Firesong

by William Nicholson

  Pinto sat herself down on the stone in the south-west corner, which was her stone, and looked from the grave to the meadow, and from the meadow to the river, and from the river to the sea.

  ‘Why do I get so cross, ma?’ she said aloud. ‘Pa says you were always getting cross and shouting at people. But all I remember is you being quiet.’

  She let her thoughts settle down into quietness within her. This was what she came for: talking to her long-dead mother was a way of seeing the anxieties of the moment in a longer perspective, both of time and space, which made them seem smaller and less burdensome.

  ‘I love him so much,’ she said. ‘That’s all that matters, isn’t it? The cakes are burnt. The wind singer isn’t finished. The children hate their song. Bowman hasn’t come. But we’ll still be betrothed today. What else matters?’

  The gentle wind flurried the grasses, and rippled the water of the river, and the whole homeland seemed to answer Pinto in her mother’s voice.

  Nothing else matters.

  She sat and thought about being fifteen; or to be exact, fifteen and seven days. Her mother had been betrothed a week after her fifteenth birthday too.

  ‘Did it feel strange? Did you feel like you weren’t old enough? I don’t. I feel like I’ve been old enough for years.’

  She thought about having children. She’d never really been interested in children before, but now that it was coming closer, it seemed to her to be something rather extraordinary. The baby would grow from nothing inside her, like a part of her body. She shivered at the idea.

  ‘It seems to me like my baby would be me, only I could love her,’ she said. ‘Is it like having yourself to cuddle?’

  Mumpo wanted to call their first boy Mumpo, which she thought would be confusing, but of course she had agreed. If it was a girl she had wanted to call her Ira, but to her irritation Bowman had taken the name for his third child. Baby Ira was a boy, which was even more confusing. And now they were going to be late for her betrothal.

  She heard footsteps, and there was Mumpo, striding steadily across the meadow towards her. She watched him approach, and all that was left of her crossness fell away. He was so tall and strong, and his face was so good and kind. It seemed to her that he never thought a bad thought or did a bad deed. He was simple and clear and straight, all the way to the bottom, like a mountain pool.

  ‘I thought you’d be here,’ he said.

  She got up off her stone and kissed him.

  ‘Sun’s shining for us,’ she said.

  ‘Of course it is. So what are you fretting about?’

  ‘Who says I’m fretting?’

  ‘You only ever come here to fret. I should think your mother’s tired of you.’

  Only Mumpo could have such a notion, thought Pinto, smiling back. She turned to the grave.

  ‘Are you tired of me, ma? There. She’s not.’

  She took Mumpo’s arm, to return to the village.

  ‘Bowman’s late.’

  ‘He’ll be here.’

  ‘Scooch burned the cakes.’

  ‘He’s cut the burned bits off. They’re fine.’

  ‘The wind singer isn’t ready.’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘So according to you, nothing can go wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘This is our day. Whatever happens is right.’

  As they stepped out of the ring of stones, Pinto turned back to call to her mother.

  ‘Creoth said to say good day.’

  The ship dropped anchor out in the bay. The harbour was deep enough for the fishermen’s yawls and the merchants’ barges, but not for the full-keeled three-masted schooner from Gang. The villagers came pouring from every building to line the harbour spit and wave to the sailors on the ship as they reefed in the sails. Pinto stood not waving, feeling cross and happy, her father on one side and Mumpo on the other. The ship’s boat was winched down to the water, and then the crowd on shore saw Bowman himself come out on deck and wave. Then Sisi followed, and she also waved: two tiny figures surrounded by a crowd of servants and mariners.

  Gem Marish was disappointed.

  ‘They’re wearing ordinary clothes. They don’t look like emperors at all!’

  ‘Emperors are nothing special,’ said Creoth.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ asked little Pia Amos.

  ‘Look! That man behind them! He’s blue!’

  ‘There’s little Siri! There she is!’

  ‘I want to see the baby!’

  ‘Ah, she’s a beautiful sight,’ said Miller Marish, meaning the ship, as he dandled little Milo in his arms.

  Now one of the sailors was in the bobbing boat, and holding up an arm to help Bowman down. Bowman then reached up and took a bundle in his hands, and held it safe. Lunki, straining to make out the details, caught sight of a little pink face in the bundle, and squealed with delight.

  ‘My baby!’ she cried. ‘My baby’s baby!’

  The older children followed Bowman into the boat: Falcon, already four years old, insisted on climbing down the ladder by herself; then the Johdila Sirharani, known as Siri, who was six-and-a-half. Then came Sisi herself, and the blue man, and another very small man, holding a basket.

  ‘I know that little fellow!’ said Lunki, struggling to remember.

  The landing party crossed the bay and was rowed to shore. Pinto threw herself into Bowman’s arms, forgetting all her anger, and held him tight. Lunki took Sisi in her arms, and overcome with emotion, burst into tears.

  ‘My precious,’ she sobbed. ‘My little one.’

  Sisi was now a striking woman of twenty-four, tall and slim and elegant. After she had hugged Lunki, she looked round at the friends she hadn’t seen for two years now, until her great amber eyes came to rest on Hanno Hath. She bowed to him, and he returned her bow. Little Pia Amos came up to her and tugged her robe.

  ‘Your face is funny,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sisi, smiling. ‘Are you Ashar’s little girl?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Pia.

  Sisi looked round for her own little girl, and found her with her face shyly buried in her skirts.

  ‘Fal, this is Pia.’

  Falcon refused to come out.

  ‘Let me see my baby’s baby,’ begged Lunki.

  Bowman reached out the bundle.

  ‘Don’t mind if he cries,’ he said. ‘He’s hungry.’

  Lunki took the baby, and all the little children crowded round to see, except Siri and Falcon.

  ‘It’s only a baby,’ said Siri with a shrug.

  Hanno now stepped forward to embrace Bowman.

  ‘Good to see you, Bo. My dear.’

  ‘Pa. You look well.’

  ‘I am well.’ He bent down to talk to Falcon, his favourite. ‘Good morning, Fal. How was your journey?’

  ‘Too long,’ said the child.

  Hanno embraced Sisi.

  ‘Sisi. We miss you. I hope your parents are well?’

  ‘Getting old,’ said Sisi. ‘My mother worries about everything, and my father does nothing at all.’

  ‘He’s very happy,’ said Bowman with a smile. ‘He eats and he sleeps, which is all he ever wanted to do, anyway.’

  Bowman greeted all his old friends, as slowly and chaotically the crowd moved back up to the village. Here Scooch and Creoth had laid out lunch on trestle tables in front of the schoolhouse. Tanner Amos was still frantically bolting together sections of the contraption on the platform.

  ‘A wind singer!’ exclaimed Bowman when he saw it. ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Tanner, shaking Bowman’s hand. ‘And anyway, it’s only a model.’

  ‘Good to be home, Tanner.’

  ‘I thought home for you was a grand palace, with servants and gold plates.’

  ‘No,’ said Bowman quietly. ‘This will always be home.’

  Lunki had worked out by now that the blue man was Ozoh, and the little one was Lazarim, both of whom she had known in the old
days in the imperial court of Gang. Ozoh, it now emerged, had abandoned augury and become a wine maker. A barrel of his best wine was even now being ferried from the ship, along with crates of trade goods ordered by Branco Such for his general store.

  Ozoh was not shy about his wine.

  ‘You wait till you taste it, ma’am. A glass of my Golden Yanoo is generally agreed to be the closest a body ever comes to paradise, without the inconvenience of dying.’

  ‘I’ll tell my Scooch. He’ll want some of that.’

  Lazarim, once a dancing master, was now tutor to the imperial children: for, improbable as it seemed to the Manth people, Bowman and Sisi ruled the great empire of Gang. Their realm reached from sea to sea, encompassing the ruined city of Aramanth, the territories of Gang itself, the former Mastery, the mountains, the forests, and even the homeland. In Obagang, where their palace stood, Bowman had taken on the title of the Bowmana of Gang, Lord of a Million Souls.

  ‘You’re not lord of my soul,’ said Rollo Shim every time he heard this. ‘So you can subtract one from your million.’

  Sisi had become the Sirhardi, Mother of the Nation.

  Now, surrounded by her friends Ashar and Red, Seer and Sarel, all young mothers like her, she dismissed her titles with a laugh.

  ‘It’s all nonsense,’ she said. ‘But as Bowman says, someone has to rule, and it turns out to be us.’ In a lower voice she added to her friends, ‘Bo is amazing! You’d think he’d been born to it! He’s so grave and wise you’d never recognise him. But he likes it best here.’

  Lazarim sat quietly on his haunches, his sharp eyes watching the girls. He had set his basket down on the ground. Falcon now came over to the basket, and reached inside.

  ‘We’re on land now, Mist,’ she said, stroking the grey fur of the cat curled up inside. ‘You’re like me, aren’t you? You hate boats.’

  Mist looked back at her through clouded eyes. The cat was very old, and minded very little any more. However, he reflected to himself, the girl is right. Living is a tiring enough affair as it is. Going about in boats only makes it worse.

  Baby Milo Marish made a bid for freedom, crawling off at speed towards the bakery. Red Mimilith chased after him, and carried him back to the group of young mothers.

  ‘This is my smallest. I swear he’ll drown before he can walk.’

  ‘Hello, little Milo,’ said Sisi. ‘I hear your big stepsister Fin is betrothed. Where have the years all gone?’

  Mumpo found a moment’s quiet to speak to Bowman.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Pinto and I seem to have got there at last.’

  ‘I’m very happy for you both.’

  ‘Do you think Kess would approve?’

  ‘I know she would.’

  ‘How long will you stay?’

  ‘A month. No more. Then we must return. But you’ll come and visit us in Obagang, both of you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The two men looked over the cheerful crowd, now clustered round the lunch tables.

  ‘We’re lucky to be living in this time,’ said Bowman.

  ‘I know it,’ said Mumpo.

  Ozoh’s barrel was broached, and the wine glasses were handed round. Siri and Falcon lost their shyness, and raced round the wind singer with Harman Amos, Gem Marish, and the Shim twins. Teacher Pillish watched Falcon play, and said to Sisi, ‘That girl is the mirror of you, my lady.’

  ‘Except for the scars,’ said Sisi. She caught Bowman’s eyes looking on her, and smiled for him. Often and often she saw him gazing at her like this, and she felt his quiet love and gratitude, and it was all she wanted.

  Lunki gave her back her baby boy. For the moment the baby was quiet, interested in all the new faces round him. Sisi put him in the basket with Mist.

  ‘Oh. You again,’ said Mist.

  Little Ira reached out a tiny hand and poked at his fur. It couldn’t be called stroking, but the cat didn’t mind. Although the baby never spoke, Mist had a strong suspicion that he understood him. As a result, he regarded little Ira as his own baby, and gave him advice, and told him stories.

  ‘I used to fly when I was younger,’ he said. ‘I was a flying cat. I’ll teach you when you’re bigger, if I’m still alive. You’ll like it. Though it’s like everything else, once you’ve done it for a while, you lose interest.’

  The baby gurgled at him, and prodded him again.

  ‘That’s the trouble with life,’ said Mist. ‘In the end, you lose interest.’

  Pinto now emerged from the schoolhouse, looking radiant in her betrothal dress. All conversation stopped. Then everyone clapped, and Pinto blushed. Miko Mimilith, who had made the dress, stood behind her watching her with a gaze that combined critical dissatisfaction and bursting pride. Sisi felt tears sting her eyes. Pinto looked so like Kestrel. The dress was like the white sheath made for her wedding in the Mastery, the dress in which Kestrel had danced the tantaraza. Pinto didn’t share Kestrel’s features, but there was so much of her older sister in her manner, in those quick movements and those bright eyes.

  Then she heard her baby crying.

  ‘What have you done now, Mist?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. When did I ever do anything?’

  Sisi lifted the baby out of the basket and put him to her breast, and the nuzzle and tug of the little mouth on her nipple calmed her. Her oldest child, Siri, came up by her side, and touched her mother’s scars, as she often did.

  ‘I wish I had scars like you. You’re so lucky. They make you special.’

  ‘You’re special too, darling.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I just have special clothes.’

  Sisi sighed, and held her baby close to her breast, and let her mind be filled by his simple need, that her body could so simply satisfy. It got so much harder so quickly, as they grew up.

  Bowman made sure he had greeted everybody, and that Lazarim had his eye on the little girls. There was still a little time to go before the ceremony. He moved quietly away from the gathering, and took the path Pinto had taken earlier, to the graveyard. No one followed. They knew he would want to be alone.

  As he walked, he looked round at the fields and rivers, reminding himself of the familiar landscape, happy to be back. This is the time of peace, he said to himself, and the time of forgetting. Don’t let me forget too much, for too long.

  When he reached his mother’s grave, he sat down on one of the corner stones, as Pinto had done, and spoke to his mother.

  ‘Did you foresee our happiness, ma? Is that why you were able to leave us?’

  A strange noise sounded from the village. He turned his face and shaded his eyes to see. Tanner Amos had finally got the wind singer to work, and it was swinging round, catching the wind, and letting out a comical groaning sound. The people in the square were all laughing. Bowman smiled. He thought of the old wind singer in Aramanth, and then of its silver voice, and then of Kestrel.

  It all seems so long ago. Did you ever think it would lead us to this?

  Of course, said Kestrel. What else was it all for?

  Liar, said Bowman. You had no idea.

  Once Bowman had rejoined the gathering, the children sang their song with Teacher Pillish, and everyone laughed and clapped as the little chicks popped out. Then Hanno Hath took Pinto’s hand in his and led her to stand before Mumpo. There in the sunlight by the wind singer they clasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes and spoke the words of the vow.

  ‘Today begins my walk with you.’

  The children fell silent, sensing the solemnity of the moment.

  ‘Where you go, I go. Where you stay, I stay.’

  As he spoke, Mumpo looked into those fierce black eyes, and he marvelled that anyone could love him so much; he who had been the bottom of the class, the one who never understood, the lonely one.

  ‘When you sleep, I will sleep. When you rise, I will rise.’

  Oh, it’s taken so long, thought Pinto. But now it’s come at last.

  ‘I will pass my days w
ithin the sound of your voice, and my nights within the reach of your hand, and none shall come between us.’

  That’s all I ask, thought Mumpo. Not to be alone.

  That’s all I ask, thought Pinto. To love you till the day I die.

  Baby Ira gave a loud chortle of delight. A ripple of laughter ran round the gathering.

  ‘This I vow.’

  Mumpo took Pinto in his arms, and they kissed.

  Bowman watched, and looking out through his eyes, Kestrel watched with him. They remembered dawn sunlight piercing winter trees, a promise that had not been broken.

  Why should it ever end? Why shouldn’t we love each other for ever?

  They remembered too a greater light, that had for a moment touched all things. The memory now reached out from them, here at the betrothal, as if that long-ago light was bathing and transforming this crowd of laughing friends, and the laden tables, and the creaking wind singer, and the homeland, and the ocean beyond, until all was turned to light, themselves too, and the dazzling moment hovered weightless, astonished, beautiful, ravished by the song that never ends.

  The End

  Smarties Gold Award Winner

  William Nicholson is one of the greatest and most imaginative writers of today and has won countless awards for his work in television, plays and films. The Wind Singer, the first title in the Wind on Fire trilogy, won the Smarties Prize Gold Award and the Blue Peter Book Award. His latest novel, Rich and Mad – his first for teenage readers – received much praise, and he has written several successful adult novels. He is an acclaimed Hollywood screenwriter; his work includes Elizabeth: The Golden Age, the Bafta award-winning Shadowlands, and Gladiator, for which he received his second Oscar nomination. William Nicholson lives in Sussex with his wife, Virginia, and their three children.

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