Ben just shook his head. He put a hand into his backpack for his bottle of water and a few of the olives the professor had given him. The bag containing them had slipped to the very bottom. As he rummaged, Ben’s fingers felt something hairy. He snatched his hand out in alarm.
“What’s up?” asked Sorrel.
“I think there’s a mouse in my backpack,” said Ben.
“A mouse?” Sorrel put down her mushroom, bent over the backpack, and pounced, quick as lightning. With one swift movement, she produced the struggling Twigleg.
“Well, take a look at this!” she cried. “What have we here?”
“Twigleg!” cried Ben, staring at the homunculus in surprise. “How did you get into my backpack? And why,” he added, baffled, “have you kept so quiet till now?”
“Oh, young master, because, because …” stammered Twigleg, trying to free himself from Sorrel’s grasp, but no matter how hard the manikin twisted and turned the brownie girl held him tight.
“That’s stumped you, right?” she growled.
“Let go of me, you furry feline!” squealed Twigleg. “How can I explain anything with you squeezing me like this?”
“Come on, let him go,” said Ben. “You’re hurting him.”
Reluctantly Sorrel put the homunculus down on the sand.
“Thanks!” muttered Twigleg. Looking injured, he straightened his jacket.
“So, why didn’t you say anything before?” repeated Ben.
“Why didn’t I say anything? Because of her, of course!” Twigleg pointed a trembling finger at Sorrel. “I know she wants to be rid of me. So, I hid in the backpack. And after that,” he added, rubbing his nose and giving Sorrel a nasty look, “after that I kept quiet because I was afraid she’d throw me into the sea if she found me.”
“Not a bad idea,” growled Sorrel. “Not a bad idea at all.”
“Sorrel!” Ben dug his elbow into the brownie’s ribs. Then, looking concerned, he turned to the homunculus. “She’d never do that, Twigleg. Honestly. She’s very nice really. She just acts like she’s so … so …” He glanced sideways at Sorrel. “So hard-hearted all the time, see?”
But Twigleg did not seem convinced. He gave Sorrel another suspicious look. Sorrel responded with a scowl.
“Here.” Ben pushed a few crumbs of pita bread toward Twigleg. “You must be hungry, aren’t you?”
“My humble thanks, young master, but I, er …” Twigleg cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I’ll just catch myself a few flies.”
“Flies?” Ben looked incredulously at the manikin, who shrugged his shoulders awkwardly.
“Flies! Yuck, putrid panther-caps!” said Sorrel. “Sounds just like you, you spider-legged fairy-ring champignon!”
“Sorrel!” snapped Ben. “Stop it, will you? Twigleg’s done nothing to hurt you. Okay? He freed you from that cage, remember?”
“Oh, very well.” Sorrel turned back to her mushrooms. “All right, I promise I won’t throw him into the sea. Happy now? So let’s think about the question you’re going to ask the djinn with the thousand eyes. After all, that’s why you woke me up.”
“Okay.” Ben nodded and took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve written down a few ideas. Listen.”
“Just a moment,” Sorrel interrupted. “Do we want the manikin to hear this?”
Ben groaned. “Here we go again! Why shouldn’t he hear it?”
Sorrel looked Twigleg up and down. “Why should he?” she replied tartly. “If you ask me, as few ears as possible ought to hear our question.”
“I’m off, then,” said Twigleg. “Don’t mind me. I can be gone in a moment.”
But Ben held him back by his jacket. “You’re staying here,” he said. “I trust you. And I’m the one who has to ask the question. Right, do I finally have your attention, Sorrel?”
The brownie rolled her eyes. “Just as you like. But you’ll land us in trouble, trusting him like that. I’d bet my mushrooms on it.”
“You’re nuts, Sorrel,” said Ben, “totally nuts.”
Twigleg sat on Ben’s knee, hardly knowing where to look. He had often felt small and worthless, but never as small and worthless as he did now. He was so ashamed of himself he felt like confessing everything to the boy then and there, but he couldn’t utter a word.
“Right, how about this?” said Ben, smoothing out his paper. “Where — is — the — Rim — of— Heaven — hidden? Seven words exactly.”
“Hmm, not bad,” growled Sorrel. “Sounds kind of funny, though.”
“I’ve got another one.” Ben turned the piece of paper around. “Seven words again. Where — does — the — Rim — of — Heaven — lie?”
Quietly Twigleg slipped off Ben’s knee and took a couple of steps backward.
Sorrel instantly turned her eyes on him. “And where do you think you’re going now?” she growled.
“Just for a walk, fur-face,” replied Twigleg. “Any objections?”
“Going for a walk?” Ben looked at the homunculus in surprise. “Wouldn’t you like me to come, too?” he called after him. “I mean, we don’t know what kind of wild animals there may be around here.”
Twigleg’s heart sank at the note of concern in Ben’s voice.
“No, no, young master,” he called over his shoulder. “I may be small, but I’m not helpless. Anyway, I’m so skinny I don’t look very tasty.”
And so saying, he disappeared through a hole in the wall.
17. The Raven
The hot air felt as thick as cotton wool to Twigleg. He made his way through it, keeping his sharp nose raised to pick up the scent of water. Yes, the old cistern must be right there at the foot of the hill, under that tall incense tree. He could already smell the water distinctly. With difficulty, he made his way through boulders and coarse grass. His arms and legs ached horribly from his days of playing hide-and-seek, shut up inside Ben’s backpack.
He had Sorrel to thank for all that — the stuck-up, suspicious brownie! Laughing at him for eating flies, then stuffing her own face with those stinking mushrooms! He just hoped she’d soon pick a poisonous one, a mushroom that would make her stomach ache enough to shut her up for good.
Among a few scrubby bushes Twigleg came upon some tracks, probably made by rabbits going down to the water. He was following their narrow path when a black shadow suddenly loomed over him. The homunculus squealed in alarm and flung himself flat on the ground.
Black claws dug into the dust beside him, and a hooked beak pecked at his jacket.
“Hello, Twigleg,” croaked a familiar voice.
The homunculus cautiously raised his head. “Raven?”
“In the flesh!” squawked the bird.
Twigleg sat up, sighing, and brushed the untidy hair back from his forehead. Then he folded his arms over his chest and looked reproachfully at the raven.
“You’ve got nerve, I must say!” he said. “I’ve a good mind to pluck your feathers and stuff a cushion with them. Goodness knows it’s no thanks to you I’m still alive!”