Читать книгу The Wind on Fire Trilogy: Firesong - William Nicholson - Страница 17

The cracks were becoming more frequent, and wider. They ran in random zigzag patterns all over the land, as if the ground had been baked too long in some distant summer and had shivered like a badly-glazed plate. At first the cracks were only inches wide, and inches deep; but as the column of the Manth people marched on north, the cracks grew in size, until they were too wide to step over, and they had to find a way between them.

There was no made road, but the path taken by other travellers before them was easy enough to see. Here the tough grasses had been beaten down by the tread of men and beasts, forming a winding route that made its way through the cracked land. After a while the path began to descend, and so entered a natural groove in the plain, which seemed to be the bed of some long-ago dried-up stream. This path, no more than a dozen yards wide at the base, snaked its way here and there between the sudden fissures, descending all the time. The downward gradient was barely noticeable, but little by little the slopes rose up on either side, until they were higher than the travellers’ heads.

Hanno Hath didn’t like this stream-bed of a road. He sent scouts up the side slopes to look for some other route, Mumpo to the west and Tanner Amos to the east. The surface of the sloping sides was crumbling and littered with loose fragments of stone, which made them hard to scramble up. Every step kicked free a few of the loose stones, which skittered down in miniature avalanches, picking up smaller stones as they went.

‘What do you see, Mumpo? Is there another way?’

‘No,’ Mumpo called back. ‘The cracks are too wide.’

From his viewpoint on the west slope, Mumpo could see that the land-cracks had increased and widened and deepened in every direction. The dried-up riverbed was the only way through.

By mid-afternoon, when they stopped to rest again, the road had cut deeper still into the land, and was now running down a steep-sided valley. Mumpo and Tanner descended the slopes, picking their way with care, then taking it at a run, racing the rolling rocks to the bottom.

‘Still nothing?’

‘Just cracks, everywhere.’

Hanno Hath turned to his son. ‘Are we near water, Bo?’

Bowman shook his head. Sometimes he could sense the presence of springs or streams, but right now he felt nothing.

‘I can’t smell anything.’

‘My dear?’

This was to Ira Hath, who had sat down and was composing herself on the ground, her back leaning against a wagon wheel. She closed her eyes. Several times a day she repeated this process, in order to make sure that they were going the right way. It was a little like sensing the direction of the wind, only it wasn’t wind she felt on her upraised face, but warmth. The sensation was faint, but clear. It told her the way to the homeland. There was another part to the feeling, which was harder to describe: a sense of gathering hush, the prelude to a storm. Ira never spoke to the others of how much she feared this coming time. They could travel no faster than they were doing. There was no point in spreading panic. To herself and to Hanno, she called it the rising wind: every day, a little more every day, the wind was rising. They must seek shelter, they must reach the safety of the homeland, before the storm broke; or the coming wind would carry them away.

Her husband squatted down before her, and took her hands in his.

‘Are we getting closer?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Closer.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll live to see the homeland. Haven’t I said so?’

He gave her the last of the bread that he’d saved from his own ration, together with a cup of milk. She ate a little and drank a little for his sake, but she wasn’t hungry.

‘You’re getting thin.’ He pretended to be cross. ‘You must eat what you’re given.’

She smiled and watched his anxious face and thought what a good man he was.

‘We each have our part to play, Hannoka. Then it will be time for us to go.’

‘Not yet,’ he said, like an order. ‘Not yet.’

‘No. Not yet.’

While the marchers rested, Sisi became more and more agitated.

‘Sit, my pet,’ said Lunki. ‘We have two more hours of walking before sundown. Take the ache off your feet.’

‘Lie down, I should,’ said Scooch. ‘Get your feet higher than your head. That’s the trick.’

‘Higher than your head?’ Lunki was mystified.

Little Scooch lay on his back on the stony ground and supported his heels on the wagon’s step-board.

‘Like this. It makes all the heaviness drop off the feet.’

Lunki lay down beside him, with her heels on the step-board alongside his.

‘Yes!’ she cried, amazed at the sensation. ‘I can feel the heaviness dropping off!’

She turned to urge Sisi to follow her example, but her mistress was gone. She was some way off, pacing round and round in restless circles.

‘What’s the matter with her? Why can’t she settle?’

‘Too thin,’ said Scooch.

‘Do you think so?’

‘No doubt about it. A body needs padding, or the nerves stick out.’

‘My poor baby! Her nerves do stick out, you’re right. She feels things too much.’

What Sisi was feeling was a sudden and insistent need to go to Bowman, and talk to him, and – and she hardly knew what, except that it would end in humiliation. Her pride held her in check, but the longing was becoming more powerful all the time.

Bowman was some way off, talking quietly with Kestrel. He was as agitated as Sisi, but for very different reasons.

‘I want it to be over,’ he said. ‘I want them to come for me, and for it to be over. Why don’t they come? Every hour that passes, I feel it, the wind is rising. They must come soon.’

‘They’ll come for you when they need you,’ said Kestrel. ‘I don’t want you to go before you have to.’

Kestrel knew her brother believed it was his destiny to join the Singer people, but she didn’t understand how they could be parted.

We go together, she thought. We always go together.

Bowman heard her thought.

‘I don’t want to go. But I can’t go on like this. You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘I feel it, a little.’

She could feel the turmoil in him, his spirit a field of endless battle. Bowman was so open, he could resist nothing, he was like the sky, he absorbed all things. The nomad dreams of the Manth people, the fierce power of the Morah, the sweet wordless songs of Sirene, all swept the horizons of his mind, chasing each other like wind-borne clouds.

‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said. ‘But I must be with them, when the time comes.’

‘And after?’

‘There is no after. Not for me.’

‘Am I to go on without you?’

Don’t ask. Forgive me.

As Kestrel received these unspoken words, she felt a movement against her skin, beneath the fabric of her shirt. It was the silver pendant she wore on a string round her neck, that had once been the voice of the wind singer. She had worn it so long she had almost forgotten it was there. Now it stirred and pressed on her chest, and felt warm, as if it was part of her. At the same time, as she sensed its familiar shape and weight, a door opened in her mind, a door she had not known existed. Through the doorway she saw herself and Bowman together, just as they were now: but a little further away, in a time she knew had not yet taken place, she saw her brother without her, lost and heart-broken, calling her name.

He seemed so real, and so lonely, that she called out to him with her mind.

I’ll never leave you. Even if I seem to be gone, I won’t be gone. I’ll always be with you.

Bowman heard her and was astonished.

‘What do you mean, Kess? Why do you say this?’

‘These things that are coming,’ she said aloud, speaking slowly, finding the thoughts only as she formed the words, ‘these things the prophet has written, the time of cruelty, the wind on fire, these things are greater than us.’

‘Oh, yes. Far greater.’

‘We aren’t the makers and the un-makers of the world.’

‘No.’

‘Our task is only to play our small part, for our brief moment, in what must happen.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we should neither hope nor fear. We must wait for the call, and then do what we must.’

‘Yes.’

She stroked his cheek lightly, tenderly.

‘It’ll come soon enough, brother. Don’t wish it any sooner.’

Sisi could control herself no longer. She must be with Bowman, whatever the consequence. Holding her head high, and looking before her with the distant imperious gaze she had so often used when she had been a princess, she stalked past the other marchers to where Bowman and Kestrel stood. Sisi knew that what she was about to do would shame her for the rest of her life, but the desire was too strong to be resisted. She would do it, and let the future take care of itself.

As she approached she saw both Bowman and Kestrel staring at her in surprise. Do I look so different? she thought to herself. Is it written on my face?

‘Leave us, Kestrel,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to Bowman alone.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Kestrel wonderingly. Bowman signalled her with his eyes, calling, Don’t leave me. But Kestrel was already on her way.

He was alone with Sisi. Her eyes were fixed on him so intently that he felt himself blush.

‘We’ll be moving on any minute,’ he said. ‘We should rejoin the others.’

‘Not yet,’ said Sisi.

To his astonishment, she laid one hand lightly on his arm. She had not been this bold since they had left the Mastery.

‘I know you can’t love me,’ she said, ‘since I’ve lost my beauty. But I can love you.’

‘Sisi, you mustn’t speak like this.’

‘Why not? All I have to lose is my pride. I’m tired of my pride.’

‘You don’t understand. Whether you love me, or I love you, it makes no difference. In a little while someone will come for me, and I’ll leave with him, and you’ll never see me again.’

‘Oh, in a little while. Who cares about that? Here you are, and here am I.’

She stroked his arm.

‘I don’t know what I can do for you, Sisi.’

‘I do.’

She made him meet her eyes: made him become still.

‘Just for now, just for a few moments, pretend you love me.’

‘Please, Sisi, I think this is –’

‘Touch my scars.’

He stared back at her, filled with confused feelings.

‘Do my scars disgust you?’

‘No.’

‘Touch them.’

So he raised one hand and touched one fingertip to the livid stripe on her cheek. He felt the residue of scar tissue, and the softness of new skin where the scab had crumbled away. He did it out of pity for her, and because her will was strong.

‘Now touch my lips.’

He felt her lips: so soft, and moist.

‘What do you want from me, Sisi?’

‘I want you to kiss me.’

The great amber eyes gazed at him unashamed. For the first time, Bowman stopped thinking about his own confusion, and attended to the change in her. Sisi would never make such a request, so directly. Something had happened to her.

‘Kiss you?’ He needed time. ‘Why?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘We’re not betrothed.’

‘I don’t care. Do you care?’

This was not Sisi speaking to him, he was sure of it. This was the passion fly within her. He needed closer contact, to reach into her mind.

‘Close your eyes,’ she was saying. ‘Then you won’t see the scars. The kiss will be just as sweet.’

He closed his eyes. He felt her come into his arms. He felt her lips reach up to his. As they kissed, he felt a shiver of delight go through his body, and for a fleeting moment he was aware that he’d never kissed before, not like this. There was a closeness to it that was both tender and eager. He felt her body press against his, and the feeling of her body was part of the kiss. He held her tight in his arms, and his hands felt the shape of her slender back, and his lips moved against hers, sharing secrets –

No! He jerked his mind free. He reached through the kiss, beyond the kiss, into her desire-possessed mind. As he pressed closer, she kissed him ever more passionately, ever more desperately, as if only in kissing him was she safe. Pushing, probing, burrowing into her, he found it at last, the creature curled within her. He seized it in a firm grip, and still holding Sisi in his arms, he dragged it, tore it, ripped it out of her. One last spasm of resistance, and it let go. He heard the whine of its wings as it flew away.

Sisi went limp in his arms. He held her weight, not wanting to cause alarm among the others. He looked towards them to see if any had been watching, and had witnessed the kiss. Everyone was up and preparing to continue the march. If they had seen, they were not showing it now.

Sisi awoke, in confusion.

‘What happened?’

She remembered, and blushed a deep red.

‘Oh!’

‘It wasn’t you,’ said Bowman quickly. ‘Something got into you. It made you do things.’

‘The stinging insect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it make me drunk?’

‘Yes. In a way.’

Sisi looked down, ashamed.

‘It made me kiss you, didn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s alright. It wasn’t you.’

Now the horses were being harnessed to the wagon, and the people were moving to their places in the march.

‘Did it get into you too?’

‘No.’

‘But you still kissed me.’

‘I needed to hold you close. To get it out.’

‘Of course. To get it out.’

There were several curious glances directed at them as they returned to the others, and Bowman realised they had been seen. He would have to explain.

‘The stinging insect is still with us,’ he said. ‘I’ve just taken it out of Sisi.’

‘My baby! Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Lunki, I’m fine.’

‘Be on your guard!’

‘To your places,’ called Hanno. ‘Lookouts, to your posts. We have an hour of daylight yet.’

The march set off once more.

Bowman marched in the middle of the column, and listened for the return of that telltale whining buzz. He heard nothing, and none of his companions were acting strangely. As the immediate danger faded, the memory of Sisi’s kiss returned, and troubled him. He told himself it had not been her who had kissed him, but the thing that had possessed her: but it had felt like her, like the most intimate part of her.

There came a patter of feet behind him, and turning, he saw Kestrel running up to join him. He blushed, and feeling the blush, told himself it was because he should have thought to reassure Kestrel about Sisi.

‘She’ll be alright,’ he told her. ‘I got it out of her.’

Kestrel looked at him curiously.

‘Will it come back?’

‘Yes, probably, but I can’t tell where. I’ve never even seen it. It’s as if it doesn’t exist until it stings someone. And then it’s like it’s a part of them.’

‘I saw how it made Sisi drunk.’

‘I had to touch her. To get it out.’

‘Yes, of course. You had to touch her.’

Neither of them called it a kiss. The word hung in the air between them, unspoken. There had never before been anything they hadn’t been able to say. Bowman felt his sister’s silence, and it made him miserable.

‘Something strange happened –’

‘Bandits!’

Mumpo’s urgent cry from the ridge shattered the private moment. Bowman span round just as there came a rumbling sound ahead, and what seemed to be half the hillside came sliding down, to crash into the riverbed in a cloud of fragments and dust.

‘Halt!’ cried Hanno. ‘To your weapons!’

Bowman and Kestrel ran back to the wagon. A second grinding roar, this time behind them: a second rock fall now cut off their retreat. They were boxed in.

‘Mumpo! Tanner! Come down!’

The lookouts came scrambling down the slopes to join the rest of the marchers, who were frantically taking out swords, hay-forks, and lengths of firewood, with which to defend themselves.

‘How many?’

‘A dozen. Maybe more.’

Within moments they were able to count for themselves. A figure appeared on the west ridge, tall, lean, and seemingly faceless; to be joined by another, then by three more. They stood looking down in silence, silhouetted against the white winter sky. They wore many layers of clothing, of many different kinds, like refugees who scavenge where they can. The loose garments were cinched at the waist and above the elbows and knees with ties of fabric. Round the shoulders and neck, round the face and head, each one had wound a long scarf, so that only the eyes remained uncovered.

‘Bandits, sure enough,’ said Hanno.

More and more were showing themselves along the ridges that walled the Manth people in. Bowman counted thirteen on the west side, and another eight on the east. They seemed not to be armed.

‘They don’t have swords,’ he said low to his father. ‘I think we can match them.’

But even as he spoke, one of the masked men drew a cord from his belt, and stooping, picked up a stone from the ground.

‘Sling shots!’ cried Rollo Shim.

The bandit swung the cord in rapid circles over his head, hissing through the air, building up speed at its weighted end. Then with a flick of the hand, he released the stone. It shot down into the valley and hit one of Creoth’s cows on the side of its head, with such force that the beast fell dead without a sound. The Manth people were struck with terror. Creoth cried out, and ran to the side of the lifeless animal.

‘Cherub! My Cherub!’

All along the ridges the bandits could now be seen to be holding sling shots at the ready. They neither moved nor spoke. Their posture of readiness said all that was needed.

Hanno made a rapid calculation. The bandits were above them on both sides. The horses and cows could not scramble over the steep landslides. They must fight or give in. If they fought, they could inflict damage on the bandits, but many of his people would fall as the cow had fallen.

‘Lay down your weapons,’ he said to the marchers.

He called to the one who had used his sling shot to such great effect, who he presumed to be the leader.

‘We are Manth people! We mean you no harm! What do you want from us?’

The bandits stared back in silence.

‘Do you want our cows and our horses? We have nothing else.’

The bandit leader signed to two of his men. At once they jumped over the ridge, and pushing small rock-slides before them, came skidding down to the valley floor. The rest of the bandits raised their slings, to show their readiness to strike should their companions come under attack.

‘Don’t move!’ Hanno called to his frightened people. ‘Stay still, until we know what they want.’

The two scarfed bandits now came among them, eyes glittering, and scanned the motionless marchers. One of them pointed to Kestrel, then to Sarel Amos. His companion took both by the arms and roped their wrists.

Mumpo growled a deep growl of rage.

‘Don’t move, Mumpo!’ hissed Hanno.

He saw, and understood that they would have to fight after all, whatever the cost: but he wanted to give his people their best chance. He looked round, to calculate how many of them could find cover beneath the wagon. Even so slight a movement of his head was enough to signal his intention to the keen-eyed bandit leader above, and his sling whirred. Bowman saw the stone leave the sling and hurtle towards his father. At once he reached out with his mind to shield him, and himself rocked under the stone’s impact, sending it glancing harmlessly to one side. Its force shocked him. He had enough strength to deflect a single shot, but he knew that if all the bandits were to strike at once he would be helpless.

The bandit leader, surprised that he had missed, was already reloading his sling.

‘Bo,’ said Hanno, ‘do we have a chance?’

‘No. They’ll kill us all.’

As he spoke, one of the bandits on the valley floor was roping Ashar Warmish. Her father Harman Warmish drew his knife.

‘Harman! Don’t!’

A snap, a crack, and Harman crumpled to the ground, his skull smashed. Bowman gasped aloud. It had happened too fast, he had caught the flick of the sling too late.

Now for the first time the bandit leader spoke, calling down into the valley in a harsh voice.

‘Must we kill every man among you? We’ve done it before.’

Harman Warmish lay unmoving on the ground, the blood bubbling from his head. His wife sobbed, but did not move. The bandit holding young Ashar Warmish pulled her, now limp and unresisting, to join Kestrel and Sarel. After her they picked out Seer Such, and Red Mimilith, and Sisi: all the girls who were no longer children, but were not yet mothers; though Ashar was barely twelve years old.

Kestrel allowed herself to be roped and led aside, because she understood exactly what danger they were in, even before the killing of Ashar’s father. Bowman was speaking to her.

Don’t resist. Not yet.

Sisi too understood that she had no choice. When her turn came she brushed the bandit’s hand away with contempt, and walked of her own free will, head held high, to join the shivering group. Lunki tried to go with her, but the scarfed bandit pushed her back.

When the six girls were all roped together in a chain, the bandits indicated that they were to climb the slope. Their mothers and fathers began to groan, so that Hanno had to command them.

‘Don’t move! Our duty is to live!’

It was a pitiful sight to watch, the manacled girls half-scrambling, half-pulled up the slope, dragged by the rope from above, slithering to their knees, kicking for a foothold on the loose scree. But then it was done, and the bandits on the eastern ridge were already loping away.

‘Don’t try to follow us!’ called the bandit leader. ‘We go into the labyrinth. You’ll never find us, and you’ll never find your way out again. We wish you no harm. Take this warning, and go on your way.’

He gave a sign, and the roped girls were led away. Mumpo watched, groaning under his breath, his whole body shaking with controlled rage.

‘I wish you harm!’ he said.

‘Don’t, Mumpo!’ said Hanno. ‘You’re no use to us dead.’

Bowman called silently to Kestrel.

I’ll find you. We can’t do anything yet. But I’ll find you.

One by one the bandits on the ridge slipped away, leaving only the gaunt threatening figure of the bandit leader. Then suddenly he turned and was gone.

At once Mumpo and Bowman, Tanner Amos and the Shim brothers, raced for the western slope. It was far harder to climb than they had supposed, watching the sure-footed bandits. Again and again their scrambling feet set off rock slides, which carried away the ground beneath them and sent those behind tumbling back down. Mumpo fell twice, and then took the entire hill at a run, hurling himself to the top by sheer force. The others, scrambling up behind him, called out to him.

‘Do you see them?’

‘No,’ said Mumpo, standing on the ridge where the bandits had stood, looking west.

One by one the others joined him, and understood why he had fallen silent. From the ridge to the far off western horizon the land was riven by a maze of deep cracks. Here and there the jagged fissures met, or crossed each other, in a crazy network that extended for miles. The cracks varied in depth, some no deeper than a man, some seeming bottomless. From the surface they all looked the same: shadowy slits without any distinctive markings, without any visible plant life, without the marks of human habitation. The bandits and their captives had vanished into the labyrinth leaving not even a trail of footsteps on the hard windswept plains.

Bowman closed his eyes and turned his face to the west. He was tracking Kestrel by other means.

‘They’ve not gone far,’ he said. ‘They’re moving fast. But I can find them.’