The Wind Singer (20 page)

‘So we have seen,’ said Kemba with a thin smile. ‘But nevertheless, I think it would be best if we were to take you south, to Aramanth, which you say is your home.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Kestrel firmly. ‘We have to go north.’

Counsellor Kemba bowed in what seemed like assent, and left them to their braiding.

The final results were spectacular. The three children gazed at themselves in the glass and were silent with awe. Their hair now haloed their faces in a shimmer of light, which danced this way and that with every move of their heads. The Master Braider beamed at them with pride.

‘I knew the gold would set off your pale skins,’ he said. ‘We Barakas need stronger colours, to tell you the truth. Gold would be lost on me.’

He fingered his own red, orange, and acid-green plaits.

At the grand dinner, the children’s entrance was greeted by a standing ovation. All down the long lines of tables gasps of admiration could be heard, at the gleam of their golden braids in the candle-light. Raka of Baraka beckoned them to sit on his either side. Thinking that he was pleasing them, he announced,

‘We’re sailing south! Kemba has told me that your one wish is to return to Aramanth. So I have given the order to sail south.’

‘But that’s not right,’ cried Kestrel. ‘We want to go north.’

The smile left Raka’s face. He looked across the table to Kemba for an explanation. Counsellor Kemba spread his smooth hands.

‘I consider it our duty, my lord, to look after our young heroes in every way we can. The road north is impassable. The bridge over the gorge is in ruins. No travellers dare go that way any more.’

‘Well, we dare,’ said Kestrel fiercely.

‘There is another matter.’ Kemba sighed, as if it hurt him to speak of it. ‘My lord, as you know, although we have been at war with Omchaka for a long time, we have been spared a greater danger. I speak of – ’ he hesitated, then murmured low, ‘the Zars.’

‘The Zars?’ said Raka, in his booming tones. And the word was repeated all down the lines of tables, like an echo. ‘The Zars – the Zars.’

‘Were the children inadvertently to wake – ’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Raka hastily. ‘Better to head south.’

The twins heard this with dismay.

Leave it for now
, said Bowman silently. So Kestrel said nothing more, and Counsellor Kemba, watching them closely, was satisfied.

At the end of the grand dinner, Bowman asked Raka for a special favour. He asked to speak to the warlord alone.

‘Certainly,’ said Raka, who had eaten and drunk well, and was filled with sensations of goodwill. ‘Why not?’

But Kemba was suspicious.

‘I think, my lord – ’ he began.

‘Now, now, Kemba,’ said Raka. ‘You worry too much.’

He took Bowman off into his private quarters, and Kemba had to content himself with standing close to the door in the next room, and listening to every word.

What he heard was not at all what he expected. For a long time, the boy and the warlord sat together in total silence. It even seemed possible that Raka had gone to sleep. But then the counsellor heard the boy’s voice, speaking softly.

‘I can feel you remembering,’ he said.

‘Yes .. .’ This was Raka.

‘You’re a baby. Your father takes you everywhere. He holds you high, and he smiles. You’re only little, but you feel his pride and love.’

‘Yes, yes .. .’

‘You’re older now. You’re a boy. You stand before your father, and he says, Head up! Head up! You know he wishes you were taller. You wish it too, more than anything in the world.’

‘Yes, yes .. .’

‘Now you’re older still. You’re a man, and your father never looks at you. He can’t bear to see you, because you’re so small. You say nothing, but your heart cries out to him, Be proud of me. Love me.’

‘Yes, yes .. .’ Raka was sobbing softly now. ‘How do you know these things? How do you know?’

‘I feel it in you. I feel it in me.’

‘I’ve never spoken of it. Never, never.’

Counsellor Kemba, listening at the door, could endure it no longer. He was unclear quite how it would interfere with his schemes, but he was sure it was not healthy for the warlord of Ombaraka to be weeping like a baby. So, pretending agitation, he swept in to the private meeting.

‘My lord, what has happened? What’s the matter?’

Raka the Ninth, Warlord of the Barakas, Suzerain of Ombaraka, Commander-in-Chief of the Wind Warriors and Ruler of the Plains, looked up at his chief counsellor with tears streaming from red-rimmed eyes, and said,

‘Mind your own business.’

‘But, my lord – ’

‘Go and twiddle your hair! Out!’

So Counsellor Kemba retreated. And a little time later, the order went out to the helmsmen to set course for the north, and slowly the great mother craft lumbered round and began to roll towards the mountains.

As the sun came up on the new day, Kestrel climbed to the top of the highest watchtower on Ombaraka, and looked across the plains. It was a cool clear morning, and she could see for miles. There where the plains ended, she could make out the rising land, and the great forest that covered it. And not so far off now, on the horizon, the dark mass of the mountains.

As Kestrel stared at the land, she thought she saw beneath the dust of the plains and between the trees of the forest the outlines of a long-abandoned road, broad and straight, running towards the mountains. She had the map open before her, and there on it was the Great Way, broken by the jagged line called Crack-in-the-land. At the road’s end, at exactly the point where the Great Way met the highest mountain, there were written the words that her father had told her said,
Into the Fire
. The grateful people of Ombaraka gave their heroes a grand send-off; all but Counsellor Kemba, who was nowhere to be seen. Raka embraced them, one by one, with a specially close hug for Bowman.

‘If ever you need our help,’ he said, ‘you have only to ask.’

Salimba came forward with three shoulder bags filled with food for their journey.

‘I knew they weren’t spies from the first,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I do his braids?’

Then they were lowered to the ground, and all Ombaraka gathered to chant the victory call once more, as a final tribute. The cries resounding in their ears, the children headed for the nearby foothills, and the great forest. They turned back once, to wave farewell to their new friends, and stood for a moment watching as the great rolling city loosed its myriad sails and went creaking and rumbling back over the plains. A gust of wind tugged at their gold-braided hair, and made them shiver. The air was colder here, and ahead the land was dark.

17

The Hath family fights back

‘W
here Bo?’ said Pinpin. ‘Where Kess?’

‘They’ve gone to the mountains,’ said Ira Hath, who did not believe in deceiving a child even as young as two. ‘Lift up your arms.’

‘Where Pa?’

‘He’s gone to study for his exam. Stand still while I do you up. It’ll all be over soon.’

She examined the child with a critical eye. There had not been enough material in the bedspread to make complete robes for both of them, so for Pinpin she had just made a sleeveless tunic, which she put over her orange smock. Looking at them both now, she felt satisfied that this had been the right decision. To have mother and child in matching stripes would have been too much.

When they were both ready, she picked up the large basket she had packed earlier, took Pinpin’s hand, and went out into the passage. As they passed the doorway to the Mooths’ room, she heard the door open a crack, and a sharp cry come from within.

‘Oh! Look what she’s done now!’

Three shocked faces appeared in the crack, to watch them make their way to the stairs.

Out in the street, their multi-coloured stripy appearance caused a sensation. The block warden, who happened to be passing, at once raised his hand high, blew his whistle, and called out,

‘You can’t do that!’

A man wheeling a cart laden with barrels turned to look, and not watching where he was going, wheeled the cart into a man carrying a basket on his head. The basket went flying, and the barrels tumbled off the cart. Out of the upturned basket fell a mass of small pink crabs, a delicacy much appreciated in White District. Two large women coming the other way, also staring at Ira and Pinpin Hath, fell over the runaway barrels, the larger of the two women crushing one barrel so completely that it burst open, spilling crude molasses on to the stone street. The block warden, hurrying forward to restore order, stepped into the molasses, strode on through the scurrying crabs, and fell headlong over the smaller of the large women. As he struggled to get up again, his flailing boots smeared her head with molasses, in which several small pink crabs had become stuck.

Pinpin saw all this with delight, as if it was a performance put on specially to entertain her. Ira Hath paid no attention whatsoever. Magnificently indifferent to the stares of her neighbours, the oaths of the warden, and the shrieks of the woman with crabs in her hair, she marched on down the street, and turned into the main avenue to the centre of the city.

As she strode along, her basket in one hand and Pinpin holding the other, she collected a little train of followers. They hung some way behind, and spoke to each other in whispers, as if afraid she would hear. Ira Hath found that she was almost enjoying herself. Being stripy gave her a kind of power.

As she passed into Maroon District, and then into her former home territory of Orange, her followers grew in number, until there were fifty and more people of various ranks trailing along behind her. As she entered Scarlet District she stopped unexpectedly, and turned to look at them. They all stopped too, and looked back at her in silence, like a herd of cows. She knew why they were following her, of course. They wanted to see her punished. There was nothing excited people in Aramanth more than seeing fellow-citizens humiliated in public.

Something in those rows of sad blank eyes spoke to her, at an ancestral level, and the words rose to her mouth unbidden.

‘O, unhappy people!’ she cried. ‘Tomorrow will bring sorrow, but the day after will bring laughter! Prepare to mingle your colours!’

Then she turned and walked on, and they all came shuffling after her, murmuring among themselves.

Ira Hath walked tall, and felt the blood sing in her body. She liked being a wife and mother, but she had just discovered she liked being a prophetess more.

By the time she reached the plaza by the Imperial Palace, every idle person in Aramanth seemed to have joined the crowd. Strictly speaking, of course, there were no idle people in Aramanth, since the city made sure everyone had useful work to do. So the sight of the shuffling procession that trailed the brightly-striped mother and child past the College of Examiners was not a pleasing one to the city’s governors.

On she strode, through the double row of marble columns, into the arena. Down the nine tiers she went, and the crowd followed her, to see what she would do next. In the centre of the great arena, at the foot of the wooden platform of the wind singer, she came to a stop. She hoisted her basket up on to the platform’s base. Then she hoisted Pinpin after it. Then she clambered up herself. Once in position, she took a blanket out of her basket and spread it on the boards, and sat herself and Pinpin down. Out of the capacious basket came a bottle of lemonade and a bag of buns.

The crowd watched, all agape, for her next outrageous action.

‘O, unhappy people!’ cried the prophetess. ‘The time has come to sit and eat buns!’

Which is what she did.

The crowd waited patiently, knowing there would be developments. After a while, a white-robed senior examiner appeared, followed by four marshals. The examiner, Dr Greeth, was responsible for the maintenance of order in the city. The sight of him stepping down the nine tiers, flanked by four huge marshals, sent shivers of anticipation through the crowd.

‘Madam,’ said Dr Greeth in his clear cutting voice. ‘This is not a circus. You are not a clown. You will come down from there, and dress yourself in your designated clothing.’

‘No, I won’t,’ said Ira Hath.

Dr Greeth nodded briskly to the marshals.

‘Get her down!’

The prophetess rose to her full height and cried in her most prophetic voice.

‘O, unhappy people! Watch now, and see that there is no freedom in Aramanth!’

‘No freedom in Aramanth?’ exclaimed Dr Greeth indignantly.

‘I am Ira Hath, direct descendant of the prophet Ira Manth, and I have come to prophesy to the people!’

Dr Greeth signalled to the marshals to wait.

‘Madam,’ he said, speaking loudly so that all the people in the crowd could hear him. ‘You are talking nonsense. You are fortunate enough to live in the only truly free society that has ever existed. In Aramanth, every man and woman is born equal, and has an equal chance to rise to the very highest position. There is no poverty here, or crime, or war. We have no need of prophets.’

‘And yet,’ cried the prophetess, ‘you fear me!’

This was a clever move, as Dr Greeth at once realised. It would not look good if he were to overreact.

‘You are mistaken, madam. We don’t fear you. But we do find you a little noisy.’

The crowd laughed. Dr Greeth was satisfied. There was no need to use force, it would only bring the woman sympathy. Better to leave her on her perch until she grew cold and hungry, and came down of her own accord.

In the meantime, in order to reassert his authority, he ordered the marshals to disperse the crowd.

‘Back to your work!’ he cried. ‘Let’s leave her to prophesy what she’s going to eat for dinner.’

Hanno Hath, shut away in the Residential Study Centre, did not learn of his wife’s rebellion until the midday meal. The serving girls passed on the gossip in excited whispers, as they spooned vegetable stew into the candidates’ bowls. A wild woman dressed as a clown was sitting on the wind singer, they said, telling everyone to be unhappy. Hanno recognised his wife’s style at once, and felt a rush of pride and concern. He pressed the serving girls for more details. Had the authorities tried to force the wild woman off the wind singer?