Firesong

by William Nicholson

  ‘Well, Bowman,’ she said. ‘Where is the one who was to come for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘How can you be wrong? Aren’t you the chosen one?’

  ‘Are you laughing at me, Sisi?’

  ‘Only a little. Do you mind?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind.’

  ‘You can laugh at me, too. Do you know what I wish?’

  ‘What do you wish, Sisi?’

  ‘I wish the stinging fly would come again.’

  But Bowman didn’t laugh. He took her slender hand in his, and kissed it gently. Her skin was very cold against his lips.

  Kestrel sought out Mumpo, as she had promised. She found him in a far corner, and they put their arms round each other, because time was running out and they were so cold.

  ‘Do your wounds still hurt you very much, Mumpo?’

  ‘Not the wounds,’ he replied. ‘Only thinking that I’m no use any more.’

  ‘But that’s not true!’

  ‘Before, I knew that even if I was slow and stupid, I was a good fighter. So I thought, I’ll always have that for Kess. I’ll fight for her. That’s how I’ll show her I love her. But now, I don’t even have that any more.’

  He spoke without self pity, as if he was saying no more than the simple truth. Kestrel knew she could only respond in the same way, out of respect for him.

  ‘I know you love me,’ she said, ‘and I’m proud that you do. I wish I could feel the same way. But that’s not how I am.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ said Mumpo, holding her close.

  ‘It’s not you, Mumpo, it’s me. I can’t love anybody the way you love me. If I could, I’d love you back. You’re good and you’re strong, and there’s no one I’d like to love more. But I’m wrong inside, Mumpo. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive,’ said Mumpo, happier now than he’d been for a long time. ‘You’re my friend, Kess. You changed my life. The day you became my friend, my life became worth something. Friends love each other, don’t they? If we’re truly going to die here, I don’t mind so much, because I know we love each other a little.’

  ‘More than a little. As much as I can.’

  ‘Well, then. I’m not alone, am I? It’s not so hard to die when you’re not alone.’

  ‘Oh, Mumpo. You’re so very, very dear.’

  She kissed his face, many times. Then, quickly, she slipped out of his arms, and between the flaps of the cover, into the falling snow.

  She walked and walked, plunging her legs into the deep snow, moving fast, weak and cold as she was, needing to get away from everyone, needing to be on her own. When the veil of snow surrounded her on all sides and she could no longer see the encampment, she came to a stop. Unable to help herself, she started to sob aloud. Tears rolled down her cheeks, warm on her chilled skin. She wrapped her arms round her chest and felt her body being wracked with a terrible wrenching sadness.

  It had started when she was with Mumpo. She had felt it so clearly, his simple goodness, his power of love, his feeling that he was worth something: and with it had come a mounting despair about herself. She was neither simple nor good. She had no love in her, apart from for Bowman, and that was as much the life force in her as anything that could be called love. She was worth nothing. She took without giving, let herself be loved without loving, and was not, not at all, content to die. She felt in Mumpo a generosity that accepted death as gladly as he accepted life. There was no generosity in her. There was bitterness and rage at this slow freezing of the blood.

  I won’t die! I refuse to die!

  She felt the furious will in herself, and hated herself for it, because she knew she fought so passionately only for her own survival. Why don’t I care for anyone else? Am I a wild animal? Why can’t I love?

  Sobbing, shaking, weeping, she turned round and round as if trapped in an invisible cage; and all the time the snow was falling. She began to walk, not knowing which direction she took, not having a goal other than to escape her misery. Far off, where the wagon stood, they were calling her name, but she didn’t hear their voices. She walked on, plunging through ever deeper snow, blinded by tears; until at last she could walk no further.

  The snow covered her legs up to her knees. She was so tired, and so sad. She hugged her chest, and let herself fall, sinking downwards into the snow, until her numb knees struck the hard ground beneath. There she stayed, kneeling, the snow now up to her waist, the bitter cold piercing her to the core.

  ‘Kestrel! Kess! Where are you?’

  She heard the voices now, but had no strength to answer. It was as if all the strength had come out of her with those great heaving sobs, with those endless tears.

  ‘Kestrel! Kestrel!’

  She got up, wanting to get away. Staggering, seeing nothing, she lurched onwards, dragging her legs through the deep snow. Then her feet became lighter, and it seemed to her she was entering a cloud. The snow stopped falling. The bitter cold receded. Have I died? she thought. Is this the place you go when you die? Confused and frightened, she walked on into ever deeper cloud, and stopped once more. Here, as she had done before, she sank to her knees – and found the ground was bare of snow.

  She felt giddy. She put out her hands to support herself, just in time, as she toppled forward. Her palms pressed down onto bare rock. A tingle ran up her arms. She shuddered, and her bewildered brain stirred, recognising a strange sensation. She felt the rocky ground with her hands. What am I feeling? The cold had made her senses sluggish. She shook herself again. What am I feeling?

  Hardness. Smoothness.

  Warmth.

  Kestrel! Kestrel, answer me!

  It was Bowman, coming directly towards her through the cloud. A great surge of excitement rose up in Kestrel, and all her body awoke. The ground was warm!

  ‘Here!’ she cried. ‘Here! We’re not going to die after all!’

  8

  Fatness is happiness

  The Manth people, with their wagon and their horses, their cows and their cat, marched out of the snowbound land, down a long slope into the cloud, entirely ignorant as to where they were going, seeking only escape from the cold. The further they went, the warmer became the ground beneath their feet. From it rose a fine mist, that gathered in the cold air and formed the cloud that now engulfed them. Who knew what dangers lay in that mist? The marchers cared nothing. They had come face to face with death. Life was worth the gamble, whatever the risk.

  Here and there they passed clumps of rough vegetation. The starved cows tore eagerly at all they could find; but none of it looked fit for human consumption, until they came upon a region of thorny bushes. Among the bushes were brambles, bearing ripe blackberries. The first marchers to see them through the mist stopped and stared, as if at a mirage. The blackberries hung heavy on the bramble, glistening with droplets of moisture, each one a jewel-like cluster of deep purple beads. Bek Shim put out a hand and picked one. It fell almost gratefully off its stalk. He looked at it, lying so shiny and juicy in his palm. Then quickly, guiltily, he popped it in his mouth and ate it.

  ‘Sweet,’ he announced. ‘Delicious.’

  At once the others started to scrabble after the fruit. The first to pick took all the near berries, and the later marchers emerging from the mist had to push further into the bushes to get their share. Soon enough every one of them had purple lips and tongues. Heedless of the thorns, pricked and bleeding, they stripped the brambles of all their fruit, the taller ones reaching down their spoils to the eager children beneath; until all had eaten their fill.

  ‘What kind of place is this?’ asked Hanno wonderingly.

  They went on, aware now that they were descending steeply now into a valley. The mist grew thinner all the time, though when they looked up they saw that it had formed a dense layer above their heads. The sides of the valley began to appear: at first stony slopes, broken by patches of bramble and coarse grass; then greener plants became more frequent, and swe
eter grasses. The cows and the horses kept stopping to graze, and would no doubt have stopped entirely, had they not seen the ever richer pastures further down the valley.

  Now they came to a stream, that bubbled up from a wayside spring. They stopped to drink, and found that the water was warm, like the ground. It was this warmth more than anything else that filled them with joy. Where the cold had made them heavy, drowsy and sad, the warmth brought a sudden lightness of spirit.

  ‘I never want to be cold again!’ said Kestrel aloud. The misery had dropped away from her. She almost danced as she marched along.

  All the time the plants and the trees on either side became more luxuriant. They were entirely past the region of thorns. Now they saw dense curling ferns, and trees with glossy green spear-shaped leaves, that dripped moisture from their spiny tips. On the ground there grew big purple-petalled flowers that held water, like bowls; and in and out of the flowers darted dragonflies, with bright red and blue bodies. They marched on, following a broad leaf-strewn path that ran beside the stream, and now when they gazed up they saw the canopies of great trees spreading like umbrellas in the mist.

  They came upon a grove of banana palms, and here and there among the clusters of young green fruit they found enough ripe bananas for all. Stopping briefly to hunt out and eat the bananas, Pinto discovered a column of ants marching down the valley floor. They were big, their bodies almost half-an-inch long, and they marched in a column ten ants wide and more, each one carrying a piece of leaf. Pinto followed their march a little way, until she saw a small red frog squatting beside the column, watching the ants march by. The frog sat motionless, then suddenly it flicked out its tongue and pulled an ant into its mouth. Pinto was fascinated. She ran off to find her brother.

  ‘Bo! Come and see what I’ve found!’

  She tugged him by the sleeve, and led him back to the marching ants. She and Bowman squatted in silence and watched the frog take ant after ant. The marching column never stopped. The other ants seemed not to notice that some of their number were disappearing.

  ‘Why don’t they mind?’ asked Pinto.

  ‘Maybe they do, only we can’t see.’

  ‘Do you think they’re marching to their homeland?’

  She gave her brother a mischievous look.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Bowman.

  They both laughed. There was something comical about the way the ants paid no attention at all to the scarlet frog, as if it was just too big to be visible to them, at their low antish level of concerns. At the same time it was scary, and too like their own circumstances for comfort.

  The march continued. The valley floor was level now, the misty cloud high above. Tiny birds flashed by, sudden zigzags of bright colour. The heavy air throbbed with the hum of bees and the buzz of mosquitoes. They pulled off their winter coats and found they were sweating. No sunshine pierced the lid of cloud, but the valley grew warmer all the time.

  Fin Marish said wonderingly,

  ‘Is this the homeland, pa?’

  ‘No, darling. Not yet.’

  Hanno Hath kept the lookouts in place as they marched. He looked everywhere for signs of cultivation, or dwellings. So fertile a valley must have its masters. But all he saw was the lush green growth on either side of the stream, and the occasional swoop and cry of a bright bird.

  Kree-kree! Kree-kree!

  It was Mist the cat who found the first signs that there were, or had been, people in the valley. Mist found the swooping flight of the pretty birds an intolerable provocation, and kept leaping at them as they passed. With each high leap, he gauged his strike more accurately, until at last his snapping jaws caught a bird in mid-flight. Bowman, who had never thought he would do it, saw this with dismay. Mist was already bounding away with the bird in his mouth, its blue and gold wings still twitching.

  ‘Mist!’ called Bowman. ‘Come back!’

  Bowman went after the cat, pushing a path between the drenching leaves of palm trees. He found Mist in a clearing a little way off. The bird lay dead at his feet. Now that it was no longer moving, he seemed to have lost interest.

  ‘You’re not to hunt here,’ scolded Bowman. ‘We don’t know what sort of place this is.’

  ‘I’m not hungry anyway,’ said Mist.

  Bowman picked up the dead bird with gentle fingers, and spread out one shining golden wing.

  ‘If you’re not hungry, why kill?’

  ‘Have you ever killed a bird in flight, boy? If you had, you wouldn’t be asking such a fool question.’

  ‘You do it for pleasure?’

  ‘Pleasure is too small a word. Call it glory.’

  Bowman had stopped listening. Looking round the clearing, he realised that the carpet of dead leaves had been raked back. Some branches of trees showed clean-cut edges. And the ground was ridged.

  He took a few steps to examine the ridges at closer range. Not exactly ridges: more like long humps. There were five of them, one beside another, in a row. Beyond, a second longer row, of eight. Beyond that, a third row, longer still. He counted thirteen mounds.

  No animal would form earth into such regular patterns. This was the work of men.

  Of course! he thought, suddenly seeing what was staring him in the face. Graves! This was a graveyard. He turned and ran back.

  ‘Pa!’ he shouted. ‘Come and see this!’

  They all came, and they all looked. As Branco Such pointed out, some of the graves looked recent. The near row of five were only lightly covered in grasses, and the mounds of earth hadn’t yet had time to settle. All five were the same height. That suggested the bodies had been buried at the same time. What could have killed five people simultaneously? And who had buried them?

  In a more sober and wary mood, the Manth people resumed their journey. Hanno doubled the lookouts ahead and behind, and every one of the marchers kept their eyes on the dense woodland to either side.

  The stream that ran with them was wider now, and its water was hotter. Steam rose up from its surface here and there. The air of the valley was becoming stickier, and the marchers were sweating freely. The bitter cold that had so nearly killed them now seemed a distant memory.

  A sudden crash and scuffle in the undergrowth, followed by a honking grunting noise, and out from a clump of umbrella-leafed plants there lumbered a large and very fat pig. Paying them no attention, it lurched slowly into the stream, trod steadily down it for a while, and then lay on its belly in a sandy-bottomed pool. The stream water flowed around and over the pig’s pink and bristly back, while it held its snout pointed upwards so that it could breathe.

  Soon after this a second even fatter pig waddled out of the vegetation and made its way to the same pool. As the column of marchers and their wagon tramped past, the pigs followed them with their eyes, but did not move. They appeared to be familiar with people; at any rate, they showed no fear.

  ‘Those aren’t wild,’ said Creoth. ‘Those pigs are tame.’

  The umbrella-leafed trees grew closer to the track as they went on, and on the stream-side also big fleshy green plants formed an ever-denser wall, so that soon they only knew the water was flowing onward at their left side by the rising billows of steam. Big wet leaves slapped their faces as they walked, soaking their clothing, cooling the sweat now constantly prickling their skin. Pushing onwards, they heard the gush and crash of falling water ahead, but were now unable to see beyond the reach of their own arms. The track had disappeared, been overgrown by the jungle greenery. Lolo Mimilith and Bek Shim went in front of the horses, slicing at the soft branches with swords to make a way for the team to pull the wagon through. The wheels lurched over tangled roots that had crawled across the pathway, and the high hoops of the wagon’s cover pushed back the overhead branches, to release them with a jerk that showered water over those that marched behind.

  Then through the ceaseless gurgle of falling water came a quite different sound: the sound of a man singing. A fine tenor voice was carolling away, unaccompanied by any
other voices or musical instruments, somewhere not far from their leaf-shrouded path.

  Who is as happy as me-ee-ee? sang the voice.

  Who is as happy as I?

  Happy as happy can be-ee-ee

  Oh, hippy-de-happy-de-hi!

  As the astonished Manth marchers listened to the simple words of this song, which was repeated over and over again, they realised they were coming ever closer to the source of the falling water: until the last curtain of leaves parted before the leaders, to reveal the margins of a steep-sided circular pool, into which the stream fell. They stopped, crowding close up behind each other, and stared.

  The water of the pool seethed and bubbled, the bubbles venting plumes of steam high up into the air. To the watchers’ left, the stream they had followed rushed cascading over the smooth rock lip, to tumble down into the churning water below. All round, but for the far shore, the jungle trees leaned over the pool, trailing long parasite creepers from their branches down into the green scum. Wherever the underwater jets burst up into the air there formed a bright froth of water, but between the jets the pool’s surface stewed and thickened like vegetable soup.

  In one such calmer region lay the owner of the tenor voice. He had stopped singing, and was gazing back at the Manth people with an astonishment that mirrored their own. He lay floating on his back, half-immersed in the water, his vast stomach rising up from the ring of green slime in a perfect dome. His cheeks and chins seemed to run on without interruption into his bosomy chest, in rolls of flesh that spilled down his belly, down cushiony thighs, to terminate in plump, pink edible toes. He was a very, very fat man.

  As they watched, a gush of rising steam beneath his right buttock exploded in a storm of bubbles, and set him wildly rocking from side to side. The sensation pleased him.