Bowman’s mind explored this new development. Somehow, he was sure, he should be able to turn it to the advantage of his enslaved people.
‘You don’t have to go through with the marriage,’ he suggested.
‘It’s the Master’s wish.’
‘You don’t have to do everything the Master wants.’
Ortiz turned to stare at Bowman.
‘I don’t have to –? Of course, I’m forgetting. You’re new here. You don’t yet understand. This –’ a sweep of one hand over the view, ‘this perfect world is the Master’s creation. It exists and prospers because we do his will.’
‘A perfect world for you,’ said Bowman. ‘Not for the slaves.’
Ortiz looked at him again, in an odd sort of way.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he said. ‘Don’t the slaves of the Mastery live well? In comfort and safety? Don’t they do good work here, their best work, and grow fat and rich and well-respected? What more can any man want?’
‘To be free.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Bowman was taken aback. ‘Everyone wants to be free.’
‘Everyone wants? Like everyone wants chocolates? It’s not always good to be given what we want, is it?’
‘No, but – but freedom is –’
Bowman began to feel confused.
‘Freedom is what?’ said Ortiz. ‘I’ll tell you. Freedom is vanity. Freedom is greed. It sets man against man. It makes savages of us all. The Master has shown us the terrible cruelty of freedom.’
It was madness, but Ortiz seemed to believe it, and with conviction. Bowman forgot for the moment that he was a slave, and that this was a man who had power over him.
‘I’ve seen cruelty,’ he said, letting the anger into his voice. ‘I’ve seen innocent people burned alive.’
‘Of course! Every one of us here has seen that! But that’s not cruelty. That’s terror. A single act of terror forces obedience. Without obedience, there’s chaos. With obedience comes peace and order. First we obey in terror. Later we obey in love. The Master has taught us so. And this rich and beautiful world is our reward.’
Once again Bowman said,
‘For you. Not for the slaves.’
Ortiz then reached out his right arm before Bowman, and in silence, drew back the rich fabric of his sleeve. There on his wrist was a branded number.
‘We’re all slaves here,’ he said. ‘That’s the secret of the Mastery.’
Bowman stared.
‘All?’
‘All but one. The Master bears the burden of freedom for us all.’
Bowman looked from Ortiz to the view of the city, and the lake, and the well-tended fields beyond. He saw farm workers following the plough. A team of wagons plodding down the road. A troop of chasseurs trotting briskly over the causeway. He recalled the young lords in Ortiz’s party, and the dance teacher; the manacs, and the choirs singing in the dusk. All slaves?
‘Are you telling me that we’re slaves of slaves?’
‘Yes.’
The view from the terrace seemed to lurch and spin round him.
‘Then why don’t the slaves rise up? Why don’t they rebel?’
‘First we obey in terror. Then we obey in love.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It takes time. You’re new. But little by little, you’ll come to see all that you’ve gained from your loss of freedom. This country will become your country. You’ll help to build it. You’ll become proud of it. You’ll see how we all serve each other, because there’s only one Master. And so your fear will turn to love.’
‘I will never love the Master.’
‘You will! You think you won’t now, but you will!’ A sudden idea came to him. ‘I’ll take you to meet him. I have to report on my viewing of the bride. You shall come too.’
‘Not now. Tomorrow. Let me go back to my family tonight. They’ll be worrying about me.’
‘No, now, now! At once!’
‘You want the Master to know about your new interest?’
‘My new –? No, not at all! Is it so obvious?’
‘It is.’
This calmed Ortiz down.
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe a night’s sleep will settle me a little. I do feel strange, and – and unlike myself. Yes, very well. Go back to your family. I’ll send for you in the morning.’
Mist the cat was waiting for Bowman on the causeway.
‘Have you been here all night?’ asked Bowman.
‘Here and there,’ said the cat, not liking the note of pity in the boy’s voice.
‘You should go home,’ said Bowman. ‘There’s going to be trouble here.’
‘There’s trouble everywhere. Also, I don’t have a home.’ He ran beside Bowman, who was walking fast. ‘When are you going to teach me to fly?’
‘I told you. I don’t know how to fly.’
‘If Dogface can fly, you can fly,’ said Mist. ‘You’re just not trying.’
‘I’m sorry. I have more important things to do.’
‘More important?’ Mist came to a stop. ‘I can always teach myself, you know.’
Bowman hurried on, and this time the cat did not follow him. He was angry at what he saw as the boy’s selfishness, and lack of ambition. His pride was offended that the boy thought so little of him. But then it struck him that perhaps he really could teach himself to fly. He’d watched the boy practising with the stick. It had been largely a matter of concentration. Why shouldn’t flying be the same?
He looked round for a suitable spot to start practising: somewhere to jump off, but not too high, so that he wouldn’t hurt himself while he was learning. His eyes followed Bowman up the road, and came to rest on the tall wheeled cages called monkey wagons.
Bowman found his parents sitting alone in their barracks room, deep in quiet conversation. His father had a sheaf of paper in his hand.
‘Bo!’ cried his mother as soon as he entered. ‘Shut the door. Your father needs to talk to you. Oh, we are unhappy people indeed.’
‘No, no,’ said Hanno. ‘It’ll all turn out well in the end. There’s nothing to say it won’t.’
‘First I have news for you,’ said Bowman. He sat down on the bed and took his mother’s hands in his and squeezed them. ‘I’ve seen Kestrel.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ Tears welled up in Ira Hath’s eyes. ‘My darling child! Is she all right?’
‘Alive and well.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Hanno.
‘She’s with the wedding party that’s just arrived. A princess has come to marry the Master’s son, the one called Ortiz.’
‘The one who sent for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you speak to her?’ asked Ira. ‘What does she say? How does she come to be with these people?’
‘We couldn’t speak much. She doesn’t want to be found out. She’s a servant of the bride.’
‘Servant of the bride?’ Ira Hath was bewildered. ‘I want to go to her. I want to see her.’
Hanno Hath had already taken in the possible advantages of the situation.
‘Leave her alone, my dear. She doesn’t want to be given away. I’m sure she has something in mind. Did she tell you, Bo?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘You must try to meet her alone. Are they far from here?’
‘Not so far. And pa –’ Bowman was eager to tell all he had discovered that day, ‘the people in this country, the lords and the ladies even, they’re all slaves! It’s a country of slaves!’
‘All slaves!’ said his mother. ‘That’s ridiculous. How can you have slaves of slaves?’
‘That’s how it works. They’re all slaves except the Master. They all do what he says.’
‘Do they now?’ Hanno Hath didn’t seem as surprised as Bowman had expected. ‘The Master must be a remarkable man.’
‘I’m to meet him tomorrow.’
‘You’re to meet the Master?’
‘With Ortiz.’
‘The Master puzzles me very much,’ said Hanno thoughtfully. ‘He collects old Manth manuscripts. He’s said to know something about our prophet Ira Manth. It’s good that you’re to meet him. Tell me what you find.’
‘What should I look for?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head, annoyed with himself that he couldn’t find the hidden connection. ‘When is this wedding?’
‘Very soon. Just a few days, I think.’
‘We have so little time.’
He gave Bowman some of the sheets of paper he was holding. They were covered in his handwriting, scribbled at great speed.
‘There are things you too must know.’
‘Oh, my darling boy!’ Ira Hath put her arms round Bowman, as if he would soon be taken from her. Bowman let his eyes run over the writing, as he listened to his father’s quiet steady voice.
‘I’ve found the Lost Testament of Ira Manth. It tells us many things, and when we have time we’ll talk over all of them. But there’s one part that affects us all now, and you and Kestrel and Pinto most of all.’
Bowman looked up and saw that his father was smiling at him. That smile told Bowman there was a great sadness coming. His mother stroked his hands.
‘We spoke before about the Singer people. I understand now their full purpose, and the price they pay to achieve it.’
‘They protect us from the Morah.’
‘More than that. They, and they alone, have the power to destroy the Morah. But in doing so, they die.’
‘They die? And the Morah dies?’
‘And returns again. As the Singer people return. Read.’
Bowman read aloud the first lines of his father’s handwritten transcript.
A child of my children will always be with you at the time of the consummation. In this way I live again, and I die again.
‘I never asked for this, my darling,’ said Ira, kissing him. ‘All I ever wanted was for us to be an ordinary family, leading an ordinary life.’
‘You mustn’t mind, ma,’ said Bowman gently. ‘Not for me. I think I’ve always known.’
‘Known what, my Bo?’
‘That there’s something I’m to do. Something waiting for me. Something that makes sense of being the way I am.’
‘You may well be right,’ said his father quietly.
Hanno then explained as best as he could what he had learned from the newly-discovered manuscript. It seemed that the old Manth people had a name for the vital force in all living creatures, and this name was mor. They understood that the mor was a good and necessary energising power, that drove people to do their best, to work hard, to aspire to make their dreams come true. To the old Manth people, the mor was the source of courage, and honour, and worthy pride. However, this same noble power, when allowed to grow too strong in a man or in a people, turned courage into violence, and pride into anger. As the mor swelled, it empowered the people, but it also led them into conflict with each other. They made war, and learned to fear and hate, and the more they feared and hated, the more they called on the power they believed would protect them. In this way, the time came when the mor filled every person to the brim, and bursting the skin that separates one from another, it merged into a single force, that fed on itself and all its member people, and could never thereafter be destroyed. This great, terrible, united power was called the Morah.
Bowman knew it all, even as his father told him of things he had never known. Had he not been touched by the Morah?
One of many, part of all. No more fear now. Let others fear.
‘Ira Manth speaks of three generations,’ said Hanno. ‘A time of kindness. A time of action. And a time of cruelty. At the end of the third generation, the power of the Morah is at its height. Terror follows terror, as men forget how to love, and are driven to rule or be ruled, to kill or be killed. At such a time, the Singer people return.’
‘And die.’
Hanno nodded his head. Bowman understood.
‘We’re living in such a time now, aren’t we?’
‘I believe so,’ said Hanno.
‘I know so,’ said Ira, shuddering. ‘The wind is rising. We must reach the homeland. The wind will blow everything away.’
Bowman did not speak. How could he explain to his parents that more than anything else he felt deep within him a sweet relief? He felt as if at last everything that was strange in him, everything that made him solitary and apart, was now part of his true purpose. He had to be as he was, to do as he must do. Even his failure all those years ago in the halls of the Morah, when he had surrendered to that sweet deadly power; even that, for which he had so long blamed himself, now became part of his destiny. In his fear, he had let the Morah touch him and possess him. Now he was grown older, and the time was approaching when he would redeem himself.
He read once more the first line of the transcript.
A child of my children will always be with you at the time of the consummation.
Hanno looked at him searchingly.
‘I’ll be with them, pa.’
‘No!’ cried Ira. ‘My own boy!’
‘Don’t cry, mama. I’m happy. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.’
‘What will they do to you, my darling? What is this wind on fire?’
‘I don’t know. I need to have a little time on my own. Let me read. Let me think.’
‘Yes, darling.’
She let him go. As he slipped out of the room, she looked after him with awe, as if he were her child no longer.
‘What will happen, Hanno? What are we to do?’
‘Our task, my dear,’ he said, ‘is to prepare our people. Somehow they must be persuaded that this powerful, rich and beautiful country can never be their home.’
‘They don’t listen to me any more.’
‘Even so, we must prepare them. The time of cruelty is coming. They’ll listen to us then.’
Let them live in the stillness, and know the flame. They will lose all and give all.
Bowman read all that his father had been able to copy from the Lost Testament, and then he read it again, until the last light faded from the sky. Then he took the papers back to his father.
‘I’m going to find Kess,’ he said.
‘Be very careful,’ said his father. ‘If anyone sees you –’
The slaves were under orders to stay in their quarters at night. Everyone knew the punishment for disobedience.
‘No one will see me.’
He spoke with such confidence that Hanno said no more. Bowman was changing fast. The discovery of what he believed to be his destiny had unlocked something within him, and suddenly he felt there was nothing he couldn’t do. Hadn’t the man with one eye, the Singer, told him he had the power? His great task, he knew, was yet to come: the time when he would lose all and give all. Between now and then, what could hurt him?
He waited until all the lights in the High Domain were extinguished, and the land lay silent in the night. Then he set off on foot, following the road back up the hillside and into the trees, towards the encampment on the borders of the Mastery. He walked fast, treading lightly, making almost no sounds. His mind reached ahead towards Kestrel. He thought of how it would be when she came out to meet him, how they would hug each other –
‘Stop right there!’
Bowman froze. A tall Johjan Guard strode forward, his sword raised. Bowman cursed himself. Why had he not guessed there would be sentries?
The guard glared at him.
‘Come with me!’ he barked, reaching out his left hand to take hold of Bowman.
Bowman took a step back, raised his eyes to the guard, concentrated all his energies on the man’s forehead, and – struck. His own body remained perfectly still, but the blow landed with such force that the guard was sent sprawling backwards, onto the ground. There he lay, unmoving, stunned. Bowman felt a little giddy. He hadn’t lifted a finger. He hadn’t thought about what he was doing, or how he was to do it. In the urgency of th
e moment, he had struck in the only way he could. What was it the one-eyed man had said? It’s just a matter of wanting it enough.
He felt a rush of exultation sing through his body. His power was growing! This was more than lifting pencils: he had stunned a man twice his size. If he wanted, he could do more, and worse: he felt it in him now, like a young wolf that has tasted its first blood. He could send great pain. He could kill.
What am I thinking?
He forced himself back to the reality of the moment. Ahead lay the great encampment, where soldiers and courtiers slept in lines of tents and carriages. Kestrel was there. He must find her.
Moving softly, alert now for other sentries, he crept past the tents, careful not to trip on the guy-ropes. He could feel his sister, he could hear the quiet rhythm of her breathing as she slept.
Now he was come to the cluster of royal carriages. In the darkness of night there was no way to tell one from another, but he could have found his way with his eyes shut. He came to a stop before the Johdila’s carriage, and very gently reached out with his mind to wake his sister.
Kess . . .
He felt her stir, and climb sleepily out of her dreams.
Is that you, Bo?
Then she was wide awake. He couldn’t see her, but he was tracking every single move she made. She was sitting up now. She was looking across at the sleeping Johdila.
I’m outside.
Now she was pulling on a robe over her nightclothes, and feeling under her cot for her slippers. Now, treading lightly, she was passing down the carriage to the door. Now the door was opening.
She flew down the carriage steps and into his arms. He held her tight and close, feeling her heart beat by his, and pressed his cheek to her cheek, first on one side, then on the other. Then he pressed his brow to her brow. In silence of voice and mind, they remained like this, arms wrapped tight round each other, for many long minutes. They had been cut in half, and now were becoming whole again.
Then they parted, and held hands, and looked deep into each other’s eyes.
You’ve changed, my brother.
In answer, he let her feel the new power that was growing in him: letting his mind press against hers. She reeled back.
‘How do you do that?’
‘Hush! Speak softly. I don’t know.’
William Nicholson - [Wind on Fire 02] Page 19
