Firesong (20 page)

‘It’s hard for me, too.’

Sisi was sleepy, and shortly she laid herself down beside Bowman, with her head in his lap, and he stroked her to sleep. He himself must wake and watch.

A little before sunrise, the sleepers beneath the canopy began to stir. Bowman wondered whether he should wake Sisi and send her away, but decided against it. These things couldn’t be hidden for ever.

Little Scooch emerged from beneath the canvas, and nodded his greeting to Bowman, before setting about his morning business. Bowman watched him putting a pot of water on the fire, and he heard the sounds of other sleepers waking, and the swishing back and forth of the canvas flaps.

He looked round, and there was Kestrel staring at him, blinking. She looked at him sleepily for a moment longer, and saw Sisi on his lap. Then she smiled, and turned and padded away through the trees.

Kestrel had slept well, and had woken refreshed. The frosty air filled her lungs with vigour. She felt young, and strong, and full of hope. And now, with a sudden overwhelming intensity, she wanted to be alone.

Treading lightly over the thin coating of snow that lay between the trees, she made her way to a point where the fire was no longer visible. Her unguided footsteps led her far from the road, down paths made by forest animals, between tall trees whose shade permitted little else to grow. She was not distressed, she told herself. Bowman was growing close to Sisi, that was no surprise, she had sensed it already. And yet the sight of them together under the same blanket, his hand moving over her hair as she slept, had changed everything.

A glimmer of brighter light ahead drew her attention. She pressed on, deeper into the forest, glad to be further and further away from her people. She could see now that it was a ray of sunlight, falling in a long slant through a gap in the trees. Where it struck the snowy ground, it glittered, in a pool of dazzling brightness. She went on, wanting to bathe in that pool of light.

In a little while she emerged from the close-pillared cloisters of the trees into a sudden space, a long open glade, into which streamed the golden light of the rising sun. She stopped, to look and to wonder. The low rays of the sun, passing between the branches of the surrounding trees, threw bars of sharp brightness and velvet dark over the white floor of the glade. Between the trees to the east glowed a radiant sky, while on the trees to the west fell a light that rimmed each trunk with gold. The glade shimmered in the sunrise like a hall of enchantment, and Kestrel, seeing it in its brief moment of glory, knew that here was a promise made to her, an assurance that somehow all that was dark to her would one day be made light.

She stepped out, moving slowly, into the middle of the glade. All the time the light was changing round her. She found the heart of the light, and felt the sun’s rays falling on her cheek, lighting her hands as she held them out before her. On an impulse she closed her eyes and reached her hands high above her head, and looking up, turned herself round and round, feeling now the dazzle and now the darkness on her face.

Why should it ever end? Why shouldn’t I live for ever?

The sound of footsteps brought her to a stop. She dropped her hands and opened her eyes and felt him, felt him coming as she had known he would, felt his beloved nearness. He walked out of the trees and into the sun-lit space, over the white earth and into her out-stretched arms.

They held each other tight and shared the warmth of the rising sun and heard the rush of the wind in the surrounding trees.

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

We do
, came her brother’s answer.
We will.

Hand in hand, they left the bright glade together, and returned through the trees to their people. They said nothing to each other about what had changed, for what was there to say that they didn’t already know?

Sisi was another matter. Later, as the Manth marchers tramped onward through the forest, Kestrel walked by her side, and speaking softly so only she would hear, wished her joy with Bowman. Sisi looked guilty but relieved.

‘You always said he’d love you, right from the start,’ said Kestrel.

‘I don’t know that he loves me. But he’s stopped avoiding me.’

‘Oh, he loves you.’

‘You think I’m not good enough for him, don’t you, Kess?’

‘Sisi, look at me.’

They stopped for a moment, and Kestrel gazed deep into Sisi’s big beautiful amber eyes.

‘You have to believe this. If you make my brother happy, you make me happy. If he loves you, I love you. If you love him, you love me.’

‘I do love you, Kess. You’re my first friend.’

‘But all this love doesn’t mean we won’t be hurt.’

‘That’s what Bowman says. He says soon he’ll have to go away.’

‘It may be so.’

‘You have your feelings about what will happen to us all. And I have mine.’

With this, they rejoined the march.

By late afternoon the trees were thinning on either side of the road, and the sun was shining on the snow. Ahead they could see open land, and a scatter of houses. Another half hour’s march, and they saw the high pillars of the bridge, and knew that they would be at the river’s side by the end of the day.

12

All my loves

A
s the Manth people and their wagon and their cows approached the village ahead, there came sounds on the breeze, the cry of voices and the jangle of bands. It seemed a large number of people were gathered round the bridge and along the river. The river itself, its dark water gleaming, now lay clear before them; and on the far side, a white ribbon in the dusk, they could make out the road winding away up the hillside, towards the mountains. Here was the last stage of their journey, the steepest, but also the shortest. In the morning, at first light, they would cross the river and begin their ascent.

Hanno Hath chose not to lead his people into the crowds and bustle of the village, so instead he looked out a quiet spot by the river where a grove of trees offered some shelter from the winter wind. Here Seldom Erth drew up the wagon and tethered the horses, and Creoth set his cows to graze on the tufts of grass that poked up through the snow. The rest set about building a fire and laying out the blanket bags for the coming night.

Scooch was one of the many who stood gazing in awe at the mountains. So close now, after so long a journey, they seemed almost to be an illusion, a picture of mountains, painted onto the fading evening sky. He nudged Branco Such, who stood beside him, and pointed.

‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you? You were all for giving up. But look!’

‘Not there yet,’ said Branco Such; but his beaming face showed that he too felt the worst was over.

‘Now, madam,’ said Creoth to Mrs Chirish, ‘now that our journey is nearing an end, you and I must understand each other.’

‘I don’t see how,’ said Mrs Chirish, ‘any more than we understand each other at present, which is well enough.’

‘Then I ask you straight. Are we to go home by the same door?’

‘Home by the same door, and sleep in the same bed, if it pleases you.’

‘It pleases me mightily.’

‘Only, when you rise of a morning from this same bed, you’re to leave me sleeping.’

‘It shall be so, madam. Beard of my ancestors! I have a powerful wish to dance!’

‘Then dance, sir.’

Smiling broadly, Creoth performed a little jig round Mrs Chirish’s stout body, while she watched, clapping her plump hands in time with his steps.

As fires began to be lit, the Manth people realised that there were crowds of other travellers encamped along the river. The bridge was the only crossing point for many miles, and it soon became clear that a great migration was under way. Hanno Hath sent Bowman to the nearest group to ask them what had caused them to leave their homes.

‘Fire in the sky!’ they answered. ‘Signs and wonders! The end days are coming!’

‘People fleeing the cities! Houses standing empty –’

‘Silver plate in the dressers –’

‘Grain in the barns –’

‘Never need to work again! A poor man can live like an emperor!’

‘No more emperors! They’ve all run away!’

‘Why?’ asked Bowman.

‘Fire in the sky! The end days are coming!’

He could get no more sense out of them, and so returned to his father.

‘They feel the coming crisis,’ said Hanno. ‘Aramanth is burned. The Mastery has fallen. This is a time of signs and wonders.’

The rumours of abandoned cities to the south drew so many people to the bridge that the tiny riverside village had swollen into the size of a town. At its heart, right by the bridge itself, a bustling market had grown up, to cater to the needs of the travellers. Here makeshift stalls sold vegetables and dried meat, kitchen implements, blankets and harness, books of prophecies and maps. There were booths where sausages were roasting and hot spiced wine could be drunk. And everywhere, it seemed, roaring bonfires ringed by excited faces.

The Manth people were now in need of provisions for the journey. They had no money, and so needed to sell before they could buy. They decided to sell the wagon. Their way ahead lay up steep mountain roads; there was no certainty that the horses would be able to haul the wagon all the way. So Hanno Hath, with the agreement of all, decided that it could be sold, and the proceeds used to buy food. The horses and the cows they resolved to keep, for use in the homeland itself.

Hanno and Bowman walked the short distance from their camp to the market place, to find a buyer for the wagon. The scene by the bridge was chaotic. Stall-holders shouted on all sides, banging pans that glinted in the light of the roaring fires. Succulent smells rose up from sizzling roasts turning on spits, beside which grease-covered cooks stood plying their carving knives. A baker had built an oven out of stones and clay, and from its orange mouth he was drawing trays of plump white buns, that smoked as they emerged into the frosty air. Traders in mysteries touted their books, showing pictures of the days of fear and wonder to come: showers of fire from the sky, and great lights, and ghosts as tall as trees.

‘Wonders! Terrors!’ they cried. ‘Be ready for the last days! Maps of the mysteries! Lists of the cities that will perish! The last days explained!’

Bowman was looking at one of the pictures of doom when he felt a touch on his shoulder. Turning, he found there was no one there. His father was at another stall, talking to a trader whose business was tents and harness and wheels for wagons. Bowman joined them. The trader was a small wiry man, with bright eyes and quick movements, like a bird.

‘A whole wagon?’ he said suspiciously, in answer to their enquiry. ‘You want to sell all of it? Why? What’s wrong with it?’

‘We don’t need it any more. We’re going north, over the mountains.’

‘Over the mountains? What for? There’s nothing there.’ He stuck his head into the small canvas cubicle behind his stall. ‘Some people here going over the mountains.’

‘More fools them,’ came back a woman’s voice.

The trader looked at Hanno in a sideways fashion, as if Hanno was trying to get the better of him.

‘Where’re you from, then?’

‘We’ve come from the Mastery.’

‘From the Mastery? The wagon’ll be well used, then. Badly well used.’

‘It’s in good enough condition.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ His head disappeared back into the cubicle. ‘I’m going after some business. Mind the stall.’

‘Don’t you go paying a fool price!’ said the woman inside.

‘Did I ever pay a fool price for anything?’

‘You were born a fool and you’ll die a fool,’ came the reply.

The trader gave Hanno a shrug.

‘Marriage,’ he said.

He then returned with Hanno and Bowman to the camp by the river, to view the wagon. By now, Ira Hath had been lifted out of her bed in the wagon, and was lying well covered with blankets, by the trees, her head propped up by bundles of tent-cloth. Kestrel sat by her side.

The trader examined the wagon thoroughly. Then he joined Hanno and Bowman, and sighed, and sucked his teeth, and shook his head.

‘Needs work,’ he said. ‘I can fix it. But I’m looking at, oh, five days work. That’s five days away from the stall. And who knows how soon we’ll all be dead? The day after tomorrow, according to the fellow in the stall next to mine.’

‘How much will you give for it?’ asked Hanno.

‘I couldn’t go higher than five crowns.’

‘Five? Is that all?’

‘Imperial crowns. None of your home-made rubbish.’

‘Well –’

Bowman laid a hand on his father’s arm, and spoke to the trader himself.

‘How much do you think you can sell the wagon for, when you’ve repaired it?’

The trader frowned, and carried out a mental calculation. Bowman reached carefully into his mind, and followed his thoughts with ease.

New buckboard, new cover, coat of paint
, the trader was thinking.
It’ll go in a day for a hundred crowns. That’s the crazy times we’re living in.

‘Ten crowns if I’m lucky,’ he said aloud. ‘Hardly pays me for my labour. Needs new wheels, of course. Four of them.’

‘You can have it for eighty crowns,’ said Bowman.

‘Eighty!’ exclaimed the trader. Even Hanno looked surprised. ‘This boy of yours.’ The trader addressed Hanno as if in confidence. ‘Bit of a dreamer, is he? Not quite learned which way up his boots go on?’

‘That’s the crazy times we’re living in,’ said Bowman.

The trader shot him a surprised look.

‘Eighty crowns!’ he said. ‘Now, if you’d said twenty.’

‘I said eighty.’

The trader shook his head and turned again to Hanno.

‘What do you say, sir?’

‘We’d better find another buyer, pa,’ said Bowman.

‘Another buyer it is,’ said Hanno, smiling; and to the trader, ‘Thank you for your time.’

Hanno and Bowman set off back towards the market place. The trader followed after them, bubbling with indignation.