The Wind Singer (25 page)

‘Take me! Make me young again!’

Mumpo was truly running now, jerkily and with difficulty, but as if his life depended on it.

‘Mumpo! No!’

Kestrel started after him, but he was too far ahead, and he didn’t seem to hear her. He was running directly towards the fire. The other old people were all doing the same: the nearer they got to the flames, the faster they hurried, as if eager for death. When they reached the fire, they let their outreached arms drop, and they walked into the flames, without visible fear or pain. What happened to them then Kestrel couldn’t see, because they were lost in the brightness of the fire.

Bowman caught up with her, and stood by her side. In silence, they stared at the towering crack in the mountain, and the belching smoke. They stared as Mumpo ran stumbling and calling towards the flames.

‘Take me! Make me young again!’

Then the pitiful cry fell silent, and his clumsy gallop was slowed to a hobbling walk, and he too was swallowed by the fire.

For a moment longer, the twins were silent, in shock. Then Kestrel felt for her brother’s hand.

We must go into the fire
.

We go together
, he said, knowing this was how it had to be.

Always together
.

So hand in hand they walked down the last of the Great Way towards the flames.

20

Into the fire

A
s they approached the great rift in the mountain, the twins felt the fierce heat of the fire, and smelled its acrid rising smoke. Why did the old people have no fear? How could they step so eagerly into its very heart and never cry out? But on they walked towards the fire, only revealing their fear by the tightness with which they held hands.

When the glare was too bright, they closed their eyes. The heat was strong, but not burning. The sounds of the outer world, of the mountains and the forest, were slipping away into silence. Even their own shoes, resolutely treading towards the furnace, seemed now to make no sound.

No going back now. Just a few more steps .. .

All at once, the heat faded away, to be replaced by a soft coolness, that seemed to lick about them. The brightness was still dazzling, blinding their closed eyes with blood-red light. But even without seeing it, they knew they had entered the fire, and were being bathed in cool flame.

On they walked, unharmed, and the dazzling light became less intense, and the cool caress fell away. Then little by little they sensed that the light was fading. Opening their eyes, they saw that the flames were fainter now. And within a few more paces, they were out of the fire entirely, and into a realm of shadow. Though where they were was hard to say.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they made out the walls of a broad passage, with doors at its far end. The walls were timber panelled, and the floor was tiled. They seemed to be in the hallway of a grand mansion.

Looking back, they had another surprise. There was the fire behind them, but it was no more than a coal fire, burning in a well-kept grate, within a carved stone fireplace. Had they just walked out of that?

The long hallway ran from the fireplace at one end to the doors at the other. It had no windows. There was only one way to go.

Still hand in hand, beyond amazement, they made their way down the hallway to the closed double doors at the far end. Bowman tried the handles, and found the doors were not locked. He eased one open a crack, and looked through. Another hallway.

This hallway, an extension of the first, had many rooms opening off it on either side. It was candlelit, and more ornately decorated. The dark wood panelling was carved in patterns of leaves and flowers. There were tapestries hanging between the many doors, faded scenes of hunting, and archery. Down the centre of the passage ran a finely woven carpet.

The twins made their way down this carpet, looking through the open doors to the right and left as they went. They caught glimpses of darkened sitting-rooms, the furniture all draped in dust sheets.

They moved as quietly as they could, fearful of what they might find. Although there was nothing to tell them so, they were directing their steps towards the far end of the hallway, which as before was closed with double doors. As they drew closer, they saw that unlike the other rooms they were passing, which were dark, there was a glow of light beneath the end doors.

They heard nothing as they went but the beating of their own hearts. The mansion, if mansion it was, seemed to be deserted. Yet candles burned in sconces along the passage walls, and the carpet over which they walked was well swept.

When they reached the end doors, they stood close by them and listened. There were no sounds. Softly, Kestrel turned one handle, and opened one door. The hinges gave a slight creak. They froze. But nothing happened, no footsteps, no calling voices. So she opened the door all the way, and they entered the room beyond.

It was a dining-room, and it was laid for dinner. A handsome dining-table stood in the middle of the room, gleaming with silver and crystal. Places were set for twelve. The candles on the two branched candelabra were burning, as were the candles in the great chandelier that hung above. There was water in the crystal water jugs and bread in the silver bread baskets. Coal fires burned in two elegant fireplaces, one on each side of the room. Portraits hung on the windowless walls, haughty images of lords and ladies of the distant past. There was only one other door, and that was facing them, at the far end. It was closed.

None of this was as the twins had imagined. They had hardly known what to expect, except that it would make them feel fear. This strange deserted grandeur was frightening, but not because it felt dangerous. The fear lay in not understanding. Because nothing they were now seeing made any sense, anything could happen. And there was nothing they could do to prepare themselves for it.

Stepping softly, they crossed the room, past the brocaded chairs lined up before the long glittering table, to the far door. Once again Kestrel paused, listened, and heard nothing. She opened the door.

A lady’s dressing-room, lit by two oil lamps. Tall closets, their doors open, filled with beautiful gowns. Stacks of drawers, also pulled open, in which lay chemises and stockings and petticoats, all beautifully pressed and folded. And shoes, and slippers, and boots, in numberless array. On a dressmaker’s dummy hung a ball-gown in the process of being made, its seams held together by pins. Bolts of fine figured silk lay partly unrolled over a day-bed, and on an inlaid table were arranged all the tools of the dressmaker’s art, the scissors and needles, the threads and buttons and braids. There was a tall pier-glass, in which they caught sight of their own reflections, pale-faced and nervous, eyes wide, hand in hand.

Two doors led out of the dressing-room, and both were open. One was to a bathroom: unlit and empty. The other led to a bedroom.

They stood very still in the dressing-room doorway, and looked into the bedroom. A lamp burned here too, on a low table beside a bed. The room was large and square. Trophies hung from its panelled walls: swords and helmets, flags and pennants, as if this were the mess-room of a regiment, proud of its battle history. But instead of leather club chairs and tables spread with newspapers, there was only the high ornate canopied bed, set right in the middle of the polished floor. The canopy was of gauze, suspended from a centre-ring in the ceiling, spread out like a diaphanous skirt to cover the entire bed. On the bedside table, beside the softly glowing lamp, stood a glass of water, and an orange on a plate. Beside the orange, a little silver knife. And in the bed, just visible through the gauze, beneath lace-edged linen sheets and embroidered coverlets, propped up in a sitting position by a mound of pillows, lay an old, old lady, fast asleep.

Very slowly, hardly daring to disturb the still air in which the old lady slept, the twins entered the bedroom. The wide boards made no sound beneath their feet, and they forced themselves to breathe in low even breaths. So, little by little, they came up to the bedside, and stood gazing at the old lady through the gauze; and still she slept.

Her face was calm and smooth in sleep, the outline of the bones showing clear through the papery skin. She looked as if she had been beautiful once, many years ago. Bowman gazed on her, and felt an almost unbearable longing, though for what he did not know.

Kestrel’s eyes were darting round the room, to see if there was a cupboard or box that might contain the voice of the wind singer. It wasn’t big, it could be anywhere: in this room, or one of the other rooms, or in some place they had not yet entered. For the first time Kestrel allowed herself to believe, with a deep dark lurch of fear, that they might fail. They might never find it. Her brother sensed the terror in her mind. Without taking his eyes off the sleeping old lady, he spoke silently to his sister.

It’s there. In her hair
.

Kestrel looked, and saw it. Holding back the old lady’s fine white hair was a silver clasp, in the shape of a curled-over letter S: the shape of the outline etched on to the wind singer, and drawn on the back of the map. An intense relief, as sudden as the terror, streamed into her, bringing with it a renewal of strength and will.

Can you get it without waking her
?

I’ll try
.

Bowman seemed to have lost his usual timidity; or to have forgotten it, in his fascination with that old, old face. Gently he reached out one hand, and with sure untrembling fingers took hold of the silver clasp. Holding his breath, so that his whole body was still, he drew the clasp slowly, slowly, out of the thinning white hair. Still the old lady slept on. Now, with the faintest shudder, the clasp came free, and in the glinting of the lamplight Bowman saw that across the curve of the S ran many fine threads of taut silver wire. He released his held breath, and lifted the clasp away. As he did so, he felt a sudden tug. A single white hair was snagged in the clasp, and as he lifted it, the hair strained tight, and snapped.

Bowman froze. Kestrel reached for the silver clasp that was the voice of the wind singer and took it from his outstretched hand.

Let’s go
!

But Bowman’s eyes were on the old lady. Her eyelids were flickering and opening. Pale, pale blue eyes gazed up at him.

‘Why do you wake me, child?’

Her voice was low and mild. Bowman tried to look away from those eyes, but he could not.

Bo! Let’s go
!

I can’t
.

As Bowman gazed into those watery blue eyes, he saw them change. In her eyes there were other eyes, many eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring back at him. The eyes drew him in, and in each he saw more eyes, and more, so that there was no end to them. As he looked, he felt a new spirit flood his body, a spirit that was bright and pure and powerful.

We are the Morah
, said the million eyes to him.
We are legion. We are all
.

‘There, now,’ said the voice of the old lady. ‘Not afraid any more.’

As she spoke the words, he knew they were true. What was there to fear? So long as he looked into the million eyes, he was part of the greatest power in existence. No more fear now. Let others fear.

From far off he heard the sound of distant music: drums, pipes, trumpets. The unmistakable sound of a marching band, accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.

‘Bo!’ cried Kestrel aloud in her fear. ‘Come away!’

But Bowman could not remove his gaze from those pale blue eyes in which he was joined to the legion that was the Morah; nor did he want to. The sound of marching feet was coming nearer, led by its jaunty band.

‘They’re coming now,’ said the old lady. ‘I can’t stop them now.’

Kestrel took his arm and pulled at it, but he was unexpectedly strong, and she couldn’t move him.

‘Bo! Come away!’

‘My beautiful Zars,’ murmured the old lady. ‘They do so love to kill.’

To kill
! thought Bowman, and felt a thrill of power course through him.
To kill
!

He looked up, and there before him on the wall hung a fine curving sword.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! came the sound of the approaching marchers.

‘Take the sword,’ said the old lady.

‘No!’ cried Kestrel.

Bowman reached up and took the sword from the wall, and the handle felt good in his right hand, and the blade felt light but deadly. Kestrel stepped back from him, frightened, and it was well that she did, for all at once he turned, smiling a smile she had never seen before, and slashed with his sword across the space where she had stood.

‘Kill!’ he said.

Oh my brother! What has she done to you
?

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

The beat of the drums, the blare of the trumpets. Kestrel looked and in her terror saw that the bedroom walls were fading away into darkness. The dressing-room door, the trophy-laden walls, were disappearing, until all that was left was the canopied bed, and the table beside it, and the lamp, reaching out its soft light in a circle of illumination. Beyond that, a black void.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!

‘No more fear,’ said the old lady. ‘Let others fear now.’

Kestrel was backing away from Bowman, terrified, even as she called out to him.

My Bo! My brother! Come back to me
!

‘Kill!’ he said, slashing the air with his sword. ‘Let others fear now!’

‘My beautiful Zars march again,’ said the old lady. ‘Oh, how they love to kill.’

‘Kill, kill, kill, kill!’ said Bowman, singing the words to a jaunty tune: the tune played by the marching band. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’

My dear one
, called Kestrel, her heart breaking,
don’t leave me now
,
I can’t live without you
–

And now at last, out of the darkness they came. In the lead, twirling a golden baton, high-stepped a tall beautiful girl in a crisp white uniform. Long golden hair flowed freely over her shoulders, framing her lovely young face. She looked no older than fifteen, and as she marched and twirled her baton, she smiled. How she smiled! The white jacket was square-shouldered and tight at the waist, with big golden buttons. She wore spotless white riding britches, and gleaming black boots. On her head, set at a jaunty angle, was a white peaked cap, braided with gold, and over her shoulders flowed a long white cape, lined with gold. She gazed straight ahead of her, into the high distance, and she smiled as she marched.