Читать книгу Sword Quest - Nancy Fan Yi - Страница 11

In everybird’s innermost heart there lies a moral compass.

FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE

4 BEGINNING

“Fly in low to the west, Wind-voice! Hide!” Irene, his mother, shouted. Frightened, he obeyed. His mother started flying in the other direction, jumping now and then, pausing a few times to let the archaeopteryxes catch up. She let one of her wings trail behind, feigning injury in a desperate attempt to draw away the enemy.

He stumbled in terror and looked back. Irene disappeared from sight around a sand dune. The archaeopteryxes followed. It was the last time Wind-voice saw his mother.

Memory scorched Wind-voice along with the flames. He closed his eyes, trying not to scream, as the ground rushed up at him. His wings were useless. He twisted to land on his feet, and his right foot jammed full-force on to a rock. The rest of him crashed down on to it.

Though most of the flames had been beaten out by his crash, a few feathers were still smouldering. Then, to his surprise, a thin, high voice whispered in his ear. “Wind-voice! Thank the Great Spirit, you’re alive!”

It was Winger. The woodpecker scooped up some cool, wet mud and put out the flames quickly, then smeared some more to blot out all of Wind-voice’s white feathers so he would not be easily spotted. “Try to get up,” Winger urged. “Quick, quick.”

“Where can we go?” Wind-voice asked, staggering to his feet.

“I know where. Just come with me.”

Wind-voice knew he could not fly. But he limped as fast as he could, trying not to put much weight on his injured claws, the woodpecker supporting him.

Wind-voice’s vision began to blur and waver. Suddenly he saw the rich purplish black of another bird, a myna, who appeared beside Winger and helped Wind-voice walk. Supported by the two birds, he stepped into the fringe of golden light from a campfire and saw a grey-and-blue bird practising the graceful movements of swordplay, all alone. Wind-voice flinched at the sight of the red and orange flames.

Bright flashes of green-blue filled the air as little kingfishers darted towards them. The stout myna congratulated Wind-voice on his daring escape. Ewingerale said something to him excitedly in his shrill little voice, but he couldn’t catch the words. So many smiling faces loomed up at him. Some started bandaging his burns and washing his injured foot with cool water.

Then Wind-voice turned and saw two dull yellow sticks in front of his eyes. Numbly he realised they weren’t sticks at all but spindly legs. There was an ugly scar on the right foot. He looked up to see folded wings and a body and, higher still, a long neck curving over and a pair of yellow eyes looking at him. It was the bird who had been practising with the sword. The heron’s white face was almost comically wedgelike, but the two bold, black brushstrokes sweeping up above the eyes, however, were just menacing enough to stop any laughter. He said in a deep, vibrant tone, “Welcome, son. You are safe here. I am the heron Fisher. Welcome.”

With those words, the haze in Wind-voice’s mind cleared. “We’re free now, we’re free!” the woodpecker shouted joyously.

Wind-voice noticed the myna, standing still but with one claw running up and down a long wooden staff. He flew over to the myna and thanked him. The myna made a slight inclination with his head. “Don’t mention it. You’re a tough one. My name is Stormac.” Wind-voice was surprised to see that, despite his warriorlike appearance, Stormac sported a funny necklace with a red wooden pendant.

Wind-voice felt warmth that he had not thought existed in this forlorn, marshy land. “What tribe is this?” he croaked.

“These times are hard on tribes,” answered the old heron, gesturing far and wide with both wide wings. “Several tribes, survivors of attacks by the archaeopteryxes, live together here as a community. We have egrets, mynas, and herons as well as the Ekka tribe of kingfishers.”

Then another heron drifted over to them and handed them each a small, flat rock with steaming food on top. Everybody grew quiet at the sight of the heron. She seemed to be focused elsewhere. “Here,” she said. They stammered their thanks.

The heron seemed to hear something nobird else did and wandered into the shadows, murmuring, “Candles…he made the best candles, even ones shaped like heron chicks. It’s a pity, but those chick candles have all burned out…”

“That’s my wife, Aredrem,” Fisher said sadly, and went over to comfort her. “I was a candlemaker before the turmoil started. We lost all our children to archaeopteryxes or to hunger. I lost a toe in battle, so I cannot make candles as I used to. Poor Aredrem was shaken. She’s in a different world now. But Aredrem seems to have taken a liking to you two.”

How lost her face looks! She lost her children. I lost my mother. This is what war does to birds, Wind-voice thought sadly. He looked down at his plate. The delicious smell almost unnerved him. For a bird who had lived on spoonfuls of watery bulrush-root soup, this was a feast for a king. There were worms with chokeberries. The worms were long and thick, roasted to perfection. Brown and crisp, the skin had rich fat sizzling between the cracks, and the juicy meat still had a tint of pink. The chokeberries, boiled into a rosy sauce, brought out that tender, earthy flavour so unique to worms.

Between beakfuls of food, he and Winger told the marshland birds what had happened. “I burned myself off the spit and flew out of the smoke hole, flaming. Then, fortunately, Winger saved me,” Wind-voice finished. He did not mention the strange dream of Yin Soul.

“Brave thing you did. That’s the true spirit!” a kingfisher said, cheering.

“Aye! What a tale,” an egret agreed.

“I think…” Ewingerale murmured tentatively, “I think I would like to play a song to celebrate this. Would you happen to have some spare bowstrings?” To the surprise and admiration of them all, the woodpecker fed the string into the holes of his piece of curved wood with deft precision and, in no time at all, held a harp.

Strumming it, the woodpecker sang,

Fate is an underground river, We can’t possibly know what direction it flows Till we are carried along its twists and turns. But the waters are quite smooth now, Flowing quick and fast. We are happy and thankful that We’re free – long may it last! Let us hope that fate may bring Wonderful things next spring.

His song flowed over the pools, which were pale green with a fine skin of duckweed. From them rose the crooked limbs of dead, bare trees. They were hung with curtains of Spanish moss, and their branches, sharp white wood, framed the sky like teeth. A few cold flakes of snow fell. It had been over twenty seasons since it last snowed here. It was both bizarre and beautiful, as if little stars in the vast, dark sky had decided to fall down.

“It’s a pity, but those candles have all burned out…” Aredrem’s voice floated in the darkness.

As the song faded, Fisher came over to Wind-voice. “Why don’t you rest?” the heron asked.

“I’m afraid to,” Wind-voice admitted. He turned to Fisher. “Suppose something eats you from your inside, trying to control you. Suppose it lures you to do something, and you know it is not at all good, but you also know that if you listen too long, you will believe. It’s more dangerous than anything outside you. Perhaps the way to defeat it is never to give it a chance to speak to you.” Like Yin Soul, who promised me life in the face of death, he thought. Like fear, like despair, like greed, like anger.

Fisher stared at the young bird. “After all you’ve been through, after living and struggling on when some would have just given up and died, nobird would dare try to force you to do something you didn’t choose. I think that your experiences and choices have tempered you so that you can be the master of yourself.” Because your heart and soul have awakened, Fisher thought.

He watched as a strange calmness came over Windvoice. Then the young bird spoke seriously. “Fisher?”

“Yes?”

“I saw you…practising with the sword. There’s Stormac with his staff. I think we all need to learn how to protect ourselves in the days to come. My foot…will I ever…?” His voice trailed off. His right foot hung by his belly, the scales scratched and mangled. It was tinted purple with bruises and darkened blood within.