Firesong (8 page)

‘By the strength of their desire. When a young woman is most fertile, she is most desirable. Look at me. I’m like the flower whose petals have shrivelled and fallen. My child-bearing days are gone. No man desires me. But you’ – this to Sisi – ‘you are the unfolding bud.’

‘Not me,’ said Sisi, flushing and touching her scarred cheeks.

Madriel laughed.

‘You think that makes you any less desirable in a young man’s eyes? My child, every part of your body is heavy with the sweet scent of youth. You’ll be the first to be chosen.’

‘It makes no difference who chooses us,’ said Kestrel. ‘We know nothing of any of them.’

‘You’ll know them,’ said the klin mother, ‘when you see them walk the storm. A woman learns all she needs of a man by the way he walks the storm.’

Before they could ask more about this, a second woman from the klin now joined them, carrying a sleeping baby in a sling round her neck, and holding in her hands a shallow basket filled with strips of coloured fabric.

‘The bride colours, mother,’ she said, handing over the basket.

Madriel took the basket and picked out a blue-and-yellow ribbon. It was rough-edged, torn from the hem of some discarded garment, only a few inches long. She twisted it into a loose knot, and gave it to Sisi.

‘Hold it where the men can see it. I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.’

One by one she took the cloth strips out of the basket and distributed them at random to the Manth girls. Some were striped, some were checked, some plain. Kestrel received the plainest strip of all, a fragment of light grey material, almost white. She felt oddly pleased to have so colourless a piece of material, and was sure the klin mother had picked it out for her on purpose.

‘What is this walking the storm?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see.’

There came a stir among the huts, and a group of older men came filing out. Each held in one hand a homemade weapon, a stick or a weighted cord or a whip.

‘The fathers are ready,’ said Madriel. ‘Come.’

She rose, and the Manth girls rose at her command, and followed her. She arranged them in a line, kneeling or sitting as they chose, down the wide boardwalk that ran between the huts and the water. She showed them how to hold their bride colours open on their laps, where they could be seen. The older men, the ones she had called the fathers, some of whom weren’t old at all, now formed two long lines before them, their weapons in their hands. They took their places quietly, eyes cast down, with grave looks on their faces; and so stood, legs apart, facing each other, in an ever-lengthening human corridor two paces wide, running parallel to the water, all the length of the deck.

While these lines were forming, the young men were making their final preparations. Each one bound onto his right upper arm a strip of coloured fabric corresponding to the bride colours. When this armband was in place, they wound long scarves round their necks and faces, leaving only the narrowest slit below the nostrils to allow them to breathe. From now on, they were blindfolded.

Kestrel picked out the one with the white armband, that corresponded to the knot of material in her lap. She saw his face before it was muffled in the concealing scarf: a broad face with a snub nose.

Not him, she thought. I won’t marry him.

As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she chased it away. She had no intention of marrying anybody, from the Barra klin or anywhere else.

‘I won’t! They can’t make me!’

This was Sisi, speaking aloud. She too had identified the youth wearing her colour, and she was outraged.

‘Be patient!’ said the klin mother, seeing how the Manth girls were growing agitated. ‘No choices have been made yet. Soon now you will lay down your bride colour in the place I tell you. Later, when the young men make their choices, a bride colour will be given back to you.’

The blindfolded young men were now lining up at one end of the double row. Kestrel looked for the one she had puzzled over on the journey through the labyrinth, but now that all their heads were covered, she couldn’t pick him out.

Barra came out of the meeting hut and strode down the centre of the rows to the far end. Here he turned, and raising his hands above his head, he clapped twice. The fathers all stiffened, and lifted their whips and their sticks. The first of the blindfolded young men was led into the starting position. The Manth girls realised now what was about to happen, and forgot their own fears in horror at what was to be done.

The bandit leader clapped once more: this time a single clap. The first blindfolded young man set off down the lines, his boots clopping on the timber boards. The sticks swung hard, cracking onto his back; the cords lashed his arms; the whips cut at his legs. He staggered on, unable to see the blows before they landed, flinching at every sound, struggling not to cry out or to run. The blows rained down from either side, onto his head and chest and buttocks, brutal and unceasing. This first young man wore colours of black and orange, and gentle Sarel Amos, who clutched the same colours in her hands, couldn’t stop herself from crying out at his suffering. She knew neither his name nor his nature, but the chance of the colours linked them, and it was enough to make her care.

He staggered on down the long line, but the relentless blows were taking their toll. They could hear him groaning now, and whimpering. Too slow to dodge, every blow landed, and with each one, he crouched lower and moved more slowly. Then a bull-hide whip sliced at his calves, and he stumbled to his knees, and did not rise again. The flailing arms of the older men fell still. Madriel gestured to Sarel.

‘Lay your bride colour on the ground where he has fallen.’

Trembling, Sarel did as she was told. The older women came forward and helped the beaten young man limp away. Now the stripe of orange and black lay on the deck to mark how far he had endured, in the ordeal they called walking the storm.

‘Did I do well?’ he asked, his voice breaking with pain, as they unwound his blindfold.

‘You did well,’ they told him. ‘You passed the halfway line.’

The second young man was in place. The father of the klin clapped his hands. The grim beating began again, as one after another, the young men submitted themselves to the ordeal.

Some, caught by an unlucky blow, fell within a few paces of the start; and even though they were on their feet again within moments, the colour was laid where they had fallen, and their chance was gone. Others struggled on, crying out with the fear of the unseen blows as much as at the pain, until unable to bear it any longer they took the first opportunity to stumble, and so end the punishment. The one who wore the band of white was not one of these. As soon as he began his walk, Kestrel could tell he would be among the winners. He moved with a sure stocky gait, bowing his shoulders to the crack of the sticks, pushing doggedly onwards like a wounded ox. The whips couldn’t trip his ankles and the weighted cords couldn’t break his skull. On he stomped, breathing heavily, past the halfway line, maintaining the same steady speed. Kestrel found herself willing him on, for no other reason than that she held his colour in her lap; and then was ashamed of herself, thinking, Let him be clubbed to the dirt. What do I care?

And yet the klin mother had been right. Watching the young men walk the storm made Kestrel know them. The ordeal was the same for each one, but each one suffered it in his own way. This one with the white armband had tenacity, and courage, but he was not clever. He had no sense of how to avoid the blows, or reduce their punishing impact. He was a man who would be reliable, who would work hard, but who would never learn. His sheer determination took him to the three-quarter line, but here, worn down by the hundreds of blows he had endured, he was at last hammered to his knees.

Kestrel rose and placed her bride colour on the deck where he had fallen, and returned to her place. She caught Sisi’s eye as she walked back. Sisi’s face showed her distress, but whether for herself or for the young men who were walking the storm, Kestrel did not know.

The next youth was already on his way. The colours lay all down the line, showing how far each had got. Those for whom the ordeal was over were returning to watch and see how their companions fared, and to look at the row of waiting brides. These new-made veterans, bruised and aching though they were, held themselves with pride. They had walked the storm, and were now entitled to take their places as fathers of the klin.

At last there was only one bride colour remaining, the blue knotted strip held by the youngest of the Manth girls, Ashar Warmish. One young man waited at the end of the double line, wearing a blue band on his arm. Because he was the last, the atmosphere became more relaxed. His companions were starting to talk among themselves, and compare their wounds, while the leaders, the ones whose colours were furthest down the line, were already making their choice of bride. But first the final blindfolded youth must make his way down the lines.

Kestrel saw the difference as soon as he started. He was no stronger than those who had gone before him; nor was he nimbler at evading the blows. He simply cared less. He walked with his scarfed head held high, accepting the hammer-strikes to his back, reeling under the impact, finding his balance once more, and moving on: all as if he felt nothing. Shortly the others watching realised something unusual was happening, and their eyes turned from the brides to the blindfolded boy stalking down the lines. Already he was past the halfway mark, and he had made no sound. He turned his unseeing head towards the blows, seeming to invite them to strike him. Kestrel found herself thinking, How can he mind so little? Does he want to die? He walked on as if into the waves of the sea, turning always towards the higher wave and the higher, breasting the breakers and finding there an increase of strength. One club caught him full in his masked face with a sound of crunching flesh, but still he strode on.

Now in full silence all the klin watched, as he passed the three-quarter line, smashed and lashed but never brought down. Now he was past the white cloth marker, which was the furthest any of the others had got, and still he did not fall. Now the blows fell harder, and he staggered and tottered, but the big men with their clubs and their whips could not bring him down. Barra, father of the klin, stood at the far end, watching with his hard eyes, and the young man came nearer and nearer.

Why? thought Kestrel, as spellbound as the rest. Why take so much punishment? No bride is worth so much pain. And as she thought it, she knew, as everyone watching knew, that this was nothing to do with the brides, or even the klin. This, she said to herself, is a young man who chooses pain. He refuses to fall to his knees because he does not want his suffering to end.

On he strode, and now the entire klin knew he was going to the very end. Barra slowly opened wide his arms. The blindfolded boy, beaten and broken and barely conscious, walked on across the end line and into the klin father’s embrace.

There he fell, and for a few moments it seemed he had paid the price for his foolhardy glory. Then Barra looked up and said,

‘Aya! Honour him!’ He barked out the klin’s cry. ‘Aya! Aya! He is the first to walk the storm to the end!’

Men and women, young and old, joined him, calling together, stamping the deck and beating their hands in time to the cry.

‘Aya! Aya! Aya!’

Ashar Warmish, the blue bride colour in her hands, looked uncertainly towards Madriel. The klin mother beckoned her, took her hand and led her herself to lay the blue ribbon at the victor’s feet. He was stirring now, finding the strength to hold his own weight.

‘See to his wounds,’ Barra said to his wife.

Madriel took the young man’s arm, holding it gently, and herself unwound the long scarf that covered his head. As it came off, the onlookers saw that his face was disfigured and bright with blood. His nose had been crushed. One eye was swollen shut. One cheek was livid with a long dark bruise. But through the blood and the wounds, Kestrel still knew him, the minute the scarf came off.

It was Rufy Blesh.

She turned and saw that all the Manth girls were staring at him: Sarel and Seer, Red and Ashar. Only Sisi didn’t know him.

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s Manth, like us. His name’s Rufy Blesh.’ Kestrel spoke very low, so that they would not be overheard. ‘When we were slaves of the Mastery, he ran away in the night. Twenty of our people were burned alive.’

‘Because of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he know they’d do that?’

‘He knew.’

Sisi turned her beautiful eyes back to look at Rufy Blesh. He was standing unaided now, his face still a mask of blood, looking towards them. His one open eye was glazed, as if he looked but did not see. Kestrel understood that look. He was saying, Here I am, do what you want with me, I no longer care.

Barra, the klin father, raised his hands above his head and clapped for silence and attention.

‘Stand by your colours!’

The young men, moving awkwardly, some limping, some clutching their bruised arms, came forward, and each stood by his coloured marker where it lay on the deck.

‘Make your choice!’

No one moved. All eyes were on Rufy Blesh. As the one who had endured the longest, he had the right to choose first. But he seemed not to know it.

The klin father nodded to him.

‘The honour is yours.’

Rufy Blesh took up his colour, and stepped slowly across the intervening space to the line of Manth girls. He held the blue fabric strip in one hand. It was already stained with the blood that his hand had wiped from his battered face. Kestrel, watching in horror and pity, wondered that he could see to walk at all, through the mess of split flesh and drying blood.

He came to a stop a few paces away from them, and his head turned this way and that, so that everyone thought he was studying the brides, making his choice. But then, abruptly, he let his colour fall from his hand to the deck, and walked off.

He had chosen none of them.

Kestrel released her breath: not having realised until then that she had been holding it. Barra frowned. But already the young man who had placed second in the test was stepping forward, his white colour in his hand. He headed straight for Sisi, just as the klin mother had predicted, and laid his colour at her feet. Sisi looked at it, and then raising her elegant head, she looked away to one side.