The Wind Singer (21 page)

‘Oh, no,’ said the girl on the rice pudding. ‘They come and have a good laugh like the rest of us.’

This both reassured Hanno, and hardened his resolve. The High Examination was now only two days away, and his own small act of rebellion was well advanced. Little by little, the other candidates had fallen in with his plan, until only one, a factory cleaner called Scooch, remained unconvinced. One accidental result was that the atmosphere of the Study Course had been transformed. The candidates who had stared so numbly at their revision books, and had listened to the Principal’s lectures with defeat in their eyes, were now applying themselves eagerly to their exercises.

Principal Pillish too saw this with satisfaction. It seemed to him that the candidates were helping each other overcome their negative approach to examinations, and this augured very well for the results. He observed that the gentle soft-spoken Hanno Hath was the centre of this new enthusiasm. Curious to know what it was he had told his fellow-candidates, he called Hanno into his study for a private talk.

‘I’m impressed, Hath,’ he said. ‘What’s your secret?’

‘Oh, it’s very simple,’ said Hanno. ‘We have the time here to think about the real value of examinations. We’ve realised that what an examination does is test the best in us. So if we give it our best, well – whatever the result, we should be content to be judged by it.’

‘Bravo!’ cried Principal Pillish. ‘This is a real turnaround. I don’t mind telling you, Hath, that your file has you down as incurably negative in your attitudes. But this is excellent! Give it your best – quite so. I couldn’t put it better myself.’

What Hanno Hath did not feel obliged to explain to the Principal was just how he and the other candidates proposed to give their best. The idea had come to Hanno while listening to Miko Mimilith talk about the different fabrics he handled. If Miko could only sit an exam on fabrics, he had thought, he would have no fears. This had been followed at once by a further thought. Miko’s knowledge of fabrics is his special expertise, and his passion. Why is he tested on other subjects, at which he will only fail? Each of us should be tested on what we do best.

He had said as much to his new friends on the Study Course.

‘That’s all very well,’ they said. ‘But it’s not going to happen.’

The High Examination contained over a hundred questions, of which they would be lucky to get even one on fabrics, or cloud formations.

‘Ignore the questions on the paper,’ said Hanno. ‘Write about what you know best. Give them your best.’

‘They’ll just fail us.’

‘They’ll fail us anyway, even if we try to answer their questions.’

They all nodded. That was true enough. They were on the Study Course precisely because they’d always failed before. Why should it be any different this time?

‘So what’s the point?’ said Hanno, gently persisting. ‘It’s like giving tests in flying to fish. Let’s each of us do what we’re good at.’

‘They’ll hate it.’

‘Let them. Do you want to sit in that arena and feel sick with panic for another four hours?’

That was what did it. Every one of them dreaded, almost more than the results, the long humiliation of the exam itself. Every hated detail had burned itself into their memories. The slow walk to the numbered desk. The scrape of a thousand chairs as they were pulled out. The rustle of a thousand exam papers as they were turned over. The smell of the fresh print. The dancing black letters on the paper, forming words that made no sense. The scratch-scratch-scratch of pens all round, as the clever candidates began their answers. The pad-pad-pad of soft shoes, as the supervising examiners passed down the rows. The panic need to begin writing, something, anything. The deep dull certainty that nothing you wrote would be right, or good, or beautiful. The slow drag of the hands on the clock. The spreading paralysis of despair.

Anything, anything, but that.

So one by one they joined Hanno Hath’s secret rebellion. In their exercises, they practised writing papers on subjects of their own choosing. Monographs were in preparation on drainage systems, the growing of cabbages, and rope-jumping games. Miko Mimilith was working on the definitive classification of woollen weaves. Hanno Hath was tackling some problems in old Manth script. Only little Scooch wrote nothing. He sat hunched at his desk, staring at the wall.

‘You must know something about something,’ Hanno said.

‘Well, I don’t,’ said Scooch. ‘I don’t know anything about anything. I just do what I’m told.’

‘Isn’t there something you like to do when your work is finished?’

‘I like to sit down,’ said Scooch.

Hanno Hath sighed.

‘You have to write something,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you just describe a typical day in your life?’

‘How do you mean, describe?’

‘Just start at the beginning, when you get out of bed, and write down what you do.’

‘I eat breakfast. I go to work. I come home. I eat supper. I go to bed.’

‘Right. Now all you have to do is add a little more detail. Maybe put down what you have for breakfast. What you see on your way to work.’

‘It doesn’t sound very interesting to me.’

‘It’s more interesting than looking at a wall.’

So Scooch settled down to describe his typical day. After an hour or so of steady work, he reached mid-morning in his description, and made a surprising discovery. When it was time for the candidates’ own mid-morning break, he hurried over to Hanno Hath to tell him about it.

‘I’ve found something I know about,’ he said. ‘I’m going to write about it in the High Examination.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Hanno. ‘What is it?’

‘Tea-breaks.’

Scooch beamed at him, his face glowing with pride.

‘I didn’t realise till I started writing about my day, but what I love most in all the world is tea-breaks.’

He passed the next half-hour explaining to a patient Hanno Hath how he looked forward to his tea-break from the moment he started work. How his anticipation mounted as the time approached. How the laying down of his broom and the picking up of his flask of tea was a moment of almost perfect joy. How he breathed in the steam that rose from the flask as he removed its stopper, and poured the hot brown tea into his mug. How he unwrapped his three oat biscuits from their slippery greaseproof paper wrapping, and how, one by one, he dipped them into the hot tea. Ah, the dipping of the biscuits! This was the heart of the tea-break, the time of tension and gratification, the exercise of skill, and the encounter with the unknown. Sometimes, when he judged it right, he raised the sweet sodden biscuit to his mouth and consumed it intact, allowing it to crumble and melt on his tongue. Sometimes he dipped it for too long, or raised the biscuit too abruptly, or at too sharp an angle, and a large fragment fell off, and sank to the bottom of the mug. What made the tea-break so intense an experience was not knowing when or whether this would happen again.

‘Really, you know,’ said Hanno Hath thoughtfully, ‘someone should find a way to make a biscuit that goes soggy when dipped in tea, but doesn’t break.’

‘Make a biscuit?’ said Scooch, astonished. ‘You mean, invent a different sort of biscuit altogether?’

‘Yes,’ said Hanno.

‘Well, boggle me!’ said Scooch; and he began to think. To be an inventor of biscuits! That would be something.

In this way, as in many others, with a mounting eagerness, inspired by Hanno Hath’s gentle leadership, the candidates in the Residential Study Course prepared for the day of the High Examination. For the first time in their lives, whether it was wanted or not, they would be giving their best.

Ira Hath and Pinpin remained on the wind singer all night. It turned out that Ira had planned for this, and had brought extra food and blankets in the deep basket. She had even brought night clothes for Pinpin, and her special pillow.

When they were found to be still there in the morning, another crowd gathered, to laugh and jeer.

‘Let’s hear you prophesy, then!’ they cried. ‘Go on, say, “O unhappy people”!’

‘O, unhappy people,’ said Ira Hath.

She spoke rather more quietly than they liked, and somehow it didn’t sound so funny any more. Then again, soft and sad, she said,

‘O, unhappy people. No poverty. No crime. No war. No kindness.’

This wasn’t funny at all. The people in the crowd shuffled their feet and avoided each other’s eyes. Then for a third time, most quietly of all, Ira Hath said,

‘O, unhappy people. I hear your hearts crying, for want of kindness.’

No one ever said such things in Aramanth. The people heard her in shocked silence. Then they began to leave, in ones and twos, and Ira Hath knew she had proved herself a true prophetess, because none could bear to hear her speak.

The Board of Examiners raised the matter at their morning meeting. Dr Greeth continued to argue against intervention.

‘The woman can’t stay there much longer. Better to let everyone see how futile this kind of behaviour is. She’ll realise it herself soon enough, and what will she do then? She’ll climb down.’

Dr Greeth was rather pleased with this turn of phrase. It seemed to him to make the point with economy and precision. But the Chief Examiner didn’t smile.

‘I know this family,’ he said. ‘The father’s an embittered failure. The mother is mad. The older children – well, one way or another they won’t trouble us again. That leaves the infant.’

‘I’m not quite clear,’ said Dr Greeth, ‘whether you are disagreeing with me or not.’

‘I agree with your approach in principle,’ replied Maslo Inch. ‘In practice, we must have her out of there before the High Examination.’

‘Oh, she’ll be gone long before then.’

‘And then there is the matter of reparation.’

‘What exactly do you propose, Chief Examiner?’

‘The conduct of this family has been an insult to the city of Aramanth. There must be a public apology.’

‘She’s a high-spirited woman,’ said Dr Greeth doubtfully. ‘A wilful woman.’

‘High spirits can be brought low,’ said the Chief Examiner, smiling his cold smile. ‘Wilful spirits can be broken.’

18

Crack-in-the-land

N
ow that the twins were on the ground, the Great Way, which Kestrel had seen so clearly from the high watchtower of Ombaraka, seemed to have hidden itself again. The low rising hills were scattered with mounds and ditches, and there were clumps of scrubby trees here and there, but no obvious broad avenue between them. Only the jagged mountains could still be seen on the horizon ahead, and it was towards these that they directed their steps.

Mumpo groaned as he walked. He had chewed too much tixa at the time of the battle, and now the inside of his head hurt and his mouth was dry, and he had that feeling where you want to be sick but never quite do it. Bowman and Kestrel were concerned at first, and very sympathetic. However, his complaining went on so long that after a while they became irritated, and Kestrel reverted to former habits.

‘Oh, shut up, Mumpo.’

After that, as well as groaning, Mumpo started to cry. When he cried, his nose ran, and it was even harder to be sympathetic to him, because his upper lip was shiny with nose-dribble. Anyway, both Bowman and Kestrel had other matters on their minds. As the trees became more frequent, and their path lay more and more through shadowy glades, Kestrel was searching for signs of the Great Way, and Bowman was looking about him, fearful of possible danger. He knew he had an overactive imagination, and he didn’t want to alarm the others if there was nothing there, but it seemed to him that they were being followed.

Then he saw something, or someone, ahead. He froze, pointing silently so the others could see. Through a clump of trees they could make out a huge figure, standing on some high perch, and staring towards them. Both Bowman and Kestrel had the same thought at the same time: giants. The Old Queen had said there were giants on the Great Way. For several long moments, they didn’t move, and the giant didn’t move. Then Mumpo sneezed, suddenly and loudly, and said,

‘Sorry, Kess.’

The giant showed no signs of having heard. So they approached, cautiously at first, until as they cleared the clump of trees, their fears evaporated.

They were looking at a statue.

The figure was at least twice life-size, and very old, and very weather-beaten. It represented a robed man, raising one hand to point south: one arm, rather, for the hand was gone. As was the other arm, and much of the face. The figure stood on a high pedestal of stone, its edges worn smooth by wind and rain.

Not far off there was another pedestal, with another statue. Now that they understood what they were, they could make out more and more, forming a broad double line through the trees.

‘Giants,’ said Kestrel. ‘To guide travellers down the Great Way. There must have been statues all down it, once.’

Confident now that they were on the right path, they pressed on towards the mountains. But soon Mumpo was snivelling and groaning again.

‘Can’t we sit down? I want to sit down. My head hurts.’

‘Best if we keep moving,’ said Bowman.

Mumpo started to howl.

‘I want to go home,’ he cried dismally.

‘I’m sorry, Mumpo,’ said Bowman, trying not to be too hard on him. ‘We have to go on.’

‘Why don’t you ever wipe your nose?’ said Kestrel.

‘Because it just goes on running,’ said Mumpo miserably.

When they had reached the forest proper, and there were tall trees on either side, they saw that they were indeed following what once had been a road. Some young saplings had seeded in the open space, but the really big old trees rose up high on either side of a broad avenue, just as they must have done in the far-off days of the Great Way. Satisfied that they were making progress, Kestrel said that they could stop for a short rest, and eat their food. Mumpo at once collapsed in a heap. Bowman divided up the bread and cheese, and they ate hungrily, in silence.

Kestrel watched Mumpo as they ate, and saw how his good spirits returned as his stomach was filled. It reminded her of Pinpin.

‘You’re just like a baby, Mumpo,’ she said. ‘You cry when you’re hungry, like a baby. You sleep like a baby.’