Firesong

by William Nicholson

  ‘We wait for the wind,’ said Bowman.

  19

  The wind on fire

  Kestrel stood singing among the Singer people, losing herself in the song, becoming one with the thousands who had gathered here from all corners of their world. The sun was rising behind them, pouring sharp winter light over the barren ground, laying their shadows long and thin before them. The fire that raged in the sky carried no terrors for them. It was the roaring of a caged beast, venting its anger and frustration before a power greater than its own. Kestrel felt it in every nerve, the astonishing power of the Singer people. The more they sang, the greater this power grew. She was part of it, she was sharing that power, she was contributing to it. She sang joyously, because by singing she sent her life force out to join the others, to form this mighty engine of change.

  She felt the wind on her back, and shivered with wonder at what was to come. She lifted up a little, pushed by the wind, she was so light now, and dropped down again. All over the plain she could see it was the same for the others, rising and falling like boats on a rolling sea. They would all rise up soon enough: but not yet.

  There came a crack that was thunder and earthquake together. The ground buckled beneath her feet, and in one great wave of movement, she and all the Singer people lifted up into the air. From the plains ahead came deep groaning sounds, then a cracking and a ripping, as the ground fissured and crazed before their eyes. The song of the Singer people grew stronger, to be heard above the exploding land. Now, within the weave of sound, Kestrel heard a new note: thin and far off and desolate.

  She looked towards the mountains, and saw a lone figure walking out of the trees. Distant though the stranger was, Kestrel felt with certain knowledge that they had met before. It was a slow moving, frail, elderly lady with pale eyes. She seemed weak and helpless amid the heaving earthquake, but she did not concern herself over the destruction of the land. She walked on towards them, passing over fissures great and small, through the smoke that now hissed from the hot cracks, her pale eyes fixed on the way ahead.

  The Morah was come again.

  No power this time, it seemed to Kestrel. What need to destroy this pitiful creature? And yet that was what they were gathered to do. The vast might of the Singer people would surround her, and take her life, and in doing so they would give their own.

  ‘Find the flame!’

  It was the soft voice of Jumper in her ear. She turned and saw him, far away, but his mind was close. She understood. It wasn’t hard, now that she saw what was happening to those around her. They had begun to glow, as Jumper had done before, on the barge.

  Like dying, but not dying.

  Kestrel didn’t need to ask how, or why. She needed only to sing the song.

  As she sang, gladly, eagerly, she felt the cool flame form round her, like a space close to the skin. The sensation was in no way painful. It was calming, and made her body feel lighter, and her senses keener. And yet along with this sharper vision and keener sound went the feeling that such things had happened long ago and far away.

  She was watching the old lady. She was nearer now, and she was changing. At first she seemed to be losing focus, becoming blurred at the edges. Then the blurring resolved itself into two figures, one peeling away from the other. Then these two divided in their turn, becoming four. The Morah was multiplying. Human forms burst out of human forms, more and more, not all old now, not all female: there were men emerging, and boys, and girls, peeling the one from the next, spreading over the smoking earthquake-riven land. The Morah was unfolding into the legion that was her true being: not one giving birth to many, but the force that had always belonged to the many now redistributing itself into its original parts.

  Kestrel felt the flame grow more intense around her as she sang, as through the shimmering air she watched the multitude form before her. She was amazed by the numbers, for every wave replicating itself brought a doubling, a redoubling, until it seemed the whole visible world would be filled by – what could she call it now, this enemy she had come to destroy? – not monsters after all, not devils – but by nothing less than mankind.

  At the same time, the wind blew more strongly against her back, and the flames intensified, so that the thousand upon thousand of Singer people, hovering over the coast, began to shimmer like the winter sunlight on the sea. Kestrel knew the flame she was making with her song was formed out of her own life energy, but she felt only a deep, sweet joy. Soon now her flame would touch her neighbour’s flame, and all the flames would become one.

  A howl of pain sounded ahead, a shriek and a groan, repeated many times. Out of the cracks in the earth had risen up clouds of tiny whining insects, too small to see, but where they flew they stung, and the people they stung cried out. Now all the shuffling multitude that was the Morah howled in rage and pain, as the passion flies burrowed into their hearts. In a mounting lament that grew into a chorus of misery, Kestrel heard all the anger and fear, the envy and mockery, the hatred of happiness and hunger for pain. She heard screams that were racked with laughter, and saw the contorted faces of the people, and heard their sobbing cries, and she knew, This is me, this is us, this is mankind. This was the world of hurt and loss that must die, for the time of kindness to come again.

  The clouds of passion flies spread out like a miasma over the land. As they reached the waiting ranks of the Singer people, they struck the aura of flame and burned, popping in tiny flashes of bright light, so many at once that they made a cascade of pinprick stars.

  As the multitude that was the Morah advanced howling and sobbing across the plain, the Singer people changed their song once more, and the flame that wrapped each one of them glowed more intensely still. Kestrel let herself go, gladly, knowing the flame was now stronger than she was, that the more intensely it burned, the more she was fading. She felt the wind blowing ever more strongly behind her, and saw the Singer people rise up, sails in the wind, and let herself rise up with them. So close now, their separate flames nudging at each other, licking each other, flurrying in the wind –

  Soon now.

  Do you feel me, Bo? Soon now!

  Bowman stood on the cliff top, with his mother’s body in his arms, light as a sleeping child. He too felt the wind strong on his back, and knew what he was to do. On one side stood his father. On the other, his sister Pinto. Beyond them, and behind, all his people, and the cows, and the horses, and the cat. All looked to Bowman, who had returned to them, and who possessed powers they couldn’t begin to understand.

  Bowman heard the wind, and it sounded like his sister Kestrel, though there were no words he could make out.

  ‘Soon now,’ he said. ‘Trust the wind.’

  The thousands upon thousands of Singer people now let the wind drive them forward, slowly at first, like the shadow of a passing cloud. Kestrel flew with them, still singing the firesong, feeling the way the wind made the flame that was herself burn more brightly still. She did not resist. She opened herself, her body, her mind, her heart. She poured herself out into the flame, and the more she emptied, the lighter she became, and the more she was swept and scoured by joy. Knowing the end was very close, she cried out through her song,

  I love you, Bo! I love you all! All my loves!

  The wind drove them faster now, they were racing, the Singer people aflame, sweeping over the land, their song unstoppable, deep and far-reaching. The stronger the wind, the more they flared in the air as they flew, and the fiercer burned their flame. Now the wind whipped and gusted, hurling the mournful cries of the multitude that was the Morah back into the shivered ground. The wind raged like a hurricane, and the Singer people burned into dazzling brightness, the wind and the flames converging into a sky-wide sheet of roaring heat that sucked the air from the world.

  The last Kestrel felt was a wild singing, a white-hot melting glory. She was falling into the light, for the last time, never to return. The flame was consuming her now, and she was lost in bliss, lost in the thousand flame
s that now burned together as a single flame, carried on the charging wind –

  Up on the mountain cliff top, the Manth people felt the wild wind hit them like a blow. Bowman stepped off the edge, with Ira Manth in his arms, and the wind took him. At once, without hesitation, Pinto followed him, stepping into nothing, into the thousand-foot drop, but she did not drop. Sisi too, her eyes on Bowman, stepped into the air in perfect faith. Like leaves on an autumn day, they fell, slowly, circling as they went, sustained by the turbulent wind.

  Seeing that they came to no harm, the others now followed. Some screamed as they jumped, in terror or delight, but all jumped. Creoth was puzzled as to how to persuade his cows to do something so unnatural, but to his astonishment they ambled off the edge of their own free will. Mumpo jumped boldly, arms outreached. Miller Marish held his little girls’ hands and they all jumped together, with their eyes shut. Cheer Warmish gave a great scream, but didn’t jump, so the teacher Silman Pillish took her hand and simply pulled her off the edge.

  Once they had jumped, it was easy. They found themselves floating down, quite slowly, and were able to converse as they fell. It was a long way down.

  ‘Beard of my ancestors!’ exclaimed Creoth. ‘This is the way to travel!’

  Out on the plains the wind on fire roared down on the hordes that crawled over the land, and into the smoking cracks and caves, and on into the forests and mountains, and everywhere it touched the spirit of the Morah was turned to ash and was swept into nothingness. There was no time even for the howling masses to cry out at this new ordeal before the intense heat had blasted them into oblivion. On swept the wind on fire, scouring out all the fear and all the hatred, and leaving behind after the passing of its purifying fury a cool, sweet stillness across a silent land.

  Bowman dropped gently to the ground at the foot of the great sheltering cliff, his dead mother still safe in his arms. The air was calm here. The ground was lightly covered with snow. Nearby flowed a broad river, winding its way to the sea. Eastward, the sky was clear.

  One by one, his family and friends came dropping down, unharmed, and silent with wonder. Mist the cat, turning as he dropped, contrived to land on Bowman’s shoulders, just to make sure he’d not been forgotten.

  The Manth people shook themselves as if they were in a dream, and looked round at the land to which they had come in so strange a way. They saw low wooded hills, descending to a broad coastal plain. They saw two rivers, that looped lazily through water meadows still covered in snow. They saw the ocean beyond, calm and bright in the winter sun. They had arrived in a virgin land, an unknown land. And yet every one of them was struck by the same thought at the same time: I have been here before. I know this place.

  Hanno Hath came to Bowman, and held out his arms for the body of his wife.

  ‘I’ll take her now,’ he said. ‘Now that we’re home.’

  Epilogue: A betrothal

  Pinto was angry. The date of the ceremony had been agreed, long ago. It was to be seven days after her fifteenth birthday, which was today. So why had they not come? Unable to stop herself, she ran yet again down the long shingled spit of land that reached out from the harbour, and stood at its furthest tip, gazing east over the sea, into the dazzling summer sun. The sea was calm, there was a light wind. Why had the ship not come?

  Lunki came looking for her. She waddled out onto the spit, wagging her plump hands in dismay.

  ‘Scooch has burned the cakes! What are we to do?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Pinto. What did she care about cakes?

  ‘The poor man is in tears. He says you specially asked for honey-cakes. It wasn’t his fault. He fell asleep. And now he’s in tears.’

  ‘Tell him I don’t mind,’ said Pinto, feeling even more annoyed. She wasn’t annoyed about the cakes, she was annoyed about Scooch crying. Now she would have to go and be nice to him, and there were too many other things to do, and Bowman still hadn’t come.

  ‘Has the ship come yet?’ said Lunki.

  This was too much.

  ‘I don’t know, Lunki. Can you see a ship?’

  ‘No,’ said Lunki, looking round.

  Pinto walked back down the spit as fast as she could go, leaving Lunki peering into the distance. She took the path that ran round the back of the village square, hoping not to meet anyone. As she went, her brain seethed with angry thoughts. Why must Bowman and Sisi live so far away? Obagang sounded horrid, crowded with stupid people who did nothing but cause problems. Everyone said Bowman made a fine ruler, but was that what Bowman himself wanted? Or Sisi, for that matter? They’d only agreed because Sisi was a princess, and the people of Gang had pleaded with her, and Bowman had been flattered. And now they lived in a palace hundreds of miles away, and were going to be late for her betrothal.

  Muttering crossly to herself, she ran straight into Silman Pillish, who was teaching his little class of children in the open air. He was rehearsing them in a song.

  ‘Where have you gone, little chicks, little chicks?’ he sang. ‘Oh! oh! and oh!’

  With each ‘oh!’ a child was supposed to peep out from behind Pillish’s skirts. Pik Shim and Gem Marish jumped out; but five-year-old Harman Amos had not got the idea at all.

  ‘Harman! You’re the third oh!’

  ‘Pongo,’ said the little boy from behind the teacher.

  ‘Harman! Here’s Pinto, whose betrothal we’re singing the song for, and all you can say is a silly word!’

  ‘Pongo pongo pongo,’ said Harman stubbornly. ‘Stupid pongo chicks!’

  ‘You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to,’ said Pinto. ‘And anyway, my brother hasn’t come yet, so I expect we’ll have to put it off, and everything will be spoiled.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not! We’ve worked so hard. Pia! Lea! We don’t pull each other’s hair.’

  ‘We asked each other first,’ said little Pia in an injured voice.

  ‘We don’t even pull each others’ hair if we’ve asked.’

  Pinto went on her way. She made a wide circuit round Scooch’s bakery, though the smells drifting out through the open door were very tempting. Beyond the bakery, in the middle of the square, she caught a glimpse of two men clinging to a wooden platform, assembling the wind singer. Not a real wind singer, of course; no one had made such a thing for a hundred years. This was a model that Tanner Amos and Miko Mimilith had been building for months and months. They had failed to have it ready for the betrothal of Fin Marish and Spek Such, and were now determined to get it up and working for Pinto and Mumpo. She could tell even at this distance that it was not yet functioning. The men had a frantic distracted look, and kept colliding with each other on the narrow platform. The scoops were in place, and air was passing through some of the pipes, but the resulting rattle could not be called singing.

  Pinto did not care. Everything was going wrong anyway. She stamped on across a field of maize, the topmost cobs higher than her shoulders; past the line of shelter trees that Creoth had planted eight years ago, feathery-thin silver birches, now twenty feet tall; and on past the open front of Creoth’s cow barn, where he had nailed up Cherub’s crumpled horns. She meant to walk on by without stopping, but from the hayrick there came a shrill wailing sound. She went to investigate, and found little Milo, Red Mimilith’s baby boy, trying to get out. Milo could crawl, and did crawl, at startling speed, and so was always disappearing and having to be rescued. Pinto hauled him out of the hay and shook her finger at him.

  ‘You’re an evil little rat-child,’ she said.

  Milo gazed back at her and chuckled, as if to say that this was both true and satisfactory. Pinto put the baby on the ground, pointed him towards the square, and off he shot, his bottom raised, wagging as he went like a clumsy puppy.

  Creoth was out in his yard, churning butter.

  ‘Not come yet, then?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  He kept churning as they spoke. Summer butter was a tricky beast. It could turn on you if you didn’t kee
p after it, and then all you had for your trouble was lumps of grease swimming in whey.

  ‘My wife should be doing this, but she won’t,’ he said.

  ‘Takes a strong arm,’ said Pinto.

  ‘Takes getting out of bed, that’s what it takes.’

  Pinto began to feel less agitated. The baby and the cowman between them somehow put her into a better humour. She liked it that they had their own concerns, that didn’t include her.

  ‘I’m going to go and talk to ma,’ she said.

  ‘You do that. Tell her good day from me.’

  Pinto followed the path to the river. Here, in a little meadow ringed with stones, the Manth people had made their graveyard. Seldom Erth had been laid to rest in one corner, when he died three years ago. There were markers for others who had died before, put up by friends or family: stout wooden posts, on which the names were cut in vertical columns, one letter above another. The Warmish family had placed a memorial to Harman, though as Ashar Warmish said, his true memorial was her little boy, called Harman after him. Tanner Amos, Ashar’s husband, had placed a memorial post to his first wife, Pia Greeth. There was a post for Rufy Blesh, erected by Bowman before he left; and Mumpo had placed a marker for his father Maslo Inch, who long ago had been Chief Examiner of Aramanth.

  The grass in the graveyard needed cutting. It was long and lush and yellow with buttercups. Pinto pushed on into the middle of the meadow, where four round stones marked the corners of her mother’s grave. They had buried Ira Hath here on first coming to the homeland, and carried the smooth boulders from the beach to lay them on the raw earth. Now grass had grown up round them like a nest, and moss clung to the grey stone, and the grave itself was a thicket of clover and daisies and dandelions. Hanno Hath let it grow wild because he said Ira had always been on the wild side.