As they danced down the Great Way, borne in the arms of tixy, they found themselves speaking their fears out loud, singing them, laughing at them.
‘Ha ha ha, to the Zars!’ sang Mumpo.
‘Ha ha ha, Zar Zar Zar!’ sang the twins.
‘Mumpo was an oldie!’ chanted Kestrel.
‘Oldie, oldie, oldie!’ they all sang.
‘What was it like being old, Mumpo?’
Mumpo danced an oldie dance for them, moving with exaggerated slowness.
‘Slow and heavy,’ he sang as he pranced gravely before them. ‘Slow and heavy and tired.’
‘Tired, tired, tired,’ they sang.
‘Like when we were all covered with mud.’
‘Mud, mud, mud!’
‘Then the mud fell off, and – ’ He sprang into the air and waved his arms wildly. ‘Zar, Zar, hurrah!’
‘Zar, Zar, hurrah!’ they echoed.
Linking arms, all three fell into the high-stepping march of the Zars, making their own band music with their mouths.
‘Tarum-tarum-taraa! Tarum-tarum-taraa!’
In this fashion, marching and singing, they came out of the forest and on to the plains. Here they came at last to a stop. Then, as they gazed across the arid wastes at the distant horizon, the effects of the tixy wore off, and they knew once more that they were hungry, starving hungry, and far, far from home.
It would have been easy then to lie down and sleep and never get up, because their singing and dancing had taken the very last of their strength. But Bowman wouldn’t allow it. Stubbornly, relentlessly, he insisted their journey must go on.
‘It’s too far. We’ll never get there.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We have to go on.’
So they went on, keeping the sun on their right side as it slowly descended in the sky. A keen wind was whipping up, and they went slower and slower, but they didn’t stop. They stumbled in their weariness, but on they trudged, driven by Bowman’s will.
Dusk was falling, and heavy dark clouds scudding across the sky, when Kestrel at last came to a stop. She drew the gold thread over her head and handed the silver voice to Bowman, saying quietly,
‘You go on. I can’t.’
Bowman took it, and held the fine silver clasp tight in his hand, and his eyes met hers. He could see there her shame that she could do no more, but deeper and stronger than the shame, the weariness.
I can’t do it without you, Kess.
Then it’s over.
Bowman turned and saw Mumpo watching him, waiting for what he would say that would make them believe there was hope: and he had no words left. He closed his eyes.
Help me, he said silently, not knowing to whom or what he was appealing.
As if in answer, there came a half-familiar sound: a distant creaking and groaning, carried on the wind.
He opened his eyes, and all three of them turned to look. There, rising slowly above the swell of the land, was a pennant snapping in the wind, silhouetted against the twilight sky. Up over the rim of land rose the masts and sails, the lookout towers and the topmost decks. Then the main decks, crowded on all sides by full-bellied sails, and the whole vast bulk of the mother ship grinding slowly towards them, rolling out of the dusk.
‘Ombaraka!’ cried Kestrel.
Energised by hope, the children set off running towards the immense moving city, waving their arms and calling out as they ran, to attract the attention of the lookouts. They were seen. The great craft lumbered to a slow halt. A boarding cradle was winched down. They clambered into it, hugging each other, weeping tears of relief. Up creaked the cradle, past the lower decks, to judder to a halt at the command deck. The gates were thrown open, and there before them stood a troop of heavily armed men, their hair shaved close to the skull.
‘Baraka spies!’ cried their commander. ‘Lock them up! They’ll hang at first light!’
Only then did they realise they were prisoners of Omchaka.
The children were thrown into a cage that was just big enough for the three of them to sit in, side by side, their knees drawn up to their chests. Once locked in, the cage was winched several feet into the air, and there they were left to dangle, twisting in the wind, jeered and spat at by the guards set to watch over them.
‘Baraka scum! Got up like dolls!’
‘Please,’ pleaded the children. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Why waste food on you? You’ll hang in the morning.’
The Chaka people seemed to be fiercer than the Barakas, perhaps because of their way of shaving their heads; but in all other respects they were strikingly similar. The same sand-coloured robes, the same warrior-like swagger, the same festoons of weapons. When the children were heard to be crying, they laughed, and reached up to poke them through the bars.
‘Snivelling girlies!’ they taunted. ‘You’ll have something to cry about in the morning.’
‘We won’t live till morning,’ said Kestrel in a faint voice. ‘We haven’t eaten for days.’
‘You’d better live,’ cried the biggest of their guards. ‘If I find you dead in the morning, I’ll kill you.’
The other guards laughed tremendously at this. The big guard went red.
‘Well, what’s your brilliant idea, then? Do you want to tell Haka Chaka there’ll be no public hanging?’
‘Kill them again, Pok! That’ll scare them!’
They laughed even more. The big guard they called Pok scowled and fell to muttering to himself.
‘You all think I’m so stupid, well, you’re the stupid ones, not me, you’ll see all right, just you wait .. .’
As night descended and the wind grew stronger, the guards decided to take it in turns to stand watch. Big Pok volunteered to go first, and the others departed. As soon as they were alone, Pok approached the cage and called up in a hoarse whisper.
‘Hey! You Baraka spies! Are you still alive?’
No answer came from the cage. Pok groaned aloud.
‘Please talk to me, scum. You’re not to die.’
Kestrel spoke, in a tiny croaking voice.
‘Food,’ she said. ‘Food .. .’
The word faded on her lips.
‘All right,’ said Pok nervously. ‘Just wait there. I’ll get you food. Don’t do anything. I’m going to get you food. Don’t die, all right? Promise me you won’t die, or I won’t go.’
‘Not long now .. .’ said Kestrel faintly. ‘Slipping away .. .’
‘No, no! That’s what you’re not to do! Don’t do that or I’ll – I’ll – ’
Realising he had no effective way to threaten them, he resorted to pleading.
‘Look, you’re going to die anyway, so it doesn’t matter to you, but it does matter to me. If you die on my watch, they’ll blame me, and that’s not fair, is it? You’ve got to admit, it wouldn’t be my fault, but I can tell you now how it’ll be. Oh, Pok again, they’ll say. Trust Pok to make a mess of it. Poor old Pok, thick as a rock. That’s what they say, and it isn’t fair.’
Silence from the children. Pok panicked.
‘Just don’t die yet. That’s the thing. I’m going. Food’s on its way.’
He galloped off. The children stayed still and quiet, in case someone else was watching, although by now the night was very dark, and the roaring wind kept the people indoors. Shortly Pok reappeared, his arms full of bread and fruit.
‘Here you are,’ he said, panting, poking loaves through the bars. ‘Eat it up! Eat it up!’
He watched anxiously, and when he saw the children begin to eat, he let out a sigh of relief.
‘There! That’s better. No more dying, eh?’
The more the children ate, the happier Pok became.
‘There! Old Pok’s not made a mess of it after all! You’ll be chirpy as sparrows in the morning, and Haka Chaka can have a fine hanging. So all’s well that ends well, as they say.’
The food brought strength back to Bowman, and with strength came hope. He began to think of how to escape.<
br />
‘We’re not really Baraka spies,’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Pok. ‘Oh, no, you can’t fool me that easily. Even old Pok can see you’re not Chaka, and if you’re not Chaka, you’re Baraka.’
‘We’re from Aramanth.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ve got Baraka hair.’
‘What if we were to unbraid our hair?’ said Kestrel.
‘What if we were to shave it all off, like you?’
‘Well, then,’ said Pok uncertainly. ‘Well, then, you’d be .. . You’d look like .. .’
He found the whole idea deeply muddling.
‘We’d look like you.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ he said. ‘But you can’t shave your hair off tonight, and in the morning you’re going to be hanged. So that’s that.’
‘Except you wouldn’t want to hang us and find out afterwards it had all been a mistake.’
‘Haka Chaka gives the orders,’ said Pok contentedly. ‘Haka Chaka is the Father of Omchaka, the Great Judge of Righteousness, and the Scourge of the Plains. He doesn’t make mistakes.’
The children did sleep that night, for all the cramped conditions in the cage, and the howling of the wind. The food in their bellies and the weariness in their bones was stronger than their fear of the morning, and they slept deeply until the light of dawn awoke them.
The wind had fallen, but the sky was leaden grey, heavy with an approaching storm. A squad of Chaka guards marched up, and formed a circle round the cage. The cage was winched down on to the deck, and the gate unlocked. The children stumbled out. The squad formed up round them, and they marched across a causeway to the central square of Omchaka. Here a great crowd was waiting, packed tight round the sides of the square, and hanging from the rails of the decks above. As soon as the children came in sight, the crowd began to hiss and call out insults.
‘Hang them! Baraka filth! String them up!’
In the centre of the square there stood a newly built scaffold, from which hung three rope nooses. Behind the scaffold stood the commanders of the Omchaka army, and a line of drummers. The children were led to the scaffold, and stood on a bench, each one before a rope noose. Then the drummers beat their drums, and the Grand Commander cried out,
‘All stand for Haka Chaka, Father of Omchaka, Great Judge of Righteousness and Scourge of the Plains!’
No one moved, since they were all standing anyway, and into the square strode Haka Chaka, followed by a small entourage. He was an old man of imposing stature, his grey hair shaved close to his skull. But it was not at him that the children gazed in amazement. Behind him, hair also shaved, walked Counsellor Kemba.
‘He’s a Baraka!’ cried Kestrel, pointing at him accusingly. ‘His name’s Kemba, and he’s from Ombaraka!’
Kemba smiled, seemingly unconcerned.
‘They’ll be saying you’re a Baraka next, Highness.’
‘They can say what they like,’ said Haka Chaka grimly. ‘The talking will end soon enough.’
He gave a sign to the men holding the three children, and the nooses were placed round their necks. Mumpo didn’t cry, as he would have done once, but he did make a small choking noise.
‘I’m sorry, Mumpo,’ said Kestrel. ‘We’ve been no good for you after all.’
‘Yes, you have,’ he said bravely. ‘You’ve been my friends.’
Haka Chaka climbed up on to a high speaking-platform to address the crowd.
‘People of Omchaka!’ he cried. ‘The Morah has delivered our enemies into our hands!’
All at once Bowman saw the way out.
‘The Morah has woken!’ he called out.
A surprised silence fell over the crowd. From the grey sky above came the low rumble of the approaching storm. Kemba’s eyes turned on Bowman, burning intensely.
‘The Zars are on the march!’ cried Bowman.
This caused consternation in the crowd. A buzz of agitated chatter broke out on all sides. Haka Chaka turned to his advisers.
‘Can this be true?’
‘They’re marching after us,’ cried Bowman. ‘Wherever we are, they’ll find us.’
Now on all sides there were voices raised in fear, intensified by the sudden gusts of wind that rattled the rigging above.
‘Nothing can stop the Zars!’
‘They’ll kill us all!’
‘Tell the sailmen! We must set sail!’
‘Fools!’
It was Kemba who took control of the panic. He spoke loudly, but in tones that were calm, even soothing.
‘Can’t you tell a Baraka trick when you see one? Why would the Morah have woken? Why would the Zars march? He lies to save his own miserable skin.’
‘I woke the Morah myself,’ said Bowman. ‘The Morah said to me, “We are legion”.’
These words chilled the hearts of the crowd. Kemba looked at Bowman with hatred, but mingled with the hatred was fear.
‘He lies!’ he cried. ‘These are our enemies! Why do we listen? Hang them! Hang them now!’
The crowd fell on this proposal, echoing it wildly, their newly-aroused fear streaming out of them as hate-charged anger.
‘Hang them! Hang them!’
The nooses were pulled close round the children’s necks. Two guards stood at either end of the high bench, ready to knock it away from the children’s feet. Haka Chaka raised his arms to still the baying of the crowd.
‘What have we to fear?’ he cried. ‘We are Omchaka!’
A great cheer greeted this call.
‘Let Ombaraka tremble! This is how we deal with all enemies of Omchaka!’
But in the moment of silence before he dropped his arms, which was to be the signal for the hanging, a new sound came to them, carried by the storm wind: the tramping of marching feet, the music of a marching band, the singing of a multitude of young voices.
‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’
The people of Omchaka looked at each other in silent horror. Then the words that all dreaded formed on their lips.
‘The Zars! The Zars!’
Counsellor Kemba was galvanised into action.
‘Highness,’ he said urgently. ‘Release the spies! Put them in a land-sailer and send them south. The Zars will follow them. Omchaka must set course for the east at once.’
Haka Chaka understood, and the orders were given. As the crowd broke up, and the people of Omchaka hurried to their action stations, Kemba approached the children and addressed them in a savage whisper.
‘Forty years of peace and you ruin everything! My life work destroyed! My only consolation is that you won’t escape the Zars, nor will your precious Aramanth!’
The children were released, and bundled into a land-sailer: not one of the sleek manoeuvrable corvettes, but a heavy low-bottomed provisions craft, with a single fixed sail. It was winched hurriedly over the side, while the great city of Omchaka echoed with frantic activity. On every deck the sailmen were unfurling sails and yelling out instructions, and the ever-strengthening wind was bellying out the myriad canvases and tugging the immense mother craft into juddering movement.
As the little land-sailer banged on to the ground, the Zars could be seen far off, marching in their column, eight abreast, led by the band, high-stepping across the plains. The storm wind sweeping down from the north caught the sail and jerked the land-sailer out of the lee of Omchaka. Here, hit by the full force of the wind, the craft picked up speed. And all at once, with a roll of thunder across the iron sky, the storm overtook them, bringing with it drenching rain.
Faster and faster ran the land-sailer, crashing over the stony ground, and the children could do nothing but cling tight to the mast and hurtle through the storm. The wind became a gale, the rain became a torrent, through which they could see nothing. Again and again, lightning crackled across the livid sky, and the long booming explosions of thunder rolled over their heads. Water was filling up the well of the craft, slopping over their feet, but all they could do was hold tight as they cha
rged on, bucking and bouncing, out of all control.
Then one wheel struck a rock, and two of its spokes snapped. For a few moments longer the wheel spun on, then the rim buckled, and almost at once the wheel imploded. The craft lurched to one side. The pitiless wind hammered into the sail, spinning them round, and a second wheel burst into fragments. The land-sailer went over on to its side, skated a little way under its sheer momentum; and then skidded to a stop.
Still the storm raged round them. They could do nothing, so they huddled together in the shelter of the broken hull, and waited for the pelting rain to pass. Bowman felt the silver voice of the wind singer, still hanging round his neck, and he thought how close they had come to death, and it seemed to him that someone or something must be looking after them. Someone or something wanted them to make their way home; though who or what it might be, he had no idea.
‘We’re going to do it,’ he said.
Kestrel and Mumpo felt it too. They couldn’t be far from Aramanth now.
In time, the heavy rain gave way to intermittent showers, and the wind dropped. The children crawled out from under their shelter, and looked round them in the light of the brightening sky. The storm was passing to the south, and there on the near horizon, unmistakable even through the veil of falling rain, rose the high walls of Aramanth.
‘We’re going to do it,’ said Bowman again, exultantly.
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Through the showers, soaked but smiling, singing as they marched, came the unstoppable Zars.
‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’
Without another word, the children set off at a run towards the city walls.
24
The last High Examination
Today was the day of the High Examination. The unseasonal rainstorm had delayed the start of the session, which was most unusual, but now the rows of desks that filled the arena terraces had been wiped dry, and the examination was well under way. Seated at the desks were the heads of every family in the city, at work on the papers that would determine their family rating for the coming year. Each circular terrace held three hundred and twenty desks, and there were nine terraces: nearly three thousand examinees all sitting in utter silence, but for the scratching of pens on paper, and the soft padding of the examiners as they patrolled the arena.
The Wind Singer Page 23
