The Orphan by Peter Lerangis Page B

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
    M Y 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!”
    â€œBut 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