‘Aaah!’ cried the old child, and released his grip on Mumpo’s arm. Losing his hold, he slipped down into the bush. The bush juddered under his weight and gave way, and down he fell.
‘Aaa-aa-aa-aa .. .’
They heard his cry all the way to the bottom, and they heard the distant sound as he struck the rocks.
Kestrel dragged Mumpo back from the edge, and then let go of him. Holding him made her feel weak. He lay there, not moving, groaning a little.
‘Are you all right, Mumpo?’
His reply came in a deep cracking voice.
‘I hurt all over.’
He tried to stand, but the effort was too much for him. He sat down again, breathing heavily.
‘I’ve gone wrong, Kess.’
Kestrel and Bowman stared at him, trying to conceal their horror at what they saw. Mumpo’s braided hair had gone grey, with the golden threads still plaited into it. His skin had gone wrinkly and baggy. His body was bent. He had turned into a little old man.
‘It’ll be all right, Mumpo,’ said Kestrel, fighting back an impulse to cry. ‘We’ll make you all right again.’
‘Am I ill, Kess?’
‘Yes, a little. But we’ll make you well again somehow.’
‘My body hurts all over.’
He started to cry. Not the noisy howls of the Mumpo they knew, but a silent weary weeping, a few thin tears creeping down the deep wrinkles that had formed in his face.
What can we do?
We have to go on, Bowman replied. Aloud, he said to Mumpo, ‘Can you walk?’
‘I think so.’
He got up, more carefully this time, and took a few steps.
‘I can’t go fast.’
‘That’s all right. Just do your best.’
‘Could you help me, Bo? If I could lean on you just a little, I could go faster.’
‘You mustn’t touch us, Mumpo. Not until you’re better.’
‘Not touch you? Why not?’
They realised then that he hadn’t understood what had happened to him.
‘So we don’t catch your sickness.’
‘Oh, I see. No, we don’t want that. Will I be better soon?’
‘Yes, Mumpo. Soon.’
So they turned their backs on Crack-in-the-land, and set off up the Great Way to the mountains.
It was pitifully slow going. Try as he might, Mumpo couldn’t walk at a normal pace. He shuffled along, and then he had to stop and rest for a few minutes. Then he shuffled along again, making no complaint, so clearly trying as hard as he could. But it was plain to both the twins that they would never make it to the top of the mountain like this.
Mumpo was not their only concern. The forest on either side was changing. The route they were following, the overgrown avenue that had once been the Great Way, was itself clear of trees, but it was flanked by an ever-denser wall of deepening forest. And through the trees, just out of the light, there sometimes seemed to be shapes accompanying them, loping silently alongside, never running ahead, never falling behind. Bowman sensed their presence out of the corners of his eyes, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there.
Then there were the shadows overhead. They could see now that they were birds, circling high above the trees. At first they paid them no attention; but all the time they were descending, gliding noiselessly on great outreached wings. For a while there were no more than five or six of them, but when Bowman next looked up, he counted thirteen. When he looked up again, barely half an hour later, there were too many to count: a streaming flock of ominous black shapes trailing away into the high distance. Dim tales surfaced in his mind of wild animals following travellers, watching for stragglers, waiting for their strength to fail. He pressed on faster, increasing the pace.
‘This is too hard for Mumpo,’ said Kestrel. ‘We have to slow down. We should rest.’
‘No! We mustn’t stop!’
Kestrel looked round sharply, hearing the fear in his voice.
‘It’s – all right,’ said Mumpo. ‘I’ll – keep – up.’ But he could hardly find the breath to speak these few words.
Bo, we can’t do this.
What else can we do?
So they struggled on. The slower they went, the bolder the birds became. They were sailing lower now, at treetop level, their great black wings casting shadows on the ground. They looked like eagles, except that they were black, and far bigger. Hard to judge just how big they were, up there above the trees.
Then Mumpo stumbled on some loose stones, and fell. He lay there, making no attempt to get up. Kestrel knelt down beside him to make sure he wasn’t hurt; but he was only exhausted.
‘He has to rest, Bo. Whether we want it or not.’
Bowman could see that she was right.
‘He’ll feel better after he’s had something to eat.’
He swung down his nut-socks and took out his last remaining mudnut. He was reaching it out to Kestrel to give to Mumpo, when he felt a sudden rush of wind, a swish of darkness, and a sharp painful blow to his hand.
Bowman cried out, more in surprise than pain, and clutched his hand. Blood trickled out between his fingers. The black eagle was already powering away, beating its immense wings, the mudnut clutched in the razor-sharp talons that had sliced his skin in four clean shallow lines. He looked up in sheer shock at the size of the bird. There were three more of them, hovering low above them, waiting for more food to come out of the sock. Their wingspan was so huge that the three of them, side by side, shaded the whole broad avenue.
Mumpo lay staring up at the giant eagles, his eyes wide with terror, his heart pumping. Instinctively, Kestrel had put her arms over him, as if to protect him. The birds were dropping ever lower, looking for food.
‘Throw it away, Bo!’ shouted Kestrel.
Bowman hurled the nut-sock as far away as he could. At once, a giant eagle swooped, and snatched up the sock, and sailed up to the tree-tops. And the others, so many of them, went on circling silently overhead, watching, waiting.
Because the children’s eyes were on the sky, they didn’t see the first beast come padding silently out from between the trees; or the second. The beasts could smell Bowman’s blood: the smell of wounding, and weakness. They came quietly out of the forest, one by one, and stood there, yellow eyes staring. It was Mumpo who saw them first.
He screamed.
Bowman turned quickly: and froze. All round them, some twenty yards away, stood a ring of huge grey wolves. Lean and shaggy-coated, as big as deer, their immense jaws hung open, their tongues lolling out, as they panted softly, and stared.
‘It’s all right, Mumpo,’ said Kestrel, hardly thinking what she was saying, just to stop him screaming.
The black eagles circled lower once more, expecting a kill. Their great wings, overlapping each other, cast all the broad avenue now into shadow, as if night was falling. The wolves padded nearer, and stopped again. Waiting to see if their prey would turn and fight.
Mumpo’s scream became his familiar fearful whimpering; only now he sobbed with an old man’s voice.
‘Don’t let them get me,’ he croaked.
Now they could feel the rush of the air as the eagles swept by overhead, and they could smell the hot wet smell of the wolves’ pelts. Motionless, huddled together in their terror, the children saw the wolves bare their teeth, slick and sharp and creamy-white, and pad closer still.
Then there came a sound from the trees, a long baying call. At once the wolves came to a stop. The great eagles, who had been dropping lower with each circling pass, began to climb again. The baying call sounded once more, mournful and strong, and the wolves turned and looked expectantly into the forest.
Out of the trees, stepping slowly, came a huge grizzled old wolf, the biggest of them all. His every movement spoke of power and authority, but he was old now, and with each breath there came a low sighing rumble from his broad chest. As big as a stag, but lean and sinewy for all his age, he came stepping out of the
trees, and his yellow eyes were on Bowman all the way.
Bowman never flinched. The other wolves parted to make way for their leader, and the father of the pack padded forward until he was towering over the boy. Then his long shaggy body rippled, and he sank down on to his haunches; and from there into a prone position. He laid his head on his outstretched paws, and his eyes gazed steadily at Bowman. The other wolves followed their leader’s example, until the entire pack was lying down, all round the three children, panting softly.
Bowman then realised he knew what it was he must do. He held out his bleeding hand, and the father of the wolves lifted his grey muzzle, and smelled it. Then out came the long pink tongue, and licked away the blood.
Bowman sat himself slowly down on the ground, with his legs crossed, and the wolf rested its head in his lap. Its eyes looked up at the boy, and as much as man and beast can, they understood each other.
‘They’ve been waiting for us,’ said Bowman, wondering how he knew the wolf’s mind.
‘What for?’
‘To fight the Morah.’
As he spoke this name, a ripple ran through the wolves, like a cold wind passing, making their shaggy fur shiver. The father of the pack rose up on to his haunches, and all the others followed suit. The old wolf then lifted up his head high and gave another mournful baying call.
The great eagles circling overhead heard the call, and they began to descend, lower and lower, until they were passing so close that their wing-tips seemed to brush the children’s heads. Then one by one they landed, to stand round the wolves in a second guardian ring.
Bowman looked into the black eyes of the eagles and the yellow eyes of the wolves and saw their pride and their courage.
We have waited a long time. Now we will face the ancient enemy at last.
‘They’ll help us,’ he said. He rose to his feet, and all the wolves rose.
‘Now it’s time to go.’
Kestrel and Mumpo obeyed him without question, accepting that he knew things they could never know. The eagles unfurled their wings and took to the air; and children and beasts continued up the Great Way towards the mountains.
Mumpo moved slowly, his weary old bones dragging him down. The twins kept to his pace, knowing how afraid he was of being left behind. But after a little while, the time came when he knew he could go no further. He sat down on the ground, and began to cry.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said as he wept.
The father of the wolves saw and understood. Shortly a strong young wolf was loping forward to lie beside Mumpo.
‘Climb on his back, Mumpo. He’ll carry you.’
They dared not help him, but after an awkward scramble, Mumpo got himself up on to the wolf’s back, and there gripped on tight to the shaggy coat. The journey was now resumed at a good steady pace, and they began to make progress towards the distant mountain.
In time the twins too became tired, and the wolves took them on their backs. Now for the first time they were free to leave the open track of the Great Way, and follow the wolf-trails through the trees. And so, all three riding, they covered the ground far more swiftly, while the great eagles flew overhead, and their escort of wolves ran on either side, and all they could see round them were the shadowy vaults of the forest.
They were now on the higher slopes of the mountains, where the air was cold, and a mist lingered in the topmost branches of the tall pines. The trees became sparser, and when they looked back they could see the great number of wolves that had joined them, streaming away behind them as far as the eyes could see; while overhead flew hundreds and hundreds of eagles.
Ahead now loomed the mountain towards which they had been journeying. It seemed so immense, its flattened peak so impossibly high, that they couldn’t see how they could ever reach it, even at the speed of the running wolves. What was worse, it proved to be even further away than they supposed, for as they came over a ridge they saw a tree-covered valley dip away before them, and realised they hadn’t even begun to ascend the main peak.
The trail curved here as it descended, and passed out of sight round the ridge. The wolves carrying the children ran slower now, and then walked, while the eagles above began dropping down, circling to land. As they reached the bend in the trail, the wolves came to a complete stop, and lay down. It was evident that they wanted the children to dismount. As they did so, the eagles landed in their hundreds, all over the ground and in the trees.
Kestrel looked to Bowman to know what they were to do next, but he had no idea. It was Mumpo who now took the lead.
To the surprise of the twins, as soon as he was standing, he started to move, shuffling down the trail as fast as he was able, impelled by some inexplicable urgency.
‘Mumpo! Wait!’
He didn’t hear them. He was reaching his arms forward as he went, as if to come all the sooner to whatever it was that drew him on. Bowman turned to look at the great army of the wolves. They sat or lay, tongues out and panting, eyes on the father of the pack. He for his part sat with raised head, sniffing the wind, waiting. Bowman smelled the air.
‘Smoke.’
‘We can’t lose him.’
So they set off after Mumpo, who was now out of sight. And as they too rounded the bend in the trail, they saw before them an extraordinary sight. There below them lay the Great Way once more, broad and open, and down it were moving many figures, Mumpo now among them. Like Mumpo, they had their arms outstretched, and they were stooping, and they hobbled as they went. Mumpo was some way ahead of them, and almost running. He groaned and panted as he ran, calling out in his old man’s voice.
‘Take me!’ he cried. ‘Take me!’
He was running towards the source of the smoke, where the Great Way ran into the mountainside: into a rift as wide as the road, that was filled with fire. The flames climbed high and became smoke, and the smoke streamed out into the open air above. Down the Great Way towards this gate of fire, ahead of Mumpo and behind him, moved the other stooping figures, their arms outstretched like his, not all children, but all old; and from their mouths came the same cry, as they neared the flames.
‘Take me! Make me young again!’
Mumpo was truly running now, jerkily and with difficulty, but as if his life depended on it.
‘Mumpo! No!’
Kestrel started after him, but he was too far ahead, and he didn’t seem to hear her. He was running directly towards the fire. The other old people were all doing the same: the nearer they got to the flames, the faster they hurried, as if eager for death. When they reached the fire, they let their outreached arms drop, and they walked into the flames, without visible fear or pain. What happened to them then Kestrel couldn’t see, because they were lost in the brightness of the fire.
Bowman caught up with her, and stood by her side. In silence, they stared at the towering crack in the mountain, and the belching smoke. They stared as Mumpo ran stumbling and calling towards the flames.
‘Take me! Make me young again!’
Then the pitiful cry fell silent, and his clumsy gallop was slowed to a hobbling walk, and he too was swallowed by the fire.
For a moment longer, the twins were silent, in shock. Then Kestrel felt for her brother’s hand.
We must go into the fire.
We go together, he said, knowing this was how it had to be.
Always together.
So hand in hand they walked down the last of the Great Way towards the flames.
20
Into the fire
As they approached the great rift in the mountain, the twins felt the fierce heat of the fire, and smelled its acrid rising smoke. Why did the old people have no fear? How could they step so eagerly into its very heart and never cry out? But on they walked towards the fire, only revealing their fear by the tightness with which they held hands.
When the glare was too bright, they closed their eyes. The heat was strong, but not burning. The sounds of the outer world, of the mountains and the forest, we
re slipping away into silence. Even their own shoes, resolutely treading towards the furnace, seemed now to make no sound.
No going back now. Just a few more steps .. .
All at once, the heat faded away, to be replaced by a soft coolness, that seemed to lick about them. The brightness was still dazzling, blinding their closed eyes with blood-red light. But even without seeing it, they knew they had entered the fire, and were being bathed in cool flame.
On they walked, unharmed, and the dazzling light became less intense, and the cool caress fell away. Then little by little they sensed that the light was fading. Opening their eyes, they saw that the flames were fainter now. And within a few more paces, they were out of the fire entirely, and into a realm of shadow. Though where they were was hard to say.
As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they made out the walls of a broad passage, with doors at its far end. The walls were timber panelled, and the floor was tiled. They seemed to be in the hallway of a grand mansion.
Looking back, they had another surprise. There was the fire behind them, but it was no more than a coal fire, burning in a well-kept grate, within a carved stone fireplace. Had they just walked out of that?
The long hallway ran from the fireplace at one end to the doors at the other. It had no windows. There was only one way to go.
Still hand in hand, beyond amazement, they made their way down the hallway to the closed double doors at the far end. Bowman tried the handles, and found the doors were not locked. He eased one open a crack, and looked through. Another hallway.
This hallway, an extension of the first, had many rooms opening off it on either side. It was candlelit, and more ornately decorated. The dark wood panelling was carved in patterns of leaves and flowers. There were tapestries hanging between the many doors, faded scenes of hunting, and archery. Down the centre of the passage ran a finely woven carpet.
The twins made their way down this carpet, looking through the open doors to the right and left as they went. They caught glimpses of darkened sitting-rooms, the furniture all draped in dust sheets.
They moved as quietly as they could, fearful of what they might find. Although there was nothing to tell them so, they were directing their steps towards the far end of the hallway, which as before was closed with double doors. As they drew closer, they saw that unlike the other rooms they were passing, which were dark, there was a glow of light beneath the end doors.
The Wind Singer Page 19
