‘You’re older now. You’re a boy. You stand before your father, and he says, Head up! Head up! You know he wishes you were taller. You wish it too, more than anything in the world.’
‘Yes, yes .. .’
‘Now you’re older still. You’re a man, and your father never looks at you. He can’t bear to see you, because you’re so small. You say nothing, but your heart cries out to him, Be proud of me. Love me.’
‘Yes, yes .. .’ Raka was sobbing softly now. ‘How do you know these things? How do you know?’
‘I feel it in you. I feel it in me.’
‘I’ve never spoken of it. Never, never.’
Counsellor Kemba, listening at the door, could endure it no longer. He was unclear quite how it would interfere with his schemes, but he was sure it was not healthy for the warlord of Ombaraka to be weeping like a baby. So, pretending agitation, he swept in to the private meeting.
‘My lord, what has happened? What’s the matter?’
Raka the Ninth, Warlord of the Barakas, Suzerain of Ombaraka, Commander-in-Chief of the Wind Warriors and Ruler of the Plains, looked up at his chief counsellor with tears streaming from red-rimmed eyes, and said,
‘Mind your own business.’
‘But, my lord – ’
‘Go and twiddle your hair! Out!’
So Counsellor Kemba retreated. And a little time later, the order went out to the helmsmen to set course for the north, and slowly the great mother craft lumbered round and began to roll towards the mountains.
As the sun came up on the new day, Kestrel climbed to the top of the highest watchtower on Ombaraka, and looked across the plains. It was a cool clear morning, and she could see for miles. There where the plains ended, she could make out the rising land, and the great forest that covered it. And not so far off now, on the horizon, the dark mass of the mountains.
As Kestrel stared at the land, she thought she saw beneath the dust of the plains and between the trees of the forest the outlines of a long-abandoned road, broad and straight, running towards the mountains. She had the map open before her, and there on it was the Great Way, broken by the jagged line called Crack-in-the-land. At the road’s end, at exactly the point where the Great Way met the highest mountain, there were written the words that her father had told her said, Into the Fire. The grateful people of Ombaraka gave their heroes a grand send-off; all but Counsellor Kemba, who was nowhere to be seen. Raka embraced them, one by one, with a specially close hug for Bowman.
‘If ever you need our help,’ he said, ‘you have only to ask.’
Salimba came forward with three shoulder bags filled with food for their journey.
‘I knew they weren’t spies from the first,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I do his braids?’
Then they were lowered to the ground, and all Ombaraka gathered to chant the victory call once more, as a final tribute. The cries resounding in their ears, the children headed for the nearby foothills, and the great forest. They turned back once, to wave farewell to their new friends, and stood for a moment watching as the great rolling city loosed its myriad sails and went creaking and rumbling back over the plains. A gust of wind tugged at their gold-braided hair, and made them shiver. The air was colder here, and ahead the land was dark.
17
The Hath family fights back
‘Where Bo?’ said Pinpin. ‘Where Kess?’
‘They’ve gone to the mountains,’ said Ira Hath, who did not believe in deceiving a child even as young as two. ‘Lift up your arms.’
‘Where Pa?’
‘He’s gone to study for his exam. Stand still while I do you up. It’ll all be over soon.’
She examined the child with a critical eye. There had not been enough material in the bedspread to make complete robes for both of them, so for Pinpin she had just made a sleeveless tunic, which she put over her orange smock. Looking at them both now, she felt satisfied that this had been the right decision. To have mother and child in matching stripes would have been too much.
When they were both ready, she picked up the large basket she had packed earlier, took Pinpin’s hand, and went out into the passage. As they passed the doorway to the Mooths’ room, she heard the door open a crack, and a sharp cry come from within.
‘Oh! Look what she’s done now!’
Three shocked faces appeared in the crack, to watch them make their way to the stairs.
Out in the street, their multi-coloured stripy appearance caused a sensation. The block warden, who happened to be passing, at once raised his hand high, blew his whistle, and called out,
‘You can’t do that!’
A man wheeling a cart laden with barrels turned to look, and not watching where he was going, wheeled the cart into a man carrying a basket on his head. The basket went flying, and the barrels tumbled off the cart. Out of the upturned basket fell a mass of small pink crabs, a delicacy much appreciated in White District. Two large women coming the other way, also staring at Ira and Pinpin Hath, fell over the runaway barrels, the larger of the two women crushing one barrel so completely that it burst open, spilling crude molasses on to the stone street. The block warden, hurrying forward to restore order, stepped into the molasses, strode on through the scurrying crabs, and fell headlong over the smaller of the large women. As he struggled to get up again, his flailing boots smeared her head with molasses, in which several small pink crabs had become stuck.
Pinpin saw all this with delight, as if it was a performance put on specially to entertain her. Ira Hath paid no attention whatsoever. Magnificently indifferent to the stares of her neighbours, the oaths of the warden, and the shrieks of the woman with crabs in her hair, she marched on down the street, and turned into the main avenue to the centre of the city.
As she strode along, her basket in one hand and Pinpin holding the other, she collected a little train of followers. They hung some way behind, and spoke to each other in whispers, as if afraid she would hear. Ira Hath found that she was almost enjoying herself. Being stripy gave her a kind of power.
As she passed into Maroon District, and then into her former home territory of Orange, her followers grew in number, until there were fifty and more people of various ranks trailing along behind her. As she entered Scarlet District she stopped unexpectedly, and turned to look at them. They all stopped too, and looked back at her in silence, like a herd of cows. She knew why they were following her, of course. They wanted to see her punished. There was nothing excited people in Aramanth more than seeing fellow-citizens humiliated in public.
Something in those rows of sad blank eyes spoke to her, at an ancestral level, and the words rose to her mouth unbidden.
‘O, unhappy people!’ she cried. ‘Tomorrow will bring sorrow, but the day after will bring laughter! Prepare to mingle your colours!’
Then she turned and walked on, and they all came shuffling after her, murmuring among themselves.
Ira Hath walked tall, and felt the blood sing in her body. She liked being a wife and mother, but she had just discovered she liked being a prophetess more.
By the time she reached the plaza by the Imperial Palace, every idle person in Aramanth seemed to have joined the crowd. Strictly speaking, of course, there were no idle people in Aramanth, since the city made sure everyone had useful work to do. So the sight of the shuffling procession that trailed the brightly-striped mother and child past the College of Examiners was not a pleasing one to the city’s governors.
On she strode, through the double row of marble columns, into the arena. Down the nine tiers she went, and the crowd followed her, to see what she would do next. In the centre of the great arena, at the foot of the wooden platform of the wind singer, she came to a stop. She hoisted her basket up on to the platform’s base. Then she hoisted Pinpin after it. Then she clambered up herself. Once in position, she took a blanket out of her basket and spread it on the boards, and sat herself and Pinpin down. Out of the capacious basket came a bottle of lemonade and a bag of buns.
The crowd
watched, all agape, for her next outrageous action.
‘O, unhappy people!’ cried the prophetess. ‘The time has come to sit and eat buns!’
Which is what she did.
The crowd waited patiently, knowing there would be developments. After a while, a white-robed senior examiner appeared, followed by four marshals. The examiner, Dr Greeth, was responsible for the maintenance of order in the city. The sight of him stepping down the nine tiers, flanked by four huge marshals, sent shivers of anticipation through the crowd.
‘Madam,’ said Dr Greeth in his clear cutting voice. ‘This is not a circus. You are not a clown. You will come down from there, and dress yourself in your designated clothing.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Ira Hath.
Dr Greeth nodded briskly to the marshals.
‘Get her down!’
The prophetess rose to her full height and cried in her most prophetic voice.
‘O, unhappy people! Watch now, and see that there is no freedom in Aramanth!’
‘No freedom in Aramanth?’ exclaimed Dr Greeth indignantly.
‘I am Ira Hath, direct descendant of the prophet Ira Manth, and I have come to prophesy to the people!’
Dr Greeth signalled to the marshals to wait.
‘Madam,’ he said, speaking loudly so that all the people in the crowd could hear him. ‘You are talking nonsense. You are fortunate enough to live in the only truly free society that has ever existed. In Aramanth, every man and woman is born equal, and has an equal chance to rise to the very highest position. There is no poverty here, or crime, or war. We have no need of prophets.’
‘And yet,’ cried the prophetess, ‘you fear me!’
This was a clever move, as Dr Greeth at once realised. It would not look good if he were to overreact.
‘You are mistaken, madam. We don’t fear you. But we do find you a little noisy.’
The crowd laughed. Dr Greeth was satisfied. There was no need to use force, it would only bring the woman sympathy. Better to leave her on her perch until she grew cold and hungry, and came down of her own accord.
In the meantime, in order to reassert his authority, he ordered the marshals to disperse the crowd.
‘Back to your work!’ he cried. ‘Let’s leave her to prophesy what she’s going to eat for dinner.’
Hanno Hath, shut away in the Residential Study Centre, did not learn of his wife’s rebellion until the midday meal. The serving girls passed on the gossip in excited whispers, as they spooned vegetable stew into the candidates’ bowls. A wild woman dressed as a clown was sitting on the wind singer, they said, telling everyone to be unhappy. Hanno recognised his wife’s style at once, and felt a rush of pride and concern. He pressed the serving girls for more details. Had the authorities tried to force the wild woman off the wind singer?
‘Oh, no,’ said the girl on the rice pudding. ‘They come and have a good laugh like the rest of us.’
This both reassured Hanno, and hardened his resolve. The High Examination was now only two days away, and his own small act of rebellion was well advanced. Little by little, the other candidates had fallen in with his plan, until only one, a factory cleaner called Scooch, remained unconvinced. One accidental result was that the atmosphere of the Study Course had been transformed. The candidates who had stared so numbly at their revision books, and had listened to the Principal’s lectures with defeat in their eyes, were now applying themselves eagerly to their exercises.
Principal Pillish too saw this with satisfaction. It seemed to him that the candidates were helping each other overcome their negative approach to examinations, and this augured very well for the results. He observed that the gentle soft-spoken Hanno Hath was the centre of this new enthusiasm. Curious to know what it was he had told his fellow-candidates, he called Hanno into his study for a private talk.
‘I’m impressed, Hath,’ he said. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘Oh, it’s very simple,’ said Hanno. ‘We have the time here to think about the real value of examinations. We’ve realised that what an examination does is test the best in us. So if we give it our best, well – whatever the result, we should be content to be judged by it.’
‘Bravo!’ cried Principal Pillish. ‘This is a real turnaround. I don’t mind telling you, Hath, that your file has you down as incurably negative in your attitudes. But this is excellent! Give it your best – quite so. I couldn’t put it better myself.’
What Hanno Hath did not feel obliged to explain to the Principal was just how he and the other candidates proposed to give their best. The idea had come to Hanno while listening to Miko Mimilith talk about the different fabrics he handled. If Miko could only sit an exam on fabrics, he had thought, he would have no fears. This had been followed at once by a further thought. Miko’s knowledge of fabrics is his special expertise, and his passion. Why is he tested on other subjects, at which he will only fail? Each of us should be tested on what we do best.
He had said as much to his new friends on the Study Course.
‘That’s all very well,’ they said. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’
The High Examination contained over a hundred questions, of which they would be lucky to get even one on fabrics, or cloud formations.
‘Ignore the questions on the paper,’ said Hanno. ‘Write about what you know best. Give them your best.’
‘They’ll just fail us.’
‘They’ll fail us anyway, even if we try to answer their questions.’
They all nodded. That was true enough. They were on the Study Course precisely because they’d always failed before. Why should it be any different this time?
‘So what’s the point?’ said Hanno, gently persisting. ‘It’s like giving tests in flying to fish. Let’s each of us do what we’re good at.’
‘They’ll hate it.’
‘Let them. Do you want to sit in that arena and feel sick with panic for another four hours?’
That was what did it. Every one of them dreaded, almost more than the results, the long humiliation of the exam itself. Every hated detail had burned itself into their memories. The slow walk to the numbered desk. The scrape of a thousand chairs as they were pulled out. The rustle of a thousand exam papers as they were turned over. The smell of the fresh print. The dancing black letters on the paper, forming words that made no sense. The scratch-scratch-scratch of pens all round, as the clever candidates began their answers. The pad-pad-pad of soft shoes, as the supervising examiners passed down the rows. The panic need to begin writing, something, anything. The deep dull certainty that nothing you wrote would be right, or good, or beautiful. The slow drag of the hands on the clock. The spreading paralysis of despair.
Anything, anything, but that.
So one by one they joined Hanno Hath’s secret rebellion. In their exercises, they practised writing papers on subjects of their own choosing. Monographs were in preparation on drainage systems, the growing of cabbages, and rope-jumping games. Miko Mimilith was working on the definitive classification of woollen weaves. Hanno Hath was tackling some problems in old Manth script. Only little Scooch wrote nothing. He sat hunched at his desk, staring at the wall.
‘You must know something about something,’ Hanno said.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Scooch. ‘I don’t know anything about anything. I just do what I’m told.’
‘Isn’t there something you like to do when your work is finished?’
‘I like to sit down,’ said Scooch.
Hanno Hath sighed.
‘You have to write something,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just describe a typical day in your life?’
‘How do you mean, describe?’
‘Just start at the beginning, when you get out of bed, and write down what you do.’
‘I eat breakfast. I go to work. I come home. I eat supper. I go to bed.’
‘Right. Now all you have to do is add a little more detail. Maybe put down what you have for breakfast. What you see on your way
to work.’
‘It doesn’t sound very interesting to me.’
‘It’s more interesting than looking at a wall.’
So Scooch settled down to describe his typical day. After an hour or so of steady work, he reached mid-morning in his description, and made a surprising discovery. When it was time for the candidates’ own mid-morning break, he hurried over to Hanno Hath to tell him about it.
‘I’ve found something I know about,’ he said. ‘I’m going to write about it in the High Examination.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Hanno. ‘What is it?’
‘Tea-breaks.’
Scooch beamed at him, his face glowing with pride.
‘I didn’t realise till I started writing about my day, but what I love most in all the world is tea-breaks.’
He passed the next half-hour explaining to a patient Hanno Hath how he looked forward to his tea-break from the moment he started work. How his anticipation mounted as the time approached. How the laying down of his broom and the picking up of his flask of tea was a moment of almost perfect joy. How he breathed in the steam that rose from the flask as he removed its stopper, and poured the hot brown tea into his mug. How he unwrapped his three oat biscuits from their slippery greaseproof paper wrapping, and how, one by one, he dipped them into the hot tea. Ah, the dipping of the biscuits! This was the heart of the tea-break, the time of tension and gratification, the exercise of skill, and the encounter with the unknown. Sometimes, when he judged it right, he raised the sweet sodden biscuit to his mouth and consumed it intact, allowing it to crumble and melt on his tongue. Sometimes he dipped it for too long, or raised the biscuit too abruptly, or at too sharp an angle, and a large fragment fell off, and sank to the bottom of the mug. What made the tea-break so intense an experience was not knowing when or whether this would happen again.
‘Really, you know,’ said Hanno Hath thoughtfully, ‘someone should find a way to make a biscuit that goes soggy when dipped in tea, but doesn’t break.’
‘Make a biscuit?’ said Scooch, astonished. ‘You mean, invent a different sort of biscuit altogether?’
The Wind Singer Page 16
