Bloodsong

by Melvin Burgess

  The uniforms of various defected militia mingled with the green of the Niberlins’ as the front of Sigurd’s cavalcade entered the square. But no Portlands; the monkeymen kept to their own. To their relief, Gunar and Gudrun saw that Sigurd had sent men ahead to usher people in and out at the edges of the square and make sure there were as few injuries as possible.

  Then, at last, Sigurd himself came into view. The noise was so loud now, you could hardly think. As the advance guard drew up to the palace, they looked up at Gunar and Gudrun waiting at the window, and shook the bloody uniforms of militiamen who had tried to assassinate Sigurd. The uniforms had multiplied over the miles. It wasn’t just cloth, either; body parts and bones were held overhead like trophies. One or two of them carried heads on sharpened sticks, high above the crowd. Make no mistake: This was an army of conquest.

  It was a terrifying sight. Gunar and Gudrun, as they descended through a corridor of loyal soldiers five thick on their way to the platform, were as white as sheets. Had Sigurd sanctioned this waving of the dead at them? Was it a threat—or a promise?

  Gunar thought suddenly, My god, he can’t control this! There are millions here, millions! How could one man—one boy—control all this? What if he lifted a hand and no one stopped? What if he spoke and no one heard? A crowd this big, it was an animal. No one ordered such a beast around. Gunar looked across into the eager, open face of the boy riding toward him and knew for certain they were going to die there and then, he and Gudrun, and Sigurd, too. It was impossible to rule this! It was all he could do to breathe in the face of such raw power.

  He turned round to look at his sister. Her face showed the same terror. No one could hold such a weight. They were about to die.

  The great horse, all skeleton, sinew, raw muscle, and circuit boards, pranced close to the platform and shook his huge head. Sigurd stood up in the saddle and waved; the crowd cheered back. The noise, which seemed at every second to have reached an impossible peak, rose again. Gunar had to swallow to stop himself vomiting with fear. Now death was close. Behind the boy—just a boy!—sat Hogni, looking as scared as anyone else. He looked down at his brother and shrugged as if to say, What did you expect me to do about this?

  Sigurd and Hogni dismounted and made their way up the steps toward Gunar and Gudrun. Sigurd stood for a moment, looking into Gunar’s eyes, then turned to face the crowd. Together they stared out to the thousands of faces staring back—straight into the eye of the world. Again the noise increased in volume. Gunar flinched, and Gudrun turned in fright. Hogni turned away and was sick behind the podium. He straightened up, wiping his mouth, looking at Gunar with an expression of hopelessness.

  Gunar leaned across to him. “What happens now?” he bellowed, but Hogni only shrugged.

  Something had to happen. Gunar took Sigurd’s hand in his and tried to raise it above their heads to show that they were allies, but Sigurd did not respond. He squeezed Gunar’s hand back but did not let his arm move. Gunar was caught off balance and glanced at him. Tentatively he tugged at the boy’s arm, but it was impossible. Sigurd’s hand was a vice. The boy was as strong as ten. Gunar’s eyes began to leak tears, although his face showed no expression. A powerful man, he was not used to being so utterly at another’s command. Then Sigurd turned and looked at him, straight into his eyes.

  At this time Sigurd had no idea what to do. He was waiting himself. But now it began.

  When he looked into Gunar’s eyes, he saw him as the gods see us—straight through to his soul. In a flash he knew everything about Gunar—his hopes and fears, his childhood dreams, his grown-up ambitions, his loves, his hates— everything. He knew that Gunar was desperate to love but was scared to; that he wanted to be open but could not trust, wished to give everything but could not let go. He saw that there was no better man in all the world—none more honest, none harder on himself, none more generous. But he could not reach out from himself. A good man, a fine man, but a flawed man.

  When Gunar felt the vision on him everything else around him vanished—the crowd, his brother and sister, the state hanging in the balance, his own fate. All there was was the face of the boy and behind it the godhead watching him, taking all his secrets into itself, judging him, forgiving him, loving him. There were no secrets from that gaze of Sigurd’s. No one should ever look at you like that unless they had created you. Then Sigurd seemed to withdraw, taking all his secrets with him, and Gunar felt the world come back into focus. There in front of him was Sigurd’s smiling face, full of love. Yes, yes, Gunar realized—he was loved. Sigurd loved him like no one else could ever love him; and he loved Sigurd back. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but knew this: It was divine. He had been touched by god.

  When he felt his love for Gunar overflow and fill the other man, Sigurd remembered the crowd. The moment had been not for him and Gunar alone; it had been for all. Not one out of all the hundreds of thousands who saw it had any idea of time passing, but during it the crowd had fallen utterly silent. In that gathering of over a million people, there was not so much as a cough to be heard. It was the same in a thousand village greens, town halls, and street sides throughout the country where people were watching the scene on video. A miracle had occurred, something holy: an exchange of pure love.

  Gunar was trembling from head to foot. He was ready to sink to his knees, but before he could move, Sigurd did the most unexpected thing it was possible for him to do. He sank to his knees, he bowed his head and kissed Gunar’s hand.

  What did this mean? Gunar stood there, shaking his head, mouthing the words, “No, no . . .” It was wrong—all the wrong way round!

  From his knees, Sigurd addressed the crowd.

  “Did you think I came here to rule?” he asked. “I came to serve. I’m Gunar’s because he is yours. My father had to build from nothing. We’re luckier. We have the Niberlin country. There is nothing here to change until the world is like this. Now go home, and prepare for war.”

  With that, he raised Gunar’s hand in his above their heads and the crowd burst into a frenzy of cheers, an eruption of hope. Gunar understood then that everything the Niberlins had hoped to achieve in a hundred years, Sigurd was going to do in months, and all in his name. It was going to be all right. Everyone would get what they wanted—even him. He looked across to Gudrun, who beamed back at him. Sigurd was a combination they had never dreamed of—selflessness, charisma, pure love, pure power. He was irresistible.

  Gudrun glanced at Sigurd and made a face at her brothers— phwooar! Tasty. Gunar and Hogni laughed. Yes, Sigurd was gorgeous. Making sure only they could see her, Gudrun clenched her fist and pouted in an expression of lust, and the three of them laughed again. Sigurd saw them laughing, and not knowing what they found funny, but seeing fun, laughed with them. The crowd at his feet began to laugh too. It was funny! What was funny? No one knew anymore, but the tension was released. Guess what? It was going to be all right! After all the suffering and hope and anger, it was funny. The laughter spread. A million people stood and roared for the sheer fun of it.

  Above, a small black and white muzzle dropped out of sight from a window ledge. Grimhild sat on the floor and scratched her ear, relieved. Their skins were going to be spared. Sigurd was a nice young man. Power rested with him now, that much was clear. It was just a question of how she could best ally the family with his star.

  We went inside, it was just the four of us. These days, what do they mean? I was becoming impossible. It wasn’t a real life anymore, I was changing all the time, like an insect. For a while out there I was scared that the sky would open and I would ascend to heaven and leave the whole lovely world behind me forever.

  There was food on the table and Gudrun was telling me to sit down and eat. They were all looking at me like I was some sort of atomic weapon. We’d left the laughter outside. They were scared of me, but I just wanted to be friends with them, so I flung my arms around Gudrun and told her how lovely she was, and then I kissed Gunar and then Hogni
. . . then we all started talking at once—god knows what about. I was getting kind of hysterical, babbling away. All those people! What did it all mean?

  And what happened with Gunar? I saw him. I mean, I didn’t see him; I saw his soul.

  We were suddenly looking at each other, him and me. It was embarrassing. It was unfair, because I knew everything about him and he knew nothing about me.

  “I’m just a kid,” I said, and then I blushed because it was such a stupid thing to say.

  “What do you remember?” he said, too quickly.

  He had been more naked to me than it should be possible to be. I could remember everything. It was like his life had become mine. What could I say? Things happen in their time as they need to. Myself, I know nothing—less than nothing. I used to think I was going to be the king and it was him all the time!

  Why him and not me? I wonder why.

  I told Gunar I remembered nothing—just a shape, perhaps, a general feeling—the certainty that he was to be the king and I was to be the power behind him. The anointer. I had anointed him out there, that was his coronation. And now I wanted to be friends with him! I clapped my hands together and felt the warm flesh and I thought, This is the real thing! All that business with the soul and seeing with god’s eye—stuff that. I want the wine, I want the flesh. Food on the table and friends to be with—what more is there? I was scared silly they wouldn’t be friends with me, that I was already some sort of god or monster trapped in an eternity that no one could ever relate to. That’s why I lied to Gunar about what I knew, that’s why I kissed Gudrun and slapped hands with Hogni. I was terrified of godhead, of becoming without meaning. God has no point unless he dies. You see? Without death, life is worth nothing. Every child who dies has had more than any of them. Jesus, Allah, Odin, the Buddha, they live forever; they have entered Hel.

  So I talked and laughed and ate the food and sipped the beer and touched them—I kept wanting to touch them—and I thought to myself, All this could be taken from me at any second! This is life. It is so precious.

  And—Bryony! Every time I remembered her it was with a jolt. Life was moving so fast! The dragon skin!

  “Do you have it?” I begged Gunar.

  “We have it,” he said. And I was so happy then, I cried. So happy. Nothing could stop me rescuing her now.

  But I didn’t tell them why I wanted the skin. There was time for that. Bryony was just for me.

  It was a great evening. Gunar kept trying to get me to read military reports—the Portlands were on the move already, by all accounts. But I couldn’t think just then—no sleep for two days, so much had happened. I’d been a schoolboy at home a few months ago, now look! Ridiculous! My life’s ridiculous!

  “Leave him alone, Gunar,” ordered Gudrun. “He never stops,” she told me. “He’s the incredible working man.” Gunar laughed at himself, and she slid her hand around my waist and smiled at me. And I thought . . . Ahhhh. Is that what she wants? She was lovely—but I’m afraid not. Bryony, Bryony was in my mind.

  It was a lovely evening, but I was so tired. The world had changed in the last few hours. When I was so exhausted I just couldn’t stand up anymore, Gudrun showed me to my room.

  I stood there in the doorway, half smiling. Smiling hopefully, to be precise. Rrrrr! Embarrassing! Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he? Rough. I was almost ready to go, fuck it, and go in myself and say yes before he had a chance. But something held me back. When I opened my mouth, I almost expected myself to say, “Go on, then,” meaning, Go on, ask me, I’ll say yes. Maybe he was shy because I was Gudrun, a Niberlin, or because I was older than him or something.

  “Good night,” I said, and I waited again, even though it was pushing it a bit by that time. I was so sure he was going to say something . . . you know, It’d be better if you were in here, too, or, What about a good night kiss? or even, How about it then, honey pot? would have done me fine, I was so horny. But all he did was smile.

  “Is the bed comfy?” I asked, and we both laughed out loud, I was being so obvious.

  “It’s lovely. I’ve been sleeping on rags for months.” He lay down and sighed. “Good night, sweet dreams,” he said, and he closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to watch me leave. Dismissed! Rrrr . . . I was glad of the half-light because I was blushing. I couldn’t have been more obvious if I’d thrown my knickers at him. I closed the door and tiptoed back to the kitchen. Gunar and Hogni were still up.

  “No luck?” said Hogni.

  “Was it that obvious?” I asked. I was blushing again. They both roared with laughter.

  “Bastards,” I told them, and reached for more wine.

  Gunar was finding it hilarious. “Think Hogni has a l-l-little secret to tell you.”

  “What? No!” I said, as I guessed what he was going to say.

  Hogni grinned. “Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “He bats for my team.” And both of them hooted, as if it was some huge joke.

  “Made a complete arse of myself, then,” I said. I felt like a real prat. I’d misinterpreted him completely. He was lovely, and we got on like a house on fire—but he was just being friendly after all.

  “Makes you a fag-hag,” giggled Gunar. He was finding it hilarious, the fact that both of us were lusting after the same bloke. So did Hogni.

  “Not only did he do it with me, but I don’t even think he’s gay,” he said. “That makes me loads more attractive than you, sweetie.”

  “Makes you a slut,” I told him.

  “Means I’m a successful slut, while you’re just a failed slut.”

  “But I’m the only one here with any se-se . . . oh, bugger . . . se-se-se . . .”

  “Sexual integrity?” finished Hogni.

  “Yes!”

  So we both told him immediately that we might be sluts, but at least we weren’t Mr. No-Shags, like him.

  “Yes!” howled Gunar, who was prepared to laugh at just about anything when he got drunk. “Hogni’s a sex machine and you’re a love machine but I’m just a r-r-rejection machine.” Then Gunar got up and started being me trying to chat to Sigurd at one end while Hogni was shagging him at the other, and I got fed up suddenly.

  “I’ve had enough of this now. Can we stop now?” I said. “I have just actually been rejected.” Obediently they both sat down. See, we tease one another to bits but they’re nice guys, my brothers, they’d go to the ends of the world for me.

  “You might have told me,” I said to Hogni. “So are you going up there now?”

  He didn’t look so smug then. “It was a one-night stand.”

  “Ah-haa!”

  “What do you mean, Ah-ha?”

  “So you got him pissed.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not actually sure he bats for your team, then? He might be a floating player.”

  “A fl-floater?” said Gunar. “That’s appropriate.”

  “Fuck off,” said Hogni. He looked at me. “I think there’s someone else, actually,” he said. “I think he’s already in love.”

  And that made sense. I know he fancies me.

  We didn’t stay up much longer. Poor Hogni got all sad; turned out he was smitten. Which was a bit of an event actually, because he gets around, Hogni. We’re all always on at him because we’re terrified he’s going to catch some awful cross-species virus. He’s always getting his heart broken, but it’s always temporary. Rrr. You know, a few days or a week, a month at the most, and then he’s found a new boyfriend and he’s as happy as—well—happy as a dog with a bone.

  “Nah, it’s g-g-gonna be just the same, you’ll be back on the game by next Tuesday,” said Gunar. But Hogni was really feeling this one. Gunar was in the middle of some joke and I saw Hogni’s eyes just fill up. I put my arms around him.

  “Is it a bad one?” I asked. He sat there with his arms crossed leaning on the table and nodded his head. Gunar had shut up, but I could see him over Hogni’s shoulder, and you know what? His eyes had filled up as well. I’d for
gotten with all the drinks and the talk and half expecting to end up in bed with Sigurd. You know: what Sigurd had done to him.

  I nudged Hogni. “You’re not the only one,” I said. He looked across.

  “Oh—poor Gunar. Yes; what was all that about?”

  But all Gunar could do was shake his head. What had Sigurd done to him—in front of all those people, where everyone could see? It had made all those tens of thousands fall silent, but I don’t think any one of us could have said what had actually happened.

  Hogni said, “I think he might be some sort of god.”

  “Oh, he was that good, was he?” said Gunar.

  “Well, tell us, what did he do to you, Gunar? What happened?”

  Gunar shook his head and bit his lip and couldn’t reply.

  “But he’s just a man—just a boy!” I exclaimed.

  “Maybe that’s how they start off,” said Hogni.

  We were all quiet then. We were all thinking about the boy asleep above us. What did he mean, why was he here?

  What was he going to do next?

  This is Grimhild, mother of the house. It’s the very pitch black of night and she’s swishing smoothly down the dark corridors on a foldaway scooter. It’s a good way to get about, she’s been using them for years. Her perfect white hands, no bigger than a child’s and covered with perfect white fur, hold tight on to the handle while her neat little doggy foot pushes away down below. She keeps the scooters folded up in cupboards scattered throughout the palace—there’s always one on hand. Quick and quiet—just the job for an elderly lady moving to fat.

  But in the black of night? Dark corridors? Why is there so little light down here? The Niberlins can afford generators and fuel. See there, as she drifts past a room where a small lamp glows—her eyes shine in the dark like a cat’s. Grimhild has see-in-the-dark eyes. You’d expect it, looking at her. She stands upright, she has hands, but she’s a dog through and through. Look at her mouth. Look at her tongue; there’s no speech. Look at her skull—there are no frontal lobes, either. And Grimhild can smell—boy, can she smell! She can smell a chewy-bar, a thief, or a fortune from a hundred meters.