Special and rare.

      My fingers shook in the dappled sunlight as I reached out and pulled.

      With a soft snap, the reddish-brown fruit came loose. I had it. The pomegranate was mine.

      But before I could move away, I heard a strange, strangled sound. A hollow Zoo-kulululu! Cack! Cack! Cack! like a fierce roar forcing itself through a tiny slit. Whatever had caused it was inside the tree—behind a drooping branch in front of my eyes. What on earth could it be?

      Run! screamed a voice in my head.

      I should have listened to my instinct. I don’t know what made me reach out, pull the leaves aside. Curiosity, I guess. Or maybe insanity. But when I did, I was staring into a knothole.

      And two inky black eyes were staring back.

      I stumbled back, nearly dropping the pomegranate. With a flutter of wings, a black creature flew out of the tree toward me. It had the mask of a wolf and the body of a hawk. Its feathers were a black so pure that it shone almost blue in the light. As I dropped to the ground, its feathers grazed my cheek. And then, with another screech, it was gone.

      My heart pounded. I had startled it. It meant no harm. But as it flew over the tree canopies, surely the guards would see it. Would they suspect an intruder?

      I had to move. I placed the pomegranate in the pouch that hung from my waist and ran to the wall, crashing through the underbrush.

      On this side, the wall was sheer, polished