The Wind Singer (15 page)

‘There’s two socks for each of you, which is all you’ll want to carry. You’m be careful, little skinnies. ’Tis a cruel dry world up yonder.’

They tied the heavy nut-socks together in pairs and hung them round their necks, as the mudmen did. The dangling mud-nuts bumped against their chests and stomachs as they walked, but they soon grew used to this, and found it comforting.

They departed from the palace accompanied by an escort about twenty strong. As they marched along the ever-lightening trail others joined them, and more and more, until in time there were over a hundred mudpeople swinging along behind.

‘We’re the three friends, we’re the three friends,’ sang Mumpo, until Kestrel told him to shut up.

The land rose almost imperceptibly, and the mud hardened underfoot, the nearer they approached to the mouth of the great salt cave that contained the Underlake. After a while they began to feel a cool breeze on their faces, and the silver stone of the cavern roof seemed to grow brighter as the light strengthened.

Their first sight of the cave mouth was no more than a strip of burning brightness, far ahead. But as they drew closer, walking now on moist but firm sand, they saw that the cave narrowed here to a span of barely half a mile, and arched downwards, to form an overhead lip no higher than the topmost branches of a tall tree. Beyond the cave, the brightness was now taking shape, revealing an expanse of sandy plain beneath a deep blue sky.

When the marching column at last reached the point where direct sunlight fell on to the hard earth, they came to a halt, keeping themselves well in the realm of shadows. The children understood that from this point onwards they were to proceed alone.

‘Thank you,’ they said. ‘Thank you for looking after us.’

‘We’ll sing for you,’ said Willum. ‘To see you on your way.’

As they set off, the mudpeople raised their hands in a gesture of farewell, and then they started to sing. It was a sweet soft farewell song, no words, just wave upon wave of melody.

‘It’s their love,’ said Kestrel, remembering what the Old Queen had said. ‘They’re sending it after us.’

As the children made their way out of the mouth of the salt cave and up on to the dusty plains, the song of the mudpeople followed them, warm and loving like the burrows in which they slept. And then it came fainter on the breeze, and fainter, until at last they could hear the song no more, and they knew they were alone.

After the protective shadows of the Underlake, the plains across which they now walked seemed to be without limits. Only to the north, far far away, could they make out the pale grey line of the mountains. Then as the sun climbed higher, the heat haze rising up from the baked earth melted the horizon into the sky, sealing them in a featureless shimmering world in which they were the only living creatures. For a little while they could see, if they turned their heads, the long dark mouth of the cave out of which they had come, but then that too was swallowed up by the dusty air and the distance, and they were without any sense of direction at all.

They tramped northward, in what they supposed was a straight line, hoping to come upon some signs of the high road called the Great Way. The wind was picking up, skittering the sand, making the land shiver. Bowman and Kestrel didn’t speak, but they could sense each other’s anxiety. Mumpo alone was without a care, as he followed behind Kestrel, planting his feet in her footsteps, calling out,

‘I’m like you, Kess! We’re the same!’

The wind grew stronger, lifting more sand into the air, dulling the brightness of the sky. Walking became difficult, because the sand stung their faces, and they had to twist their heads away from the wind. Then through the blurred air ahead of them there loomed a low square structure, like a hut without a roof, and they turned their steps towards it to take shelter.

Close up against it, they saw that it was some kind of wagon, lying on its side. Its axles were broken, and its wheels lay half-buried. Sand had piled up against the windward side, but on the lee there was a protected space where they could huddle out of the wind. Here they untied their nut-socks, and ate a much-needed lunch of roasted mudnuts.

The smoky taste brought back images of the harvest, and the cheery faces of the mudpeople, and made them wish they were back in the comfortable burrows of the Underlake. While the wind remained so strong there was no point in struggling on, so Kestrel took out the map and she and Bowman studied it.

There were no landmarks in the desert, only the position of the sun in the sky to tell them where north was, and perhaps a distant sight of the mountains; but somehow they must find the Great Way, or what was left of it.

‘The Old Queen said it had giants.’

‘That was long ago. There aren’t any giants nowadays.’

‘We’d better just keep going north. As soon as the storm passes.’

Kestrel looked up from the map, and saw Mumpo watching her and grinning.

‘What are you so pleased about, Mumpo?’

‘Nothing.’

Then she saw both his nut-socks lying empty before him.

‘I don’t believe it! Have you eaten all of them?’

‘Most of them,’ admitted Mumpo.

‘You have! There’s none left!’

Mumpo picked up the empty nut-socks and gazed at them in surprise.

‘None left,’ he said, as if someone else had taken them.

‘You great pongo! That was supposed to last you for days and days.’

‘Sorry, Kess,’ said Mumpo. But his stomach was full and he felt very happy and didn’t look sorry at all.

Bowman turned to studying the wagon against which they were sheltering, and the pieces of debris lying around. Apart from the wheels, which were surprisingly large and very slender, there were broken sections of long thick pole, and fragments of cloth and netting, and strands of rope: all very like the wreck of a sailing ship. He got up and walked round the wreck, squinting his eyes against the stinging sand, and saw where the masts had been fixed to the wagon’s bed, and realised that it had been a land-sailer of some kind. Back in the shelter of the craft, he dug about in the wind-heaped sand and found a pulley-wheel, and then a leather drive-belt; and he almost cut open his hands unearthing two long iron blades. It was clear that the craft had carried machinery. But what had the machinery been designed to do?

Because for the moment he had no better way to occupy himself, and because his mind worked that way, Bowman began to reconstruct the craft in his mind out of the pieces he could see lying around. It had two masts, that was clear enough; and it must have ridden very high, on its four immense wheels. The prow looked as if it had once narrowed to a ram-like prong. On either side there had been arms, stout timber beams reaching outwards; and hanging from them, still visible in a fragmentary form, there were nets. The land-sailer must have been designed to sweep across the plains, arms outstretched, nets trailing, entangling and carrying away – what?

As if looking for an answer, he gazed out into the storm. And as he looked, he thought he saw something that hadn’t been there before. He strained his eyes to make out the moving shape far off in the swirling haze of sand. Now he saw two shapes. Now there were three. Dim figures, slowly approaching. His heart began to beat fast.

‘Kess,’ he said. ‘Someone coming.’

Kestrel put away the map and looked out into the wind. They were quite easy to see now, a line of dark forms against the dull sky. She looked round, and saw others to the side of them. And behind.

‘It’s them,’ said Bowman. ‘I know it.’

‘Who?’ said Mumpo.

‘The old children.’

Mumpo at once started to jig about from foot to foot, waving his arms.

‘Then I’ll give them another bashing!’ he cried.

‘Don’t let them touch you, Mumpo!’ Kestrel’s warning rang sharp over the sound of the wind. ‘Something happens when they touch you. Keep out of their reach.’

The dim figures kept coming closer, shuffle shuffle shuffle, through the sandstorm, all round the wrecked land-sailer against which the children huddled. A voice now came to them out of the wind, deep and soothing, like before.

‘Remember us? We’re your little helpers.’

And from all round came the low rumble of their laughter.

‘You can’t get away from us, you know that. So why don’t you come home with us now?’

Mumpo danced about, punching the air.

‘I’m Kess’s friend,’ he cried. ‘You come any nearer and I’ll bash you!’

Bowman looked round for some sort of weapon with which to fend them off. He pulled at a half-buried section of broken mast, but it wouldn’t move. The old children were close enough now for their faces to be visible, those eery wrinkled faces that were ancient and childlike at the same time. Their shrivelled hands started now to reach out towards them, ready for the touch.

‘Or shall we stroke you to sleep?’ said the deep voice. ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke, and you wake up old, like us.’

The rest of them laughed at that, and their low cackling laughter was swept up by the wind and carried round and round in the roaring air.

We’ll have to run for it
, said Kestrel silently to Bowman.
Can you see a gap in the circle
?

No. They’re all round us
.

There’s no other way. I’m sure we can run faster than them
.

All the time, the old children were coming closer, shuffle shuffle shuffle, tightening the ring round them.

‘Bubba-bubba-kak!’ shouted Mumpo, punching the air. ‘You want a squashed nose?’

If Mumpo hits one of them, we could run through the gap
.

But what about Mumpo
?

Even as Bowman sent this thought, Mumpo bounced forward and biffed one of the old children on the nose. At once he fell back, wailing miserably.

‘Kess! Kess!’

Kestrel caught him as he collapsed, whimpering, in her arms.

‘I’ve gone wrong, Kess. Help me.’ The old children giggled, and their leader said,

‘Time to come home now. You’ve missed too many lessons already. Think of your ratings.’

‘No!’ shouted Kestrel. ‘I’d rather die right here!’

‘Oh, you won’t die’, said the deep soothing voice, moving closer. ‘You’ll just grow old.’

There was no way out. Terrified, Bowman closed his eyes, and waited for the dry bony hands to touch him. He heard their footsteps as they shuffled ever closer. Then, over the moaning of the wind, he heard a new sound, the sound of a horn, rising and falling like a siren, approaching at great speed.

Suddenly the sound was on top of them, accompanied by a tremendous crashing and snapping and creaking, and out of the storm, driven by the wild wind, there swept a high-wheeled land-sailer, its outstretched arms trailing a skirt of flying nets. Kestrel saw it, and knew what she must do. In the instant before it passed, she seized Bowman’s wrist in one hand, and Mumpo’s in the other, and threw all three of them into its path. Almost at once, the nets struck them and swept them away. Entangled in the heavy mesh, they were hurled along in the storm, racing before the wind at heart-stopping speed, over the sand-blind plain.

As soon as she had regained her breath, Kestrel started to climb the net to the supporting arm. Clinging on here, in the rushing air, she was able to look about her. She could see Mumpo below, caught like a wild animal, both legs through the netting, hanging upside down and screaming. Bowman had righted himself, and was now following her lead and pulling himself up the net. It wasn’t easy, because the land-sailer was travelling so fast that every rut and stone in the ground over which it passed made it buck and lurch; and all the time the stinging sand was whistling by. The horn on the mast-top wailed like a banshee, and at the outer ends of the projecting timber arms huge scythe-like blades rotated at speed, making a fearful hissing screeching sound.

Kestrel looked into the well of the craft and saw that it was unmanned. She looked for a tiller or steering mechanism, hoping to steer them out of the wind, but she could see none. The land-sailer was completely out of control: any large rocks or trees in its headlong path, and it would crash at full speed, smashing them along with itself. Somehow she had to slow the craft down.

‘You all right?’ she called to Bowman.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Get Mumpo into the ship. I’m going to cut the sails.’

He turned at once and climbed down to Mumpo. Chivvied by Bowman, Mumpo managed to right himself, and follow him up the net. Once inside the craft, the two of them held tight to the masts as the land-sailer thundered on its way.

Kestrel found the anchorage for the mainsail, and started to unwind the rope. A sudden savage lurch threw her clear of the craft, but she was holding tight to the rope, and swung crashing back against the timber side. Hand over hand, she pulled herself up again, and braced herself against the timbers once more, and loosed the mainsail. She meant the whole sail to fly free, to cut their frantic speed, but only one side came undone. The sail veered sharply, forcing the craft on to two wheels. For a few crazy moments, the land-sailer hurtled along with two wheels in the air, the blade on the lower side thrashing the sand. Then the blade locked, and the craft cartwheeled into the air, spun over itself and over again, tumbling and somersaulting, impelled by the sheer force with which it had been travelling. As it rolled, the great blades snapped and the masts broke and the wheels smashed, but the heavily-built chassis to which the children clung remained intact. When at last the battered craft came tumbling to a rest, the children found that although their bodies hurt all over, and they were struggling for breath, they were still alive, and none of their bones was broken.

They lay in silence, feeling their wildly beating hearts gradually settle into a more even rhythm. The storm still raged, but the horn was silent, and the machinery of the land-sailer had come to a stop. All that remained was the clap-clap-clap of grounded sails, snapping in the wind. Once again they were sheltered in the lee of a crashed craft. There was nothing to do but lie there and wait for the wind-storm to pass.