‘You, young man! Yes, you!’
The speaker pointed directly at Bowman.
‘Are you lost? Are you bewildered? Do you find you can’t make sense of half the things people say to you?’
Bowman paused, wondering for a fleeting moment if this could be a coded message addressed to him.
‘Rejoice!’ cried the preacher, encouraged. ‘The day of the stupid people is coming! The stupid will inherit the earth!’
Bowman moved on, and so fell into the ambit of another speaker, who also attempted to engage his attention.
‘Love! Love! The joys of love!’ boomed this second preacher, pointing directly at Bowman. ‘You who walk alone! I know you, sir! You are a man in want of a woman! In that tent are women in want of men! You need never be alone again! The end times are coming, sell all you have, and fill your final days with the joys of love!’
Bowman looked round at the jostling foolish crowds, and decided that the one who was coming for him would not wait for him here. So he left the market place and made for the riverside beyond the village, and walked along it in quietness and solitude. The river was broad and fast-moving, its dark waters eddying round mooring posts, setting tethered boats banging against each other. A moon had risen in the sky, and by its light he could see the line of mountain peaks, high above. It would be a hard climb, but not too long a climb, he calculated; only, he would not be taking part. All this crying about the last days had made him all the surer that soon now he would join the Singer people, and complete his own journey.
Let them live in the stillness and know the flame. They will lose all and give all.
He turned back to retrace his steps. There, approaching him along the river path, between him and the flickering fires of the village, he saw a figure in a hooded robe. Bowman’s heart suddenly began to beat fast.
He directed his steps so they would meet. He could see nothing of the stranger’s face, because the light of the fires and the light of the moon were alike shining from behind. He stopped when they were close, and the stranger came to him.
‘Eighty crowns!’ shrieked a shrill woman’s voice he had heard before. ‘Robbery! I won’t stand for it!’
Bowman was too surprised to respond. The woman shook back her hood to reveal her furious face.
‘No use looking round! There’s no one here but you and me, and I’m here for my money. I knew my man was a fool, but I never knew he was that big a fool.’
By now, Bowman had grasped that this was the wife of the wagon dealer. She was holding out one hand in a menacing way.
‘Take your pox-stained wagon, and give me back my eighty crowns, or I’ll set the dogs on you. Eighty crowns! Am I your mother?’
‘I don’t have the money,’ said Bowman. ‘And it was a fair price.’
He set off back across the village towards the place where the Manth people were camped. He felt angry and cheated. He had come looking for his destiny, not for some petty quarrel over money. The woman followed him, shrieking.
‘Thief! Give me my money back!’
‘Go home, woman! You’ll make your profit.’
‘We’ll see who makes a profit!’
She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Distracted by her whistle, Bowman almost bumped into a little round-faced person, coming the other way.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Bowman, stepping to one side.
Suddenly two very large dogs came hurtling across the snow, heading straight for him.
‘Get him, Slasher! Bite him, Ripper!’ screamed the woman. ‘Thief! Thief!’
Bowman came to a dead stop, concentrated all the powers of his mind, and prepared to withstand the dogs’ attack. Their fangs were showing as they raced towards him, and they were snarling low vicious snarls. But all at once, they turned aside. They trotted over to the little round person, and lay on their backs, panting, and he tickled their tummies.
The trader’s wife was apoplectic.
‘Slasher! Ripper!’
The dogs wriggled on the ground, their jaws lolling open in happy grins. Bowman looked with rather more attention at the unlikely figure patting the dogs.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who would you like me to be?’ he replied.
The trader’s wife came stamping over to her dogs and kicked and beat them to their feet.
‘Up, Slasher! Up, Ripper!’ She shrieked at the round person. ‘What have you done to them? You – you – thing!’
In answer, he looked up and met her eyes. Somehow, without anything seeming to change, he became older. In a deep gentle voice, he said,
‘Lady, what do you want with me?’
‘Oh – oh,’ croaked the trader’s wife, trembling and blushing.
‘Be calm. Be still. Be content.’
He put out one hand and touched her cheek. Then he turned back to Bowman and said in his more usual light high voice, ‘Shall we go?’
The trader’s wife had fallen completely silent, her eyes fixed on the strange figure who had touched her cheek. Bowman for his part realised now that this small, soft creature must be the messenger for whom he had been waiting.
‘The Singer people sent you to find me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are we to go tonight?’
‘We’re to go now. We have very little time.’
‘May I say goodbye to my people?’
‘Of course. Then we must go.’ He added softly to himself, ‘Bounce on, Jumper.’
Bowman and Jumper walked back to the Manth camp in silence. Bowman’s mind was racing with a confusion of thoughts. The moment had come, but without grandeur or certainty. This messenger who hopped along beside him had no aura of power, no dignity. Even Dogface the one-eyed hermit had inspired more respect. This little creature’s voice slithered, so that one moment he sounded like a boy, the next like a girl.
As they reached the encampment, Bowman said to Jumper,
‘Wait here. I’ll be with you soon.’
The truth was, he was ashamed of Jumper. Now at this heart-wrenching moment, when he was to bid farewell to all who loved him, he did not want a small round-faced man-woman making his departure look ludicrous.
Jumper stopped obediently, and waited in the shadows. Bowman went on to the group beneath the dark trees, where his mother was sitting. His father was here, and both his sisters.
He knelt by his mother’s side. She looked up, and saw his intention clearly in his face.
‘So it has come then, my Bo.’
‘It’s come,’ he said.
‘They wait for you?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded, unsurprised. Pinto started to cry.
‘Don’t leave us, Bo. Let them take someone else.’
Bowman kissed her and whispered to her,
‘You have to look after ma and pa. You have to be strong. Don’t cry.’
So Pinto tried her best to stop crying. She hugged him very tight.
‘You’ll come back to us again, won’t you? I’ll see you again?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘The thing I have to do may take a long time.’
‘You’ve always been there, Bo. You have to always be there.’
‘Love Pinpin.’
‘Love Bo.’
They hugged the way they used to when she was little, and for once she didn’t mind that he used her baby name. Then he let her go, and she went into Hanno’s waiting arms.
Bowman knelt before his father and kissed his cheek.
‘You understand, pa.’
Hanno stroked Pinto and looked at Bowman with a sad smile.
‘Yes. I understand.’
Bowman saw Kestrel watching him, her eyes burning. He would say goodbye to her last of all.
He kissed his mother, feeling how thin she had become.
‘I may never –’
‘Yes, yes,’ she cut in, impatient. ‘We do what we have to do. Time for you to go, so go.’
It wa
s a flash of the old Ira Hath, who had shouted at laughing crowds, ‘O unhappy people!’ He hugged her, grateful for her brisk spirit.
‘Goodbye, ma.’
She smiled for him again, and he knew she was proud of him. He rose, and sought out Mumpo. An awkward silence was settling over the marchers, as they realised a solemn moment of parting was upon them.
‘Dear friend. We’ve been through hard times together.’
‘Let me come with you, Bo. I’m much stronger now.’
‘That’s why you must stay. Be a son to my parents, a brother to my sisters. Look after them for me.’
‘For as long as I live.’
They embraced, and Bowman turned at last, with a heavy heart, to find Kestrel. This was one farewell he did not know how to make. She had taken herself off to the river’s edge.
‘Kess –’
‘No! Don’t say it!’ She turned and flung the words at him, in a fury of passionate feeling. ‘I don’t want your goodbyes! I won’t listen!’
‘But Kess –’
‘Where is this Singer who’s come for you? Take me to him!’
‘But Kess –’
‘If you go, I go too!’
‘You don’t understand. Where I’m going – what I have to do – Kess, there’s no coming back.’
‘Where is he?’
Her sharp eyes now discerned Jumper, standing waiting quietly where Bowman had left him. She ran to him. Bowman followed.
‘Is it you?’ Kestrel demanded of Jumper, looking him up and down. ‘Have you come from the Singer people?’
‘Yes,’ said Jumper.
‘Well, look at this!’
She pulled out the silver voice that she had rescued from the wind singer, that had hung on a string round her neck ever since.
‘Feel it! Feel its warmth! That’s more than my warmth! That’s more than the heat of my body!’
Jumper felt the silver voice with his soft plump fingers.
‘It is warm,’ he said.
‘I come too! We go together!’
Jumper wrinkled his soft pink brow.
‘I was sent to bring the child of the prophet,’ he murmured. ‘Not the children.’
‘We are the child of the prophet,’ said Kestrel.
Jumper looked deep into her eyes and pondered.
‘Kess,’ said Bowman gently. ‘I don’t want to leave you. More than my life, I want to stay with you. But if I die and you live, then we both live. Don’t let us both die. That would be death indeed.’
Kestrel seemed not to hear him. Her fierce eyes were fixed on Jumper. She still held the silver voice in her hands.
‘You felt it,’ she said. ‘It was warm.’
‘Of course it’s warm,’ said Bowman. ‘You wear it against your skin.’
‘He knows what I mean.’
To Bowman’s surprise, Jumper bowed his head.
‘Perhaps it’s best so.’
‘I can come?’
‘You can come.’
Before Bowman could make further objection, Kestrel ran back to her mother and father.
‘You should have made her stay with the others,’ he said to Jumper.
‘She wants to be with you.’
‘The parting must come. If not now, then soon.’
‘True enough, true enough.’
He sighed, but made no attempt to change his decision. Bowman felt relieved and dismayed at the same time. He had dreaded parting from Kestrel. Now he was spared the pain, but since it must come, one day soon, he was not spared the dread.
‘Bowman!’
He looked round. It was Sisi.
‘Is it true you’re going?’
‘Yes.’
She turned her great eyes onto Jumper.
‘Have you come to take him away?’
‘Yes,’ said Jumper.
‘Keep him safe.’
Jumper bowed his round head.
‘Bowman, you always told me one day you’d leave me, so I don’t complain. But I want you to know that I’ll wait for your return.’
‘No, Sisi. You mustn’t do that.’
‘You know the things you know, and I know the things I know. Now kiss me.’
He kissed her.
‘See? I don’t cry.’
‘I cry, Sisi.’
There were tears in his eyes as he held her hands and spoke to her.
‘You’re to marry, and have children, and live a long happy life.’
‘I will, Bowman. Oh, I will.’
Ira Hath held Kestrel silently in her frail arms and rocked her back and forth, as she’d rocked her when she was a baby. Neither spoke. Kestrel was crying, but making no noise.
‘We will meet again,’ said Ira at last, speaking the words said by the Manth people at the time of a death.
Word spread through the marchers that both Bowman and Kestrel were leaving them. They began to crowd round, asking questions, growing afraid.
‘Why must you go? Where are you going? Will you be with us in the homeland?’
‘We don’t know. Perhaps not.’
‘Then we must say goodbye. You can’t go without saying goodbye.’
All the marchers felt the same way. They pushed close, clamouring for their turn. In the darkness it was hard to tell who was who, so little Ashar Warmish, squeezed to the edge of the gathering, drew a burning stick from the fire and held it before her, to light her face.
‘Kestrel! Say goodbye to me before you go!’
Tanner Amos saw her face shining in the dark, and took a burning stick of his own, so that he too could be seen. After that, they all did the same, each holding a brand from the fire, from which a blue-yellow flame, or a red glow of embers, gave out a little gleam of light. As they came back from the fire they took up positions standing side by side, in an ever-lengthening line. When Kestrel and Bowman saw the line, they knew there was no question of slipping quietly away. They must make their farewells to each and every one of their people.
‘Ashar.’
‘Come back soon, Kestrel.’
‘Tanner.’
‘Miss you.’
‘Bek. Rollo.’
‘Bowman.’
So it went on, down the line, the farewells distilled from all that could be said into a simple litany of names. Silman Pillish, Sarel Amos, Cheer Warmish whose husband was dead. Little Scooch and big Creoth. Miller Marish and his girls, Fin and Jet. Miko Mimilith and his wife Lea, and Red Mimilith, and the boys Lolo and Mo. Old Seldom Erth and plump Lunki, and Mrs Chirish holding Mumpo’s hand. The Such family, with Seer Such in tears. And Pinto, there at the end of the line that had begun with her mother and father: Pinto, the last flame-lit face in that line of faces, watching like ghosts over the parting.
‘You must be all of us now, Pinto.’
‘I will.’
Kestrel leaned close to kiss her little sister’s face. As she did so she whispered to her,
‘Love him for me too.’
Now Bowman and Kestrel were at the end of the line, and there was Jumper waiting. Kestrel turned back one last time to look on her people, their faces glowing in the dark.
‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly. ‘All my loves.’
13
The egg’s song
Jumper moved surprisingly fast, heading across an open stretch of land in the moonlight. Bowman and Kestrel had to run to keep up.
‘Are we going to run all the way to Sirene?’ asked Bowman.
‘No, no,’ said Jumper, slowing down. ‘We’re going by boat.’
They now saw that he had taken them across a spit of land that lay within a bend of the river, for here was the river once again before them. Moored by the bank lay a long low barge, with the light of a lantern glowing in its cabin windows.
‘Climb aboard, and I’ll cast off.’
Bowman and Kestrel scrambled onto the barge’s deck, while Jumper, following behind, unlooped the mooring rope from its post. Had they been looking they would have seen that he ac
hieved this without touching the rope: just a little nod of his head, and it unwound itself, and snaked back aboard the barge.
Almost at once the barge began to move, carried downstream by the currents of the river. Bowman could see the wheel that controlled the rudder, through the cabin window.
‘Shouldn’t there be somebody at the wheel?’
‘There is,’ said Jumper.
He gestured for them to go on through the low cabin door, and so down three steps into the cabin itself. Here they found a snug well-appointed room, with a table and two padded benches, several cupboards, and a door through to the forward section; this main cabin, with its raised housing, being in the stern.
On one of the padded benches there lay a man asleep, covered by a blanket, snoring loudly.
‘That’s Albard,’ said Jumper. ‘You’ll meet him in the morning.’
The sleeping man’s face was turned away, towards the bench’s back, but something about his bulky body seemed familiar to Bowman.
‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s the one who will teach you,’ said Jumper. ‘It won’t be easy. It takes years to make a Singer, in the usual course of things. Albard has two days.’
To make a Singer! Bowman felt a thrill of excitement at the words.
‘I’m to be a Singer.’
‘Of course.’
Kestrel watched and listened, and said nothing.
‘But first, I advise you to sleep. The teaching will begin at dawn. There’ll be little sleeping once you’ve begun.’ He indicated the second bench, on the far side of the table from the sleeping man. ‘Do you think the two of you can squeeze onto the bench?’
‘Yes,’ said Bowman. ‘But where will you sleep?’
‘On the floor. I’m used to it.’
So Bowman and Kestrel twined themselves up together on the bench, glad of the familiar closeness. Pressing their brows together, so that they would share dreams, they let themselves drift into a much-needed sleep.
Jumper laid himself down on the boards, easing his plump little body into the most comfortable position he could manage. They were not awake to see, but had Bowman or Kestrel looked, they would have seen that he was lying an inch or so above the floor, as if resting on an invisible mattress.
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