Firesong

by William Nicholson

  Barra looked at Rufy Blesh, and turned back to Kestrel, and nodded his head.

  ‘What you say is true. But he hasn’t chosen.’

  ‘He threw his bride colour to the ground,’ said Madriel. ‘He wanted none of you.’

  ‘He was weary and in pain,’ said Kestrel. ‘He’s rested now. Perhaps he wants to make his choice after all.’

  ‘The brides have all been chosen.’

  Kestrel was watching Rufy Blesh. He gazed back expressionlessly, with his one good eye.

  ‘He is the winner,’ she said. ‘He may choose who he likes. Until he makes his choice, none of us are free. That is the way of the klin.’

  Barra frowned, and thought for a moment in silence. Then he sighed and said,

  ‘It is so.’

  He turned with a grave look to Rufy Blesh.

  ‘Do you wish now to choose a bride?’

  Rufy Blesh kept his gaze fixed on Kestrel. Then, at last, he inclined his head.

  A murmur rose up from the people round the fire. Such a thing had never happened before. Barra gave a sign, and the young men rose to their feet.

  ‘Lay down your plates and cups,’ said Madriel to the brides. ‘Untie your colours.’

  She gathered up the strips of fabric, and one by one they were given back to the young men. Rufy Blesh took his band of blue ribbon and stood facing the fire. The others formed up behind him in the order that their markers had been laid earlier. The one who had placed last now withdrew from the line, shaking his head and murmuring under his breath.

  When all were ready, Barra said,

  ‘Make your choice.’

  This time Rufy did not hesitate. He stepped forward in the firelight, and laid his colour in Kestrel’s lap. Barra, watching, nodded his reluctant approval. The young woman was clearly the leader of the Manth brides, and therefore the right partner for a future leader of the klin.

  The others followed, each choosing as he had chosen before, with the exception of the boy who had chosen Kestrel. When his turn came he gave a sulky shrug to show that he felt he had been hard done by, and picked the one who had been chosen last before, little Ashar Warmish.

  All this took time, as Kestrel had intended. By the time the marriage feast was resumed, the great fire was burning lower, and night had fallen in the sky above. Kestrel handed Rufy his meat and his drink, as she had been shown; he ate and drank in silence, moving his jaws slowly, because of the bruised and torn flesh. He and Kestrel did not speak, or even look at each other. But when he had finished eating, and returned his plate to her, she took her finger and wrote in the grease that smeared its surface: HELP US.

  He read, and looked up, and gave the slightest nod. It was enough.

  Barra rose.

  ‘Last light has come and gone,’ he said. ‘The fire burns low, and we’re all weary. The bridal huts are prepared. Take your brides across the water.’

  Kestrel knew she needed still more time.

  ‘Father of the klin,’ she said. ‘We Manth people have our customs too. For us, the wedding night is the night when the child becomes a woman. On that night, we say farewell to our childhood, and cross the threshold into a new life.’

  The other Manth girls listened, and exchanged surreptitious glances. They had never heard of this custom before in their lives. Kestrel was making it up.

  Barra, not knowing this, was respectful.

  ‘What is it you want to do, child?’

  ‘According to the Manth custom, father,’ said Kestrel, seeing he liked this title, ‘the bride spends the first part of her wedding night alone with her husband in silence and stillness. During this time, their two spirits make friends with each other. Then the brides leave their husbands and gather together one last time, in what we call the bride huddle.’ Kestrel was inventing as fast as she could, but her earnest face showed no sign of it. ‘In the bride huddle, we say farewell to our childhood. Then we return to our husbands, and cross the threshold into our new lives.’

  ‘I see.’ Barra looked to his wife. She gave a shrug and a nod.

  ‘There’s no harm in it,’ she said.

  ‘You are no longer Manth,’ said the klin father after some thought. ‘However, I see no reason why you should not follow your custom for one last time. Say farewell in the Manth way to your Manth childhood, then start your new life in the klin.’

  ‘Thank you, father,’ said Kestrel. And casting her eyes down to show submission, she held out her hand to allow Rufy Blesh to lead her across the water.

  Madriel spoke to the young men as they went.

  ‘Show respect to your brides. Follow their customs.’

  Couple by couple, they made their way across the deck to the narrow bridge, and over the bridge to the platform on the far side of the water. Here, lit now by pale moonlight, stood the line of bridal huts.

  Kestrel turned and met the fearful eyes of her friends. They were all looking towards her, expecting her to say or do something that would spare them the coming ordeal. She looked back, trying to tell them without words that she had a plan, and they must be brave. Then she saw how Seer Such’s hands were shaking, clasped tightly at her waist, and knew they were being brave, far braver than she, who knew that Bowman would find them soon.

  ‘Sit still in silence,’ she said. ‘I’ll come for you when it’s time.’

  Kestrel stooped and entered the low-roofed hut first. Inside, beneath the rough thatch, there was no light at all. She felt before her, and found a woollen blanket, laid out on a bed of dry grass. She sat down. Rufy Blesh followed, sitting close to her: not by choice, but because there was very little space. She could feel his knee where it touched her leg. He was trembling.

  For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Kestrel’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. Through the arched doorway of the hut she could see across the water the older klin members kicking out the fires on the jetties and retiring to their own larger communal shelters.

  She spoke low, so they would not be heard in the neighbouring huts.

  ‘How long before the fathers sleep?’

  ‘Not long.’ His voice was so quiet even she could hardly hear him.

  ‘When do they change the watch?’

  ‘Dawn.’

  Silence. Across the water the scattered embers of the fires crackled and died. The river rushed on in its everlasting way. No sound or movement came from the huts.

  Kestrel was listening intently for Bowman. She had the beginnings of a feeling that he was approaching, but each time the feeling slipped away before she could hold it. Rufy Blesh was silent.

  ‘My brother is coming,’ Kestrel said. ‘Bowman is coming.’

  Then Rufy spoke.

  ‘How many?’ he asked.

  Kestrel understood him. For a brief moment, before she could shut out the memory, she saw again the flames that filled the monkey cage, and heard the screams of the twisting figures caught behind its bars.

  ‘Twenty,’ she said.

  He bowed his head. Then, even more softly,

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Amareth. Helmo.’ Just names now: they died without a burial, without a memorial. Cruel times indeed. ‘Old Sep. The Mooth boy.’ She had never been able to recall his name, but for some reason it came to her then. ‘Chaser Mooth. And Pia.’

  ‘Pia!’

  Of course: Rufy Blesh had been close to Pia Greeth once. There had even been talk that he would ask her to marry him. Then she had married Tanner Amos. And now, because Rufy had run away, Pia had died.

  Rufy asked no more. He seemed crushed by what he had learned. Kestrel could think of nothing to say that would ease his suffering; in truth, she believed he deserved to suffer.

  On the other hand, she needed him for her plan.

  ‘Rufy,’ she said. ‘All that is in the past. Here, now, we need your help.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘We need weapons. Swords, knives, anything.’

  ‘What’s the use? There are t
oo many of them.’

  ‘Get us weapons. We’ll find a way.’

  Rufy fell silent. Kestrel waited, sensing that nothing more she could say would help. He was making his decision on his own; as he had done once before.

  ‘There are knives in the kitchen hut,’ he said out of the silence. ‘Meat knives.’

  ‘Can you get them without being seen?’

  Rufy looked out towards the dying fires. The klin was sleeping.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get one for each of us.’

  ‘I know these people. They have no mercy. There are no old people in the klin. When they lose their strength, and can do no more work, they’re thrown into the river to die.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid? What have I to fear? No, Kestrel. I’m warning you. I want to help you.’

  ‘Then go. And come back with the knives.’

  After that, he spoke no more. He rose up and passed stooping through the doorway, and so on across the slender bridge. Her eyes followed him, a shadowy figure moving noiselessly in the faint moonlight. Then she looked up at the rim of the high rock walls. There, silhouetted against the silver clouds, she saw a cat.

  6

  Farewell to childhood

  Bowman, Mumpo and the other young men had made good progress. The trail had grown warmer as they had gone along. Above them the cat had followed, running beside the high edges of the fissures, and whenever it became necessary, leaping across from side to side. Now, as Bowman felt his way along a curving ledge that hugged a high rock wall, he sensed that he was near enough to attempt a call.

  Kess! Can you hear me, Kess?

  There was still no answer. Glancing up, Bowman was surprised to see that the cat had disappeared from view. He beckoned to the others to follow, and padded on along the ledge. She had come this way, he was sure of it.

  They came to the place where the fissure split three ways. Bowman paused to sense the way to go.

  ‘We go left,’ he said.

  Again, he called to his sister.

  Kess! Can you hear me?

  This time there came an answer, faint, distorted, but recognisable.

  Bo . . . you . . . are you . . ?

  Not near enough yet, he called back. We’re coming.

  To the others, he said,

  ‘They’re there. They’re not far. Let’s hurry.’

  And with renewed energy they followed the rising path, until the slit of moonlight closed overhead and they were moving in full darkness.

  They jogged on, feeling the walls of the tunnel push closer on either side.

  Bo! Take care! Don’t let them know you’re here!

  Bowman stopped dead. Kestrel’s voice was suddenly clear and close. The great barriers of rock had deceived his senses. They were far nearer than he had realised.

  Kestrel! I heard you!

  Where are you?

  In a tunnel.

  You’ve very close. I can feel you. At the end of the tunnel there’s a door. There’s a watchman stands guard beyond the door.

  Just one man?

  Just one man. But beyond him, sleeping, there’s fifty and more. Stay still and silent. Do as I say.

  Shortly after Rufy Blesh had returned to the bridal hut, Kestrel came out, wrapped in his long cloak. The night was cold. She straightened up, and stood looking across the water. Nothing was moving. Reassured, she set off along the line of bridal huts, stooping by each low doorway and whispering to her people within.

  ‘Come! The time has come!’

  One by one the Manth brides crept out of their huts, and gathered in a shivering cluster on the deck by the bridge. The young men who were their almost-husbands came out too, and stood with Rufy Blesh, watching their brides and waiting.

  ‘Form a circle,’ said Kestrel to the young women. ‘Arms round each other. We must share our strength, as we say farewell to our childhood.’

  They wrapped their arms round each other and pressed tight together, so that their heads were touching. Within the concealment of the circle, Kestrel opened her cloak.

  The young men watched and waited. They were doing as they had been told, but they didn’t like it. For an hour and more they had sat patiently with their brides, forbidden to touch them or speak to them. The long day had wearied them; their bodies ached with the brutal punishment of walking the storm. They longed now for kindness, and soft caresses, and sleep.

  At last the huddled group separated. They stood back from each other, but still they kept to their circle, facing inwards, their arms crossed over their breasts. A cloud crossed the moon, plunging the river rift into a deeper darkness. Kestrel called softly,

  ‘Take your places behind your brides.’

  Rufy Blesh led the way, showing the others what they were to do. He stood immediately behind Kestrel, who faced in to the ring, with her back to him. The other young men, following his example, found their places behind their brides, thus forming an outer ring.

  The cloud passed, and by the soft light of the returning moon Kestrel saw the faces of her companions: tense, fearful, but determined.

  ‘Are we ready?’

  She saw them nod: sensed the keen edge of anger in Sisi’s coiled body: and felt in herself a fierce bright thrill of passion. This is how warriors feel, she thought. This is how it feels to put your very life itself at stake.

  Kess! We’ve reached the door!

  Break the door! she called to her brother. Kill the watchman! We’re coming!

  Aloud she cried out,

  ‘Farewell to childhood!’

  She and Sisi, gentle Sarel Amos and chubby Seer Such, Red Mimilith and little Ashar Warmish, all turned at once, knives flashing in the moonlight. The young men of the Barra klin, taken entirely by surprise, did nothing to defend themselves from the furious stabbing blades. Bleeding, wounded, shocked, they fell to the deck, from where the women kicked and pushed them towards the ice-cold river.

  From the high rock steps came a crash and a scream, as Mumpo burst through the tunnel door and sent the watchman flying into the water far below.

  With that scream, Sisi began to scream. She was jabbing and jabbing with her meat knife into the man cowering at her feet.

  ‘You want a kiss?’ she screamed. ‘This is how I kiss!’

  Mumpo, Tanner Amos, and the Shim brothers were down the rock steps before the klin fathers, woken by the screams, had come out of their huts. Kestrel called to her friends,

  ‘Quick! Run! Don’t look back!’

  She led them over the narrow bridge, while Rufy brought up the rear, fighting off those of the wounded young men who still had the strength to pursue.

  ‘Up the steps! Make for the tunnel!’

  Mumpo and Tanner and the Shim brothers stood before the hut doors striking with fury at the men within as they attempted to fight their way out. Miller Marish and Lolo Mimilith caught up with the running women and ran with them, along the edge of the deck, towards the rock steps. Bowman remained on the rock shelf high above, waiting for his moment.

  Suddenly three men of the klin burst out through a side wall, smashing the timbers before them, and threw themselves, blades flashing, onto Rollo Shim. Rollo fell with an agonised cry, a long gash opening up down his back and thigh. Mumpo turned and struck, struck and danced and struck again, killing with each blow. He moved so effortlessly, seeming to melt before their swords, that they felt the hot cut of his blade before they saw him strike. Within moments all three were dying on the ground, and he was standing before the break in the wall holding back all who would follow.

  Tanner Amos and Bek Shim seized Rollo by either arm and dragged him away towards the steps. Mumpo held the gap in the wall for a few minutes longer, but now other gaps were appearing, on all sides, and the men of the klin were pouring out. Some moved close to surround Mumpo, while others loaded their sling shots to pick off the Manth fighters as they ran.

  Bowman saw the slingshots circling in the air, and concentrating all his m
ind’s strength, he tracked the stones as they flew, to send them glancing away against the rock walls.

  The young women were on the steps now, the Manth men racing close behind. The brief advantage of surprise was gone, as more and more men of the klin came streaming out into the open. More and more stones were flying, and Bowman could feel his powers draining away, even as Sarel Amos passed him on the high shelf and gained the cover of the tunnel, with the others close behind.

  Mumpo too was on the move now, but he was like a stag at bay, ringed by hounds. He leapt and struck, ducked and struck, slipped out of reach and sprang back to strike again, fighting the way he had been taught to fight in the dance of death called the manaxa. He offered himself to the blades only to spiral away, leaving bloody wounds in his wake. But even he could not escape the press of so many swords for long. A slash of searing pain across one shoulder, and he felt the warm slick of blood down his back. He moved out of range, but too slowly, and took a blade in the gut that made him gasp the breath out of his lungs. He turned and saw the steps, not far off now, and felt himself stumble. Dimly, from far off, he felt the pain of his wounds, felt himself growing weaker, knew he must fall –

  Suddenly there was space opening up round him, and there was another fighting with him, a wild thing, a creature masked in blood. With one great howl of rage, Mumpo exploded through his tormentors, and sprang up the stone staircase, urged on by Bowman, followed by the wild one.

  ‘On, Mumpo! Run!’

  Bowman cleared the way for Mumpo, and saw behind him the wild one who wore the bandits’ dress, climbing the steps backwards, fighting off his own people. He heard him shout, saw him turn his bloody head and shout –

  ‘Go, Bowman! Pull down the tunnel timbers behind you! Go!’

  Bowman didn’t know who this stranger was who fought so hard for them. All he could see was a hideously disfigured face and a ferocious arm wielding a long serrated blade.

  ‘Come with us!’ he cried. ‘Hurry!’

  Now the stranger was up on the ledge, pushing Bowman into the tunnel.

  ‘Go! I’ll hold them! Destroy the tunnel!’

  It was the voice Bowman recognised at last.