Firesong

by William Nicholson

  ‘What is it, Star? Bowman, what have you done?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bowman. ‘I had to do it. Don’t stay too close to her. The thing is in her.’

  ‘Oh, my poor girl! My poor girl!’

  He hadn’t left the cow’s side.

  Pinto now reopened her eyes and started to gulp in air as if she had been suffocated.

  ‘You’re alright now. It’s come out of you now.’

  ‘Oh, Bo! It was horrible! I wanted – I wanted – I wanted to tear my own face off! It was there, just beneath my face! I had to tear – to dig –’

  ‘No more. Hush now. It’s gone now.’

  She was crying, great sobbing tears of relief. Bowman handed her into their mother’s arms.

  Creoth tugged at Bowman.

  ‘You must take it out of my poor Star, Bowman. You must save my Star.’

  ‘No, Creoth. I won’t do that. So long as the thing stays in Star, the rest of us are safe.’

  ‘But she doesn’t understand. See how she rolls her eyes! She knows something’s wrong, but she doesn’t know what.’ The cow moaned again, even more piteously. ‘Take it out of her, and put it in me.’

  ‘No,’ said Bowman. ‘It’s best this way.’

  ‘Why must Star suffer? She never did any harm to any living creature. I’ve led a life of idleness. Let me be driven mad.’

  ‘No,’ said Bowman.

  ‘You’d bring torment on an innocent beast?’

  ‘Yes, Creoth. I do it, not you. I’m the one who must live with that. You are free to love and to grieve.’

  Bowman’s sad wisdom awed Creoth.

  ‘Beard of my ancestors!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re growing up fast.’

  The cow began to swing its head from side to side. Then it let out a new sound, a bellow of rage, and lunged with its horns at Creoth’s body. Creoth jumped back, caught by surprise.

  ‘Star! It’s me!’

  ‘It’s not Star any more,’ said Bowman. ‘Let her go.’

  The cow veered about and cantered away, snorting and bellowing, to come to a stop a hundred paces distant.

  ‘I can’t just leave her,’ said Creoth.

  ‘No,’ said Bowman. ‘We can’t leave her.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  The cowman who had once been an emperor turned his bearded face to meet Bowman’s steady gaze.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Anything but that.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Oh, Bowman! How you’ve changed.’

  ‘I’ve seen what it does to my sister, and my father, and Sisi. I won’t let it follow us any further.’

  Creoth turned and looked towards the tormented cow, and then back to Bowman.

  ‘How is it to be done?’

  Bowman laid one hand on his short sword.

  ‘And if we do it, what then?’

  ‘Then the thing is trapped in the cow’s body, and we bury the body, and we hope it is never released again.’

  The cow bent her forelegs and slumped to the ground. There she lay, her hide shivering, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Will her suffering ever end?’

  ‘No,’ said Bowman. ‘The thing will grow inside her until she’s driven mad, and will do anything to be free of it. You saw the man we buried by the roadside.’

  ‘Yes. I saw him.’

  Creoth bowed his head, and did not speak for a few moments. When he looked up again, his expression had changed. He had aged.

  ‘She knows me,’ he said. ‘I won’t leave her now to the mercy of strangers.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me your sword.’

  ‘Are you sure you can do this?’

  ‘If she’ll let me,’ he replied.

  Bowman gave him his sword. Creoth went alone to where the cow lay, and sat down beside her. The cow let out a long moan. Creoth laid an arm over the animal’s neck.

  ‘The long prison of the years unlocks its iron door,’ he said softly. ‘Go free now, into the beautiful land.’

  His quiet voice seemed to calm the cow. She turned her sorrowful eyes to meet his.

  ‘Forgive us who suffer in this clouded world.’

  He raised the sword in his right hand, and turned the point of the blade downwards, above the back of the cow’s head, where the skull joins the neck.

  ‘Guide us and wait for us, as we wait for you.’

  The cow uttered a quiet murmuring sound, as if in answer.

  ‘We will meet again. We will, my Star. We will meet again.’

  He struck quickly and hard, knowing his kindness depended on the power of the blow. The sword drove true. The cow’s head dropped to the hard ground. For a moment, before the blood flowed, he stroked the dead face. Then he rose and walked back to Bowman, and gave him back his sword.

  Bowman said, ‘That was well done.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me!’ Creoth’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Not one word!’

  He turned to his cows, of which only three now remained, and sought comfort among their slow movements.

  The days were colder now, and shorter. Each morning there was a hard frost, and the sun rose dazzling bright into an ice-clear sky. The wagon-wheels locked to the axles, and had to be clubbed loose with blows from a sledge hammer. Meals were carefully rationed, so that the meat and the sourgum would last many days. The urgent shortage now was of firewood. One modest fire was no longer enough. A big fire must be built, morning and evening, to thaw out people and animals, and boil water, and soften the frost-stiffened leather harness. Already the bare boards of the wagon bed could be seen through the wood stack. Without fire, as the winter hardened around them, the Manth people knew they had no hope of reaching the distant mountains.

  All that day and into dusk the Manth people trudged on, and clouds formed in the sky to the north. That night snow fell while they slept, and they woke to a white world. Snow had drifted through the gaps in the wind-covers beneath which they lay, and formed a frozen crust on their hair and clothing. The firewood too was deep under snow, and had to be knocked log against log before it would burn. While they waited for the fire to catch they jumped up and down, banging their arms by their sides, to send the chilled blood flowing through their veins.

  The ice in the water barrels had to be broken with hammers, and stirred with sticks to stop it freezing over again. The cows no longer gave milk. Their feed was too meagre, and the cold too hard. Such energy as was left in their bony frames was needed to keep them alive.

  Bek Shim came to Hanno Hath to ask how much firewood he was to break out for the fire. It was not an easy question to answer.

  ‘As little as possible,’ said Hanno. But after a moment’s thought he changed his mind. A small fire that failed to warm them was a waste of fuel.

  ‘The same as yesterday,’ he said.

  Bek Shim shook his head.

  ‘That will leave enough for one more day,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Hanno. ‘We must hope for kinder weather.’

  The sun stayed hidden by clouds all that day, but no more snow fell as the marchers plodded on across the endless plain. In front, the smooth untouched whiteness stretched as far as the eye could see. Behind, the deep ruts of the wagon wheels, and the beaten snow where horses and cows and people had passed. The pace of the march was slowing down. The horses found it heavy going, hauling the wagon through the snow; and the people, their boots sinking to the ankles with each step, were soon wearied.

  Late that afternoon, unable to go further, they drew the wagon to a stop and tethered the horses and the cows beside it. Then they pulled the weather covers outwards from the high hoops, spreading them over the beasts like the skirts of a dress, and laced tight all the slits. The Manth people then crowded in with the beasts: men, women and children together, to share warmth as they slept.

  Creoth slept between two of his cows. They seemed to understand that such closeness was necessary; or perhaps they were just too weak to protest; but
they settled down quietly among the unfamiliar crowd.

  ‘Squeeze close to each other,’ said Hanno. ‘That way we’ll hold our heat.’

  A pale silver light filtered between the cracks, reflected from the surrounding snow into the shadowy shelter. Pinto, still weak from her illness, crept close to her mother. Kestrel lay down on her other side, and timidly laid one arm over her. When Pinto didn’t object, she huddled up close. Bowman lay with his arms round his father, and behind him, Mumpo and Mrs Chirish pressed against him. The Mimilith family, all five of them, had drawn Scooch into their heap, and half across Scooch lay Tanner Amos and his sister Sarel. Sarel Amos held Ashar in her arms. The two had become close since the terrors of their captivity. The big Shim boys slept with Miller Marish and his two little girls. And so it went on, every one of them twined up with others, burrowing for warmth as the day ended outside, and the hard winter night set in.

  The last to join the great huddle was Mist the cat. The moon was already in the sky when he found his way under the canopy and between the wheels. He stalked delicately over the sleeping people to where Bowman lay. There in the crook of Bowman’s legs he found a snug hole in which to curl up. He scratched at Bowman’s clothing to arrange it in more comfortable folds, and settled himself too down to sleep.

  Some time in the night snow began to fall once again, more heavily and more steadily than before. When the Manth people woke, early and chilled, they saw the covers sagging low above them, and knew they were heavy with snow. Mo Mimilith, who was the first to venture out, found that the snow was lying two feet up the sloping canopy, and he had to beat a path through the drifts. Outside it was snowing still, the visible world shrunk to a curtain of swirling white flakes.

  Rollo Shim was next out, limping on his hurt leg; then Bowman, and Mumpo. Even a bare few paces away, the wagon with its tented covering and all the people and beasts within disappeared, lost in the engulfing whiteness. The young men trudged off through the snow, needing to empty their bladders, but they dared not go far. Even where the snow had not drifted, it lay knee-deep on the ground.

  ‘The wagon’ll never move in this,’ said Rollo Shim.

  Bowman nodded, brushing off the snow that was settling on his head.

  ‘We’ll have to wait,’ he said.

  They built their last fire beside the wagon shelter, and with difficulty managed to get it to light even as the snow went on falling. The people were quiet, subdued by the gravity of their plight. Everyone understood that there was no point in struggling on in such conditions. They must wait for the skies to clear, and the snow on the ground to freeze, so that it would bear the weight of the wagon. No one asked how long they would have to wait, or what they were to do when the fuel ran out. Their eyes, however, turned again and again towards Hanno and Ira Hath, as if to say, You led us here. You must save us.

  When the fire was hot they boiled a pot of water and melted the last of the sourgum in it. This made a sweet tangy drink that warmed their stomachs. As they drank, their spirits revived; and with new strength came a new willingness to face their predicament.

  ‘So tell us, Hanno,’ said Miko Mimilith. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘You know all that I know,’ said Hanno.

  ‘Well then, what I know is that we can’t stay here, or we’ll freeze and starve. And we can’t go on, because the snow’s too deep. So I say it’s bad.’

  ‘Yes, Miko. It’s bad.’

  It was necessary to feed the fire with logs all the time, to keep the core of heat strong enough to melt the falling snow. Each time Bek Shim went to the wagon bed and returned with another log, the people round the fire asked him,

  ‘How much more, Bek?’

  ‘Not so much,’ he said.

  Still the snow fell. Almost the worst of it for the Manth people was not being on the move, not going anywhere, not being able to see more than a few yards in any one direction. Fearful and helpless, their spirits sank as the day wore on. Tempers began to fray. There were mutterings in corners, and some were heard to say it was all the fault of the Haths.

  Then Bek Shim brought the very last log from the wagon, and put it on the fire, and straightening himself up, said to those near enough to hear.

  ‘That’s all.’

  The word rippled through the people.

  ‘No more firewood! No more firewood!’

  As if hypnotised, they stared at the glowing fire, which already, it seemed to their frightened eyes, was dwindling and dying before them.

  ‘Hanno Hath,’ said a grave old voice. ‘What is to become of us?’

  It was Seldom Erth. He was a man who had always prided himself on seeing clearly, and facing hard facts. He had no wish to blame Hanno. What use was blame now?

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hanno.

  ‘I make no complaint,’ said the old man. ‘But if I’m to die, I want to know, so that I can prepare my mind.’

  ‘It may come to that,’ said Hanno. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You hope not?’ This was Cheer Warmish, speaking with bitterness. ‘I hoped my husband wouldn’t die, but he’s dead. What use is your hope to me? Don’t tell me any more of your dreams. We all know it’s over for us, so why pretend otherwise?’

  Hanno looked from Cheer Warmish to all the other pale faces watching him.

  ‘If I’ve failed you,’ he said quietly, ‘I ask for your forgiveness. I have believed that one day we Manth people, few as we are, will reach our homeland, and our wanderings will be over. I have believed that so long as we stay true to our goal, whatever the hardship, we will live to see that day. I still believe it, even now, as I watch the dying of our last fire. I will believe it after the ashes lie cold under the snow. I will believe it until the moment I die. And after I’m dead, my children will believe it.’

  He fell silent. For a few moments, no one spoke. Ira Hath squeezed his hand. Bowman was filled with a fierce stinging pride that made him want to cry, which he refused to do. He felt the same feeling in Kestrel, and reached out to her with his mind.

  He’s the strongest of us all.

  I love him so much, responded Kestrel. So much.

  Then Scooch stood up. It was comical to see how this shy little man felt he must stand to command their attention. He had never made a speech before, and mumbled rather, but they could all hear him well enough.

  ‘I just want to say,’ he began, ‘I just want to tell Mr Hath, it’s not so much a case of forgiving, it’s more like a case of thanking. Speaking for myself, that is. I well remember back in Aramanth how I was a floor sweeper in the brickworks, and had been all my grown life, and thought it was all I was good for. It was Mr Hath who showed me how to believe I could do more. That’s how I came to biscuits, and from biscuits to pastries, and from pastries to respect. I have Mr Hath to thank for that. I was proud to follow him on this march to our homeland. And if our fate is now to die here in the snow, well, I’m proud to die with him, too.’

  He gave a little bow in Hanno’s direction, and abruptly sat down. These two speeches, by Hanno and Scooch, had a paradoxical effect. Because both said in plain words that they might die, the terror of dying began to fade. Every one of them had been thinking it. Now they all thought it together, and took strength from each other.

  Young Ashar Warmish whispered to her mother,

  ‘If we die we’ll see papa again, won’t we? So we don’t have to mind so much.’

  Jet Marish, the smallest of the children, not really understanding, asked her father,

  ‘What happens when you die? What does it feel like?’

  ‘Like going to sleep,’ Miller Marish told her.

  It was Pinto who thought to put the direct question to her mother. After all, Ira Hath was a prophetess.

  ‘Will we all die, ma?’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be otherwise,’ said Ira slowly. ‘And yet, even here in this snowstorm, I feel the warmth of the homeland on my face. Perhaps something will happen.’

  This wasn’t exactly
a prophecy, but it was cheering nonetheless. Old Seldom Erth pulled out some of the dwindling store of hay for his horses. Creoth saw to the watering of his cows. The cat, annoyed by the falling snow, left the group round the fire and retreated to the shelter of the wagon.

  As the heat of the fire faded, the people followed the cat under cover, and sought the warmth of each other’s bodies, as they had done in the night. Here in the grey half-light they felt the surrounding cold press in on them, and steal the heat from their fingers and toes. They began to accept now that it was really going to happen, that they were living through their last few hours. The cold didn’t hurt them, it made them sleepy. They knew that once they surrendered to the creeping drowsiness, they would not wake again.

  In this shadowy half-light they began to tell each other things they had never said before; things that had long weighed on their minds. They were like travellers who come to a wide river, and know that they must enter the water, and one by one they lay down their belongings, and then strip off their clothes, so that they can swim unburdened to the other side.

  Tanner Amos knelt before Hanno and Ira Hath, and kissed their hands, and said,

  ‘Forgive me for hating you after my Pia died. I was wrong. But I was so unhappy.’

  Sisi said to Lunki,

  ‘I’ve never thanked you, Lunki, for all the years you’ve cared for me. I couldn’t live without you.’

  ‘Oh, my pet! As if I’d ever let you! Caring for you is as natural to me as breathing. I can’t stop now.’

  Pinto crept up close to Kestrel and whispered to her,

  ‘I’m sorry I said those terrible things. I don’t want to kill you at all. I’m just a hateful rat-child, like Mumpo says.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Kestrel, kissing her. ‘You’re my own sister and you can kill me as much as you want and I’ll still love you.’

  ‘Can I ask you to do something for me, Kess? For me. Not for anyone else.’

  ‘Yes. Anything.’

  ‘Be kind to Mumpo.’

  Kestrel bit her lip to stop the tears rising to her eyes.

  ‘I’ll be as kind as I can,’ she said.

  Bowman was watching Sisi, who was sitting alone now, her back very straight, her eyes gazing far away. He wanted to speak to her, but was not sure what he wanted to say. Then she turned and met his eyes, and inclined her head, in the manner of a princess who says, You may approach me. So he went to her.