Firesong

by William Nicholson

  ‘I’ll soon be good enough,’ said Mumpo with a shrug. ‘And good enough is good enough for me.’

  The main body of the Manth people were sitting in a big circle near the Stella Marie, deep in discussion. The talking had stopped when Hanno and the others came out of the trees; and although conversation had started up again, it was not as animated as it had been, and many of them glanced across at Hanno with nervous guilty expressions. Hanno saw this, but decided to make no comment.

  He joined them, speaking as if nothing had changed.

  ‘Everything we need for our journey is close at hand,’ he said. ‘We cut these timbers about ten minutes walk that way. There’s a grove of straight-trunked trees that will split beautifully. We need to make snow-runners for the wagon, and we need to build a second sled, too, for extra provisions. Tanner will take charge of the splitting and trimming. The rest of us must gather food. There’s wild maize ripening on the far side of one of the glades.’

  ‘Wait a moment, Hanno,’ said Branco Such. ‘Aren’t you making rather a lot of assumptions here? Before we start on building snow-sleds, maybe we should ask ourselves a question. Do we want to go?’

  ‘Of course we want to go,’ said Hanno. ‘We can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because this isn’t the homeland.’

  ‘Ah. But what or where is the homeland?’

  All eyes turned to Ira Hath. She replied in the words that were now familiar to all.

  ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Branco Such, ‘can you tell us anything about the conditions there? The fertility of the land? The comfort of the climate? The hardness of the winters?’

  ‘I can tell you nothing,’ said Ira.

  ‘I have the greatest respect for you, ma’am. And Hanno, you know I want to see our people settled in our homeland as keenly as you do. But please, I beg you to consider. If we leave this valley, we face the bitter hard winter that almost killed us. We must drag ourselves and our belongings through deep snow for an unknown distance, to an unknown destination. We have no certainty of reaching it alive. Whereas here we have a fertile valley, warmed and watered, virtually uninhabited, provided with everything we could ever want. Why go further? What more could any other place offer us? Are we so greedy that this richness and beauty can’t satisfy us?’

  Branco’s words were listened to in silence by the Manth people, but from the nodding heads Hanno could see that many agreed with him. Kestrel came to his side and took his hand. The nodding heads angered her.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘We have to go on. This isn’t our homeland.’

  ‘Our homeland is the place where we make our home,’ said Branco Such. ‘Why not here?’

  ‘Because this isn’t it.’

  He shrugged and looked at her in a pitying sort of a way, that made Kestrel want to smack his face. Hanno too knew that he had no real answer beyond his own very strong conviction.

  ‘This isn’t it, Branco. I know it isn’t. I can only ask you to trust me.’

  ‘I think each one of us must make that decision for ourselves,’ said Branco.

  Heads nodded in agreement once more. Branco began to feel that he should have taken on this role earlier. After all, in the old days, in Aramanth, he had been a magistrate, whereas Hanno had only been a librarian. Hanno was a good man, but he lacked the authority of a true leader.

  ‘I think we should take a vote.’

  Hanno looked down.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I and my family will leave in the morning.’

  He walked away, with Kestrel at his side. Everyone sensed that he was hurt, and because they loved and respected him, they were dismayed.

  ‘You know, Branco,’ said Miko Mimilith, ‘its all very well what you say, but we owe everything to Hanno.’

  ‘If the Haths say this isn’t the homeland,’ said Scooch, ‘then I believe them.’

  ‘No sky,’ said old Seldom Erth. ‘Can’t have a homeland without a sky.’

  Hanno Hath, greatly troubled, said to Kestrel,

  ‘What else can I say?’

  ‘Tell them what ma says,’ said Kestrel. ‘There’s something wrong about this place.’

  ‘The trouble is, she doesn’t know what.’

  It was Miller Marish who came up with a compromise solution.

  ‘Let’s wait till spring!’ he said. ‘Then in the spring we decide again, whether to stay, or move on with Hanno.’

  This pleased everybody. It seemed like plain sense, and made it possible for them all to stay together. But when they suggested it to Hanno, he would have none of it.

  ‘We leave in the morning,’ he said. ‘We have very little time left. You’ve heard my wife. The wind is rising.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The wind.’

  They looked at each other uncomfortably. They had never really understood what this rising wind was supposed to do.

  ‘No wind down here,’ pointed out Silman Pillish.

  ‘Principal Pillish,’ said Branco, using his old title, glad of the support, ‘you have a wise head on your shoulders. Do you think we should wait here at least until the snow melts, and the road becomes passable again?’

  ‘Of all the available options,’ replied Pillish, ‘it would appear to be the option that keeps open the greatest number of . . . of options.’

  He realised this didn’t sound as wise as he had hoped, so he added slowly and with emphasis, to show he really meant it,

  ‘That is my view. I stand by it.’

  ‘In the light of that view,’ said Branco, ‘I suggest that we hold a vote on whether we should stay till spring. All in favour of a vote, raise your hands.’

  The people looked at him uncertainly. Branco understood that they hesitated to take so big a step.

  ‘All we need to decide now is whether or not to vote. Those who are happy to let others decide their future for them, need not take part. All in favour of deciding your own future, raise your hands.’

  At that, they all raised their hands except the Haths, and those who were most closely associated with them: Mumpo, Scooch, and Creoth. Seldom Erth did not raise his hand; nor did Sisi and Lunki, who felt it was not right for them to vote on the location of the Manth homeland, not being Manth themselves.

  Captain Canobius saw all the raised hands, and came stumping over to be told what was going on. When he understood the debate, he chuckled and said,

  ‘You can vote all you like. You’re on the island now.’

  Branco Such fancied he had an ally in the fat captain.

  ‘Captain, you believe we would find it difficult to leave this – er – place, I think?’

  ‘You may say difficult,’ said the captain. ‘You may say impossible, if you like.’

  ‘Because of the hard winter outside.’

  ‘Winter? What do I know about winter? No, no, the hard part is the wanting to go. But I must get back to my pots. I’m preparing you such a feast!’

  He left them once more.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Creoth.

  ‘That’s not true!’ Mrs Chirish was grieved that her good friend Creoth should speak so harshly. ‘He’s eccentric, that’s all. It comes from living so long among pigs, who don’t answer him back.’

  Bowman heard this, and it gave him an idea. He slipped quietly away.

  ‘I think I may claim that a majority have expressed a wish to vote,’ said Branco Such. ‘Before we take the vote, does anyone have anything to say?’

  Cheer Warmish stepped forward, her mouth pursed in bitter lines.

  ‘We must think of the children. I’ve lost my husband. I nearly lost my daughter. Now I have her back, I’ll not go into the snow to watch her die.’

  ‘We must all think of the children,’ said Lea Mimilith, reaching out to her three. Red Mimilith turned away crossly. She was fourteen years old, and felt she was no longer a child.

  Miller Marish added his agreement.

>   ‘My girls are the youngest of all the children,’ he said. ‘Whatever homeland we seek, it’s for them more than for us. They will pass the rest of their lives there. We must keep the children safe. What sort of homeland would it be without children?’

  ‘Beard of my ancestors!’ boomed Creoth. ‘The only one among you with any sense is the old man!’ He pointed to Seldom Erth. ‘No sky, he says. Can’t have a homeland without a sky. I call that a plain fact! You want to live the rest of your lives, and never see the dawn again? Not me! I’m sitting here sweating, and it’s not yet mid-morning. I’ll not finish my days in a kettle! I’d rather freeze to death on the open plains, beneath an open sky!’

  ‘Not the rest of our lives,’ said Miller Marish. ‘Only till spring.’

  ‘And then we vote again,’ said Branco Such.

  ‘And then what?’ This was the cool clear voice of Sisi. She had tried to keep out of the debate. She tried now to speak in an unassuming way. But it was no good, her feelings were strong and her voice was commanding. ‘Don’t you understand? The Hath family will leave in the morning. If you stay here, then when the spring comes, where will you go?’

  This was a new aspect to the matter. Young Ashar Warmish, who had learned to respect Sisi during their captivity, asked her timidly,

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘What I do is of no importance. I’m not Manth. I shouldn’t even speak in your debate.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Silman Pillish. ‘Our debate is about our survival. It’s about how we live, and how we die. You too must make that choice.’

  ‘For me there’s no choice,’ said Sisi. ‘I was raised as a princess in another place where I never had to work. A paradise, provided with everything I could ever want. To me, it was a prison. A kind fate has released me from that prison. I will not go back.’

  ‘Prison?’ exclaimed Cheer Warmish. ‘This valley isn’t a prison! We can leave any time we want.’

  Sisi said no more. She had caught Kestrel watching her, and had seen the admiration in her eyes. She looked for Bowman, but he was gone. Sensing her own flicker of disappointment, she told herself, I didn’t speak to please Bowman. I spoke to say what I know to be true. Nevertheless, she wished he had been there to hear.

  Bowman was a little way up the valley, by the side of the smaller green pool, talking to the pigs. There were two of them wallowing in the warm slime, their snouts poking up out of the water, their little eyes fixed on Bowman as he squatted on a pool-side rock. It took him some time to make a connection with the pigs. They were cleverer than the cows he had talked to before, but this made it harder rather than easier. No man had understood the pigs before, and so they refused to believe he understood them now.

  ‘Please,’ he said to them. ‘I need your help.’

  Talking to himself, said the big pig. Don’t listen.

  I’m not listening, replied the smaller pig. You’re the one who’s listening. Don’t listen yourself.

  Both pigs fell silent, trying hard not to listen.

  He’s stopped talking.

  Then we can start listening again.

  A short silence.

  ‘I can hear you,’ said Bowman.

  The pigs looked at each other.

  He said he can hear us.

  But we’re not saying anything.

  We are now.

  We weren’t when he spoke.

  Perhaps he meant we can hear him.

  I can’t hear him. I’m not listening to him.

  Nor am I.

  There followed another short silence.

  What if he’s listening to us?

  Listening to us not saying anything?

  Listening to us not listening.

  ‘I can hear your thoughts,’ said Bowman.

  He says he can hear our thoughts.

  We don’t have any thoughts.

  I suppose that could be called a thought.

  Do you think he heard it?

  If he did, he’ll have heard nothing.

  If he heard nothing, he’ll say nothing.

  If he says nothing, it means he’s heard our thoughts.

  They swung their snouts round to gaze at Bowman.

  ‘You’re talking about not having any thoughts,’ said Bowman.

  He didn’t hear us! He can’t hear a thing! If he’d really heard us, he’d not have heard us.

  There followed a longish pause. Then one pig said to the other,

  I think we’ve gone wrong somewhere.

  Bowman took this opportunity to move the dialogue forward.

  ‘I want your advice,’ he said.

  He says he wants our advice.

  We don’t have any advice.

  So let’s not give it him.

  ‘Why does Canobius think he lives on an island?’

  The pigs pondered this question. They found it interesting, and forgot that they were supposed not to be listening.

  An island is a place you can’t leave. The captain can’t leave this place. Therefore it’s an island.

  The big pig grunted with satisfaction. The point was neatly made.

  ‘It’s not really an island. He could leave it if he wanted to.’

  Then he doesn’t want to.

  ‘Why not?’

  Because it’s an island.

  ‘You mean,’ said Bowman, struggling to make some sense of this, ‘he wants it to be an island?’

  Of course.

  ‘Why?’

  So he can’t leave.

  Bowman was silenced. The smaller pig turned to the larger pig with a reproachful look.

  You’re talking to him.

  It doesn’t matter. He’s very stupid. He doesn’t understand a word I say.

  Bowman decided to try for some more practical information.

  ‘There are some graves near here,’ he said. ‘Do you know who lies buried there?’

  Dead people.

  ‘How did they die?’

  From not wanting to live.

  ‘Why didn’t they want to live?’

  Too much happiness.

  ‘They died of happiness?’

  Before he could learn more, there came a crashing of running feet, and Kestrel appeared.

  ‘Bo! You must come back! They’re having a vote, and pa’s so angry about it he won’t speak.’

  Bowman jumped up at once and went with Kestrel back to the big glade by the hot spring. The two pigs watched him go with some relief.

  I’m glad he’s gone. Talking to stupid people is such hard work. Let’s not do it again.

  Bowman and Kestrel found that the vote had just taken place, and the majority had voted not to continue the journey. The marchers were already dividing into two groups. The larger number by far were clustering round the Stella Marie, where Canobius was busily preparing his feast, uninterested in the great schism. The smaller group, the Hath group, stayed by the wagon. Here were Hanno and Ira, Pinto and Mumpo, Creoth and Scooch, and old Seldom Erth.

  Hanno looked up at Bowman as he joined them. His face was drawn with weariness and disappointment.

  ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’

  ‘The graves,’ said Bowman. ‘Ask Canobius about the graves.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll have some harmless explanation,’ said Hanno.

  Bowman saw Mist, still curled up on the blanket pile, dead to the world.

  ‘What! Is that idle cat still sleeping?’

  Sisi and Lunki appeared, laden with cobs of ripe corn for the wagon. They had removed themselves during the vote.

  ‘Are you coming with us?’ asked Hanno.

  ‘We’ll join you if we may,’ said Sisi.

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Kestrel quickly. Sisi flashed her a grateful smile, and putting the palms of her hands together, interlocked her fingers. Kestrel made the same sign in return.

  ‘We’ll get more corn,’ said Sisi. She and Lunki departed again.

  ‘What was that, Kess?’ said Bowman.

  ‘Our
secret friends sign.’

  ‘They set us a good example,’ said Hanno. ‘There’s work to do.’

  While the men of their little group set about trimming split timbers into snow runners, and the women packed the wagon, Bowman crossed the glade to talk to Captain Canobius. The information he had obtained from the pigs had been virtually meaningless, but he was sure that the graves held a secret that would present this paradise in some new and darker light.

  The fat man was filling his large clay pots with vegetables. The main ingredient was chopped palm hearts. To the palm hearts he had added cane juice, lime leaves, ginger root, and dried sweet potato. He moved from pot to pot, stirring, tasting, adding a little more ginger here, a sprinkle of ground peppercorns there, to satisfy his palate. As he worked he sang softly to himself.

  Who is as happy as me-ee-ee?

  Who is as happy as I?

  Happy as happy can be-ee-ee

  Hippy-de-happy-de-hi!

  He greeted Bowman with a wooden spoon dipped in the mixture.

  ‘Taste that.’

  Bowman licked the spoon.

  ‘It’s delicious.’

  ‘Of course it is. And not even stewed yet. Once the pots have stood in the hot water overnight, the different tastes will soak into each other, making new tastes. But still the original tastes will remain, alongside the new combinations. Even now, you see how the nutty tang of the palm heart mellows with the ginger alongside it? I think of it as voices in song. Catch the right notes, and they make a chord, a new note altogether.’

  The fat man seemed so truly happy in his work that Bowman began to wonder if there was no dark secret after all. But he pressed on.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a question, Captain. About the graves.’

  ‘Ah! My poor companions!’

  ‘You know the people who lie buried there?’

  ‘No one lies buried there, my friend. Though my companions are dead, I’ve no doubt. You touch on painful memories.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Would you rather not talk about it?’

  ‘No, no. It’s good to remember. Why else did I build the graveyard? It’s my memorial to them. I go there from time to time, and imagine they lie there, at rest. I say a few words. It eases the loneliness.’

  This sounded convincing enough, though it was an unusual idea.