Slaves of the Mastery

by William Nicholson

  ‘Bowman Hath.’

  Ortiz walked his horse alongside the marching slaves, keeping to their pace.

  ‘Why do you look at me like that?’

  Bowman didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and looked once more into Ortiz’s eyes.

  This time, because Ortiz had sought the contact, Bowman entered far more deeply into his mind. Ortiz started as if he’d been stung. He jerked his eyes away, and spurred his horse into a trot.

  How dare he! he thought to himself as he rode off to the front of the line. He didn’t put the thought clearly into words, because he found it too unsettling, but what he had felt, inexplicably, tantalisingly, was that the slave called Bowman Hath had understood him.

  The slaves were not chained or roped. They marched in whatever order they chose. The pace was punishing for the little children and for the old people, so the stronger young men took it in turns to carry those who couldn’t keep up. This was more than an act of kindness: those that were left behind on the march were killed by sweepers, mounted soldiers who followed the tail of the long line.

  Mumpo carried the heaviest burden of all, for the longest time. He stumped steadily along, with his former foster-mother Mrs Chirish on his back. She was not too young or too old to keep up, she was too fat.

  ‘I don’t like to be a burden,’ she said each time he heaved her up onto his back.

  Mumpo never complained, and never seemed to grow weary, but he didn’t smile any more. He didn’t speak unless he was spoken to, and then answered as if from somewhere far away. He couldn’t forgive himself for having caused his father’s death.

  ‘But Mumpo, you didn’t.’ Pinto tried many times to make him understand. ‘They did it. Not you.’

  ‘They did it because of me.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mumpo.’

  ‘He needed me, and now he’s dead.’

  Pinto pleaded with him, stroked him, tried to make him feel all right again, but nothing she said made any difference. What she knew but didn’t say was that his heart had been doubly broken. He had lost Kestrel, too.

  Their only hope was that Bowman insisted Kestrel wasn’t dead.

  ‘She’ll find us,’ he said. And every night, as they curled up on the stony ground to sleep, Pinto would watch Bowman, his eyes open, sitting very still, listening for her faraway voice.

  Ira Hath soon developed blisters on her feet, and was in constant pain as she marched. Under her breath she cursed the soldiers who drove them along, muttering a steady stream of the old oaths.

  ‘Pocksicking udderbugs! Hogging pongos!’

  Her exclamations meant nothing at all to the soldiers, which kept her safe from punishment, but denied her any satisfaction. At last, in a torment of frustration and foot-ache, she found a way to vent her hatred on her captors without putting herself at risk. She lashed them with praise.

  ‘You giant! You immensity! You have thighs like young oaks! They creak in the wind.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘The beauty of your countenance dazzles the unwary! Small buzzing creatures are drawn to the light in your eyes.’

  ‘Don’t bother with her. She’s a mad woman.’

  ‘The substances you expel from your nose are a precious ointment for the buttocks of the blessed!’

  By the second day, the mood of the prisoners on the march began to change. The food was basic but adequate, the pace of the march tiring but bearable. There had been no stragglers and no attempts at escape for some time. This strange and fearful new life was starting to become familiar, and new friendships began to spring up.

  ‘Look here, young man,’ said a voice behind Mumpo. ‘Why don’t I take a turn carrying the good lady? You need a rest.’

  Mumpo looked round to see that this offer came from no less a person than the former Emperor of Aramanth. Creoth the Sixth was a big bearded man with a friendly manner that even the rigours of the march could not affect.

  ‘No thank you, sir. I can manage.’

  ‘Nonsense! Beard of my ancestors! I have as strong a back as you.’

  Mumpo found that Creoth would not be denied, so he lowered Mrs Chirish to the ground.

  ‘Do you mind, auntie?’

  ‘I hate to be a burden,’ she said. ‘Really, I would walk, only my legs go too slow.’

  ‘Come along, good lady. Up you get.’

  Mumpo could not deny that he was glad of the rest. From this time on, he and Creoth took turns in carrying Mrs Chirish, and so became friends. Mumpo found the one-time ruler of Aramanth to be an astonishingly good-tempered companion. He was always grateful for his meagre rations, and at night he blessed the ground he slept on.

  ‘I should have thought you would have found it harder than any of us,’ said Mumpo. ‘Being an Emperor.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all done with,’ said Creoth. ‘I’m just the same as you now.’

  It turned out that this was what he had wanted for a long time. After the changes in Aramanth he had told his people that he no longer saw any need for an Emperor, and wished to lead the life of an ordinary citizen. However, it soon became clear that he possessed no skills of any kind whatsoever, and was quite unable to make a living. So he went back to being Emperor for ceremonial purposes only, and for the past five years had been much in demand for neighbourhood parades, and graduation days at district high schools. He never asked to be paid for these duties, but since they always involved a large meal, he lived well enough from ceremony to ceremony. After a while he had taken to carrying a basket with him, which he filled with leftovers, and so was able to eat even when not acting in his official capacity.

  Now a slave among slaves, he was required only to do as he was told, eat what he was given, and keep marching.

  ‘I find it all so much simpler,’ he told Mumpo.

  In this way, Creoth naturally became part of the group that ate and slept with the Hath family. His good temper made him welcome; though they were a little taken aback to find that it extended to the guards.

  ‘Well, why not? I expect they have their troubles too.’

  ‘They’re murderers,’ said Pinto. ‘I hate them.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Mumpo. ‘I’m going to kill them.’

  The words sounded strange coming from friendly easy-going Mumpo. But over these last days, he had been slowly finding his way to a resolution. His grief and guilt over the death of his father was giving way to a simple powerful desire. He would make his father’s murderers suffer as he had suffered.

  ‘Are you any good at that sort of thing?’ asked Creoth. ‘Killing, and so forth?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mumpo. ‘I’ve never tried.’

  ‘You have to know what you’re doing.’ Creoth made some cuts and thrusts in the air with an imaginary sword. ‘I was taught when I was young, but I’ve forgotten it all now.’

  ‘Mumpo would be good at it,’ said Pinto. ‘He’s terrifically strong. He could kill anybody.’

  Hanno Hath overheard this.

  ‘Mumpo won’t do anything so foolish,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any more people burned in the monkey cages.’

  Mumpo looked down and said nothing. Pinto went pink.

  ‘Does that mean none of us can do anything ever?’

  ‘It means none of us can do anything until all of us can do everything,’ said her father.

  On the third night of the march, Ira Hath dreamed again. This time she woke screaming. Hanno took her in his arms and soothed her as best as he could.

  ‘Hurry!’ she was sobbing. ‘Faster! Faster! The wind is rising!’

  As she came out of the dream, she calmed down again, but for a while she was too weak to speak. Then she said, drawing slow careful breaths, ‘Tell me it’s just a bad dream.’

  ‘It certainly was a bad dream.’

  ‘I dreamed that we were on our way home, and the wind was rising – such a wind! A wind that destroys everything! I knew that if only we could get home before the wind caught us, we’d be saf
e, but we weren’t going fast enough. You, Hanno, and the children, and all the others, you were walking so slowly – I shouted at you to hurry, hurry! But you wouldn’t! Why wouldn’t you listen?’

  ‘It’s all right. It was only a dream.’

  She looked into her husband’s gentle face, wanting him to reassure her, but instead she saw there a deep concern.

  ‘I’m not a real prophetess, Hanno. I’m truly not.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’

  But as soon as he had a chance, Hanno spoke to Bowman about Ira’s dream, and the thoughts that were beginning to form in his mind.

  ‘Perhaps this is the beginning of our journey after all,’ he said. ‘We may have less time than we think.’

  ‘But we’re prisoners. And we don’t know where to go.’

  ‘Ira knows. She has the gift. I’ve known it for a long time.’ He took his son’s hand in his and kissed it. ‘You’ve known it too, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We must watch, and listen, and learn. Wherever we’re being taken, the walls that imprison us will have doors, and the locks will have keys. We will escape.’

  Suddenly orders could be heard, calling the lines of marchers to a halt.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’

  It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun was still high in the sky. On each of the three preceding days they had been given no rest until darkness fell. Hanno looked round to make sure the rest of his family were near and safe. On all sides he saw people sinking gratefully to the ground, rubbing their aching feet. Soon there came the clinking sounds of the cook-pots. It seemed they were to have an early supper.

  Hanno assembled his particular group. Apart from his wife and children, they included Mumpo and Mrs Chirish, the tailor Miko Mimilith and his family, Creoth, and Scooch the pastry-cook. It so happened that the rations being passed round for their supper that afternoon included pastries looted from Scooch’s bakery in Aramanth. Little Scooch shook his head sadly over them.

  ‘When they’re fresh out of the oven, they float into your mouth,’ he said. ‘But this –’ he held up the five-day old pastry, ‘this would stun a small pig.’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Creoth, eating eagerly. ‘Not bad at all. Another for you, Mrs Chirish?’

  ‘I don’t like to be a burden,’ said Mrs Chirish, taking two.

  Bowman suddenly stiffened, and raised his head. He had felt a distant wave of pain. A moment later there came a sharp cry from the front of the column. They all heard it. Bowman closed his eyes, and let his acute senses piece together the nature of the pain.

  ‘Skin,’ he said. ‘Burning.’

  Now they saw them: a group of soldiers some way off, hauling a small wheeled iron drum, doing something to the slaves that made them scream.

  Bowman rose and walked up the line to see for himself. He didn’t want to see, but knew he must. This is how it was for him now. He felt compelled to know everything about their captors, and their captivity, to prepare himself for the time when he and Kestrel were together again, and together they struck back.

  A woman was screaming. Bowman could see her struggling and shrieking. He saw the soldiers club her about the head until she was silent. Then the men round the iron drum pressed something to her arm, and there was a hiss of smoke, and the smell of burning meat.

  He watched as a new set of metal stamps were clamped into the branding-iron, and the iron was thrust into the red-hot coals burning in the drum. He saw how the soldiers seized the next slave’s arm, and how the heated brand was pressed to the back of the shaking wrist. He felt the pain of the branding as if it were his own.

  ‘You! Get back to your place!’

  The soldier gave him a push to send him on his way. He returned to the group round his father.

  ‘It’s quick,’ he said. ‘But it’s going to hurt.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Pinto.

  Bowman saw how she trembled at the approach of the branding team. For all her angry pride, Pinto was only seven years old. He wanted to hold her in his arms when the moment came, but knew she would be too proud to let him. So to conceal his object, he said to his father,

  ‘Let’s have a wish-huddle, pa.’

  Hanno Hath understood. He opened his arms.

  ‘Come, Pinto. Wish-huddle.’

  Pinto came into his embrace. Bowman joined them. Pinto called to Mumpo.

  ‘Come on, Mumpo. You can wish too.’

  Ira Hath was watching the branding team with angry eyes. ‘How brave they are,’ she said bitterly. ‘Such manly figures.’

  ‘Hush,’ said her husband. ‘Come.’

  Mumpo joined the huddle gladly, pressing his head against theirs, feeling the hug of their arms around him. Pinto wished first, as the youngest.

  ‘I wish for it not to hurt too much.’

  Then Bowman wished.

  ‘I wish Kestrel would come back to us.’

  Pinto said quickly. ‘I wish that too.’

  Before anyone else could wish, the branding team reached them, with their rattling tray and smoking drum. A man with a list took down Hanno’s name, and gave him a number. Hanno held out his arm, and because he hadn’t made a wish, he now said softly,

  ‘I wish Kestrel to be safe.’

  The red-hot iron seared his skin. He twitched, but he made no sound. His wife then held out her arm in her turn, saying, ‘My wish is for you too, Kestrel.’

  Mumpo said simply, ‘For you, Kestrel.’ He never moved when the iron burned him. He didn’t even blink.

  Bowman said nothing. But in his head he spoke to her as he was branded.

  Love you, Kess.

  Then Pinto held out her thin arm, unable to stop it shaking.

  ‘Oh Kess –’ she said. The iron pressed to her young skin, and the pain plunged deep into her, making her sob aloud. But she only sobbed once.

  That night as Bowman sat awake listening for Kestrel, he could still feel the pain of his burned wrist. He had not resisted the branding, or made any complaint, but deep inside he was angry. More than the burning of his home city, this burning of the skin of children made him hate the Mastery. In his anger and his powerlessness, he did as he had done long ago, and reached out into the unknown.

  You who have watched over me before, whoever you are, help me now.

  Then he thought, in the silent chill of the night, I want more than help. I want power. I want the power to destroy these people who seek to destroy me.

  You who watch over me, give me the power to destroy.

  First Interval:

  The butterfly

  On the island called Sirene three people stand between the high arched windows beneath the racing clouds, and sing together a wordless song. On either side of the woman who was the first to return stand a young man and an old man. All three are bareheaded and barefoot; all three wear plain woollen robes that reach to the ankles, and are held around the waist with a knotted cord. The song they sing sounds like the rustling of stream water, or the whisper of wind in the trees, but there is a melody here, a pattern of notes that follow after each other in tranquil cycles. It’s the song of foreknowing. As they sing, their minds become clear and receptive, and they begin to sense what is to come.

  They see the cruelty spreading over the land. They see cities burning, and people on the march. They see young women weeping and old women lying down to die. They feel the hatred in young men’s hearts, and know the killing will go on until the time of consummation.

  They hear a boy calling to them, crying out for help. They see a girl walking alone, feeling between the fingers of her hand a silver instrument made in the shape of a long-tailed S. They feel her anger, her weakness, her danger.

  The singing comes to an end. The young man is filled with a desire to act, to strengthen the weak, to bring an end to the cruelty. The old man feels his desire.

  ‘They must find their own way,’ he says. ‘We are to do nothing.’

  The woman doesn’t speak.
But later that day she takes herself off alone to the end of the island, where she can watch the distant coast of the mainland. Here she settles herself down and without closing her eyes enters a kind of sleep, in which she slips from quietness into a deeper quietness.

  In a little while a butterfly comes jigging and dancing through the air. It settles briefly on a nearby olive tree, and closes its wings. The butterfly’s wings are a brilliant iridescent blue, the blue of lapis lazuli, the blue of a kingfisher’s breast. They shimmer in the autumn sunlight, in the gleaming light reflected from the great ocean.

  Then the wings flicker into motion once more, and the butterfly dances beneath the crooked olive branches, and settles on the woman’s cheek, on the high weathered cheekbone beneath her left eye. Here it remains for some little time, while the woman speaks to it in a way that the butterfly understands. Then the brilliant blue wings tremble again, and the butterfly is gone.

  4

  The Delight of a Million Eyes

  Kestrel lay on her stomach on the ground, with her legs and arms spread wide, and one cheek pressed to the earth. With her eyes closed, and all her attention on the feel of the land against her body, she poured out her energy in radiating waves.

  Bowman. Where are you?

  If he was within reach of her silent call, he would answer. But even if there was no answer, and there was none, by lying very still she could hear, as if in an echo of her cry, that he had passed this way. Not a sound: not the print of a foot on the earth: just a distant familiar feeling that was fading fast, but not yet gone. At home she had always known on entering an empty room if her brother had been there. His presence lingered, the shape he had made in the air, like the disarrangement of cushions in an armchair where someone has been sitting. His gentleness lingered. That quiet gaze in his troubled eyes, that knew everything she felt without the need for words, his loving gaze lingered.

  Oh Bowman, where are you?

  This faint touch of his passing was enough to drive her onwards. He was alive, and he had come this way. She rose to her feet, and set off once more.