The Wind Singer

by William Nicholson

  They tramped northward, in what they supposed was a straight line, hoping to come upon some signs of the high road called the Great Way. The wind was picking up, skittering the sand, making the land shiver. Bowman and Kestrel didn’t speak, but they could sense each other’s anxiety. Mumpo alone was without a care, as he followed behind Kestrel, planting his feet in her footsteps, calling out,

  ‘I’m like you, Kess! We’re the same!’

  The wind grew stronger, lifting more sand into the air, dulling the brightness of the sky. Walking became difficult, because the sand stung their faces, and they had to twist their heads away from the wind. Then through the blurred air ahead of them there loomed a low square structure, like a hut without a roof, and they turned their steps towards it to take shelter.

  Close up against it, they saw that it was some kind of wagon, lying on its side. Its axles were broken, and its wheels lay half-buried. Sand had piled up against the windward side, but on the lee there was a protected space where they could huddle out of the wind. Here they untied their nut-socks, and ate a much-needed lunch of roasted mudnuts.

  The smoky taste brought back images of the harvest, and the cheery faces of the mudpeople, and made them wish they were back in the comfortable burrows of the Underlake. While the wind remained so strong there was no point in struggling on, so Kestrel took out the map and she and Bowman studied it.

  There were no landmarks in the desert, only the position of the sun in the sky to tell them where north was, and perhaps a distant sight of the mountains; but somehow they must find the Great Way, or what was left of it.

  ‘The Old Queen said it had giants.’

  ‘That was long ago. There aren’t any giants nowadays.’

  ‘We’d better just keep going north. As soon as the storm passes.’

  Kestrel looked up from the map, and saw Mumpo watching her and grinning.

  ‘What are you so pleased about, Mumpo?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Then she saw both his nut-socks lying empty before him.

  ‘I don’t believe it! Have you eaten all of them?’

  ‘Most of them,’ admitted Mumpo.

  ‘You have! There’s none left!’

  Mumpo picked up the empty nut-socks and gazed at them in surprise.

  ‘None left,’ he said, as if someone else had taken them.

  ‘You great pongo! That was supposed to last you for days and days.’

  ‘Sorry, Kess,’ said Mumpo. But his stomach was full and he felt very happy and didn’t look sorry at all.

  Bowman turned to studying the wagon against which they were sheltering, and the pieces of debris lying around. Apart from the wheels, which were surprisingly large and very slender, there were broken sections of long thick pole, and fragments of cloth and netting, and strands of rope: all very like the wreck of a sailing ship. He got up and walked round the wreck, squinting his eyes against the stinging sand, and saw where the masts had been fixed to the wagon’s bed, and realised that it had been a land-sailer of some kind. Back in the shelter of the craft, he dug about in the wind-heaped sand and found a pulley-wheel, and then a leather drive-belt; and he almost cut open his hands unearthing two long iron blades. It was clear that the craft had carried machinery. But what had the machinery been designed to do?

  Because for the moment he had no better way to occupy himself, and because his mind worked that way, Bowman began to reconstruct the craft in his mind out of the pieces he could see lying around. It had two masts, that was clear enough; and it must have ridden very high, on its four immense wheels. The prow looked as if it had once narrowed to a ram-like prong. On either side there had been arms, stout timber beams reaching outwards; and hanging from them, still visible in a fragmentary form, there were nets. The land-sailer must have been designed to sweep across the plains, arms outstretched, nets trailing, entangling and carrying away – what?

  As if looking for an answer, he gazed out into the storm. And as he looked, he thought he saw something that hadn’t been there before. He strained his eyes to make out the moving shape far off in the swirling haze of sand. Now he saw two shapes. Now there were three. Dim figures, slowly approaching. His heart began to beat fast.

  ‘Kess,’ he said. ‘Someone coming.’

  Kestrel put away the map and looked out into the wind. They were quite easy to see now, a line of dark forms against the dull sky. She looked round, and saw others to the side of them. And behind.

  ‘It’s them,’ said Bowman. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Who?’ said Mumpo.

  ‘The old children.’

  Mumpo at once started to jig about from foot to foot, waving his arms.

  ‘Then I’ll give them another bashing!’ he cried.

  ‘Don’t let them touch you, Mumpo!’ Kestrel’s warning rang sharp over the sound of the wind. ‘Something happens when they touch you. Keep out of their reach.’

  The dim figures kept coming closer, shuffle shuffle shuffle, through the sandstorm, all round the wrecked land-sailer against which the children huddled. A voice now came to them out of the wind, deep and soothing, like before.

  ‘Remember us? We’re your little helpers.’

  And from all round came the low rumble of their laughter.

  ‘You can’t get away from us, you know that. So why don’t you come home with us now?’

  Mumpo danced about, punching the air.

  ‘I’m Kess’s friend,’ he cried. ‘You come any nearer and I’ll bash you!’

  Bowman looked round for some sort of weapon with which to fend them off. He pulled at a half-buried section of broken mast, but it wouldn’t move. The old children were close enough now for their faces to be visible, those eery wrinkled faces that were ancient and childlike at the same time. Their shrivelled hands started now to reach out towards them, ready for the touch.

  ‘Or shall we stroke you to sleep?’ said the deep voice. ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke, and you wake up old, like us.’

  The rest of them laughed at that, and their low cackling laughter was swept up by the wind and carried round and round in the roaring air.

  We’ll have to run for it, said Kestrel silently to Bowman. Can you see a gap in the circle?

  No. They’re all round us.

  There’s no other way. I’m sure we can run faster than them.

  All the time, the old children were coming closer, shuffle shuffle shuffle, tightening the ring round them.

  ‘Bubba-bubba-kak!’ shouted Mumpo, punching the air. ‘You want a squashed nose?’

  If Mumpo hits one of them, we could run through the gap.

  But what about Mumpo?

  Even as Bowman sent this thought, Mumpo bounced forward and biffed one of the old children on the nose. At once he fell back, wailing miserably.

  ‘Kess! Kess!’

  Kestrel caught him as he collapsed, whimpering, in her arms.

  ‘I’ve gone wrong, Kess. Help me.’ The old children giggled, and their leader said,

  ‘Time to come home now. You’ve missed too many lessons already. Think of your ratings.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Kestrel. ‘I’d rather die right here!’

  ‘Oh, you won’t die’, said the deep soothing voice, moving closer. ‘You’ll just grow old.’

  There was no way out. Terrified, Bowman closed his eyes, and waited for the dry bony hands to touch him. He heard their footsteps as they shuffled ever closer. Then, over the moaning of the wind, he heard a new sound, the sound of a horn, rising and falling like a siren, approaching at great speed.

  Suddenly the sound was on top of them, accompanied by a tremendous crashing and snapping and creaking, and out of the storm, driven by the wild wind, there swept a high-wheeled land-sailer, its outstretched arms trailing a skirt of flying nets. Kestrel saw it, and knew what she must do. In the instant before it passed, she seized Bowman’s wrist in one hand, and Mumpo’s in the other, and threw all three of them into its path. Almost at once, the nets struck them and swept them a
way. Entangled in the heavy mesh, they were hurled along in the storm, racing before the wind at heart-stopping speed, over the sand-blind plain.

  As soon as she had regained her breath, Kestrel started to climb the net to the supporting arm. Clinging on here, in the rushing air, she was able to look about her. She could see Mumpo below, caught like a wild animal, both legs through the netting, hanging upside down and screaming. Bowman had righted himself, and was now following her lead and pulling himself up the net. It wasn’t easy, because the land-sailer was travelling so fast that every rut and stone in the ground over which it passed made it buck and lurch; and all the time the stinging sand was whistling by. The horn on the mast-top wailed like a banshee, and at the outer ends of the projecting timber arms huge scythe-like blades rotated at speed, making a fearful hissing screeching sound.

  Kestrel looked into the well of the craft and saw that it was unmanned. She looked for a tiller or steering mechanism, hoping to steer them out of the wind, but she could see none. The land-sailer was completely out of control: any large rocks or trees in its headlong path, and it would crash at full speed, smashing them along with itself. Somehow she had to slow the craft down.

  ‘You all right?’ she called to Bowman.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Get Mumpo into the ship. I’m going to cut the sails.’

  He turned at once and climbed down to Mumpo. Chivvied by Bowman, Mumpo managed to right himself, and follow him up the net. Once inside the craft, the two of them held tight to the masts as the land-sailer thundered on its way.

  Kestrel found the anchorage for the mainsail, and started to unwind the rope. A sudden savage lurch threw her clear of the craft, but she was holding tight to the rope, and swung crashing back against the timber side. Hand over hand, she pulled herself up again, and braced herself against the timbers once more, and loosed the mainsail. She meant the whole sail to fly free, to cut their frantic speed, but only one side came undone. The sail veered sharply, forcing the craft on to two wheels. For a few crazy moments, the land-sailer hurtled along with two wheels in the air, the blade on the lower side thrashing the sand. Then the blade locked, and the craft cartwheeled into the air, spun over itself and over again, tumbling and somersaulting, impelled by the sheer force with which it had been travelling. As it rolled, the great blades snapped and the masts broke and the wheels smashed, but the heavily-built chassis to which the children clung remained intact. When at last the battered craft came tumbling to a rest, the children found that although their bodies hurt all over, and they were struggling for breath, they were still alive, and none of their bones was broken.

  They lay in silence, feeling their wildly beating hearts gradually settle into a more even rhythm. The storm still raged, but the horn was silent, and the machinery of the land-sailer had come to a stop. All that remained was the clap-clap-clap of grounded sails, snapping in the wind. Once again they were sheltered in the lee of a crashed craft. There was nothing to do but lie there and wait for the wind-storm to pass.

  Worn out by the terror of the old children and the violence of their escape, all three of them fell into a fitful sleep, in which their bodies felt as if they were still careering wildly across the plains in the runaway land-sailer. Dream and memory mingled with the howling wind, and in sleep they were tumbled over and over, and awoke crying out loud and holding on to each other for dear life.

  As the confusion of daytime sleep passed, they realised that a great silence had fallen all round them. The storm was over. The wind had dropped to a breeze. The air had cleared, and above them, when they crept out from under the crashed land-sailer, the sky was a brilliant blue. Now for the first time since they had left the salt caves they were able to see for a long way in every direction.

  They were in the middle of a featureless sandy plain made up of low undulations as far as the eye could see. To the north, the line of mountains rose up on the horizon. Apart from that, there was nothing by which the traveller could orient himself. The mountains were nearer, but still many days’ walk away. They had enough food left to last them for perhaps one more day, if they were careful. What after that?

  ‘We go on,’ said Kestrel. ‘Something will happen.’

  The sun was descending in the sky; no point in continuing their journey today. So she took out her supply of mudnuts.

  Mumpo at once announced that he was hungry, as she had known he would.

  ‘We all had the same amount, Mumpo.’

  ‘But mine’s all gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Kestrel. ‘But you’re not having any of mine.’

  ‘But I’m hungry.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before.’

  She was determined to make him learn the lesson; and so she ate her mudnuts in proud silence. Mumpo sat and watched her, like a sad faithful dog.

  ‘It’s no use looking like that, Mumpo. You’ve had yours and now I’m having mine.’

  ‘But I’m hungry.’

  ‘Too late now, isn’t it?’

  He started to weep, in a quiet dribbly sort of way. After a few moments, Bowman pulled out one of his mudnuts, and gave it to him.

  ‘Thank you, Bo,’ said Mumpo, cheering up at once.

  Kestrel watched him eating it, and felt annoyed. Her brother’s kindness made her feel cross with herself.

  ‘You really are useless, Mumpo,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Kess.’

  ‘We’ve got a long way to go, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t know where we’re going.’

  It was true: they had never taken the time to tell him. Bowman suddenly felt ashamed.

  ‘Show him the map, Kess.’

  Kestrel unrolled the map and explained their journey as best as she could. Mumpo listened quietly, watching Kestrel’s eyes. When she was finished, he said,

  ‘Are you afraid, Kess?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll help you. I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Why aren’t you afraid, Mumpo?’ asked Bowman.

  ‘What is there to be afraid of? Here we are, the three friends. The storm’s gone away. We’ve had our supper. Everything’s all right.’

  ‘But don’t you worry about what might happen to us later?’

  ‘How can I? I don’t know what’s going to happen until it happens.’

  Bowman looked at Mumpo curiously. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe –

  He froze. Kestrel sensed his fear at once.

  ‘What is it, Bo?’

  ‘Can’t you hear it?’

  She listened, and she heard: a far-off thunder. They all turned their eyes to the near horizon.

  ‘Something’s coming. Something big.’

  15

  Prisoners of Ombaraka

  Out of the dunes, a flag had appeared, and was moving towards the children. A red-and-white flag high on a flagpole, flapping in the breeze. Whatever supported the flagpole was out of sight, on the other side of a rise in the land, but they knew it was heading towards them, because the flagpole was rising higher all the time.

  Soon they saw that it wasn’t a flagpole at all, but a mast, because now a sail was coming into view. They crept into the hull of the crashed land-sailer, so as not to be seen by whoever was approaching; and from this hiding place, they went on watching.

  The one sail became many, ranged in a long line of masts, smaller sails at the top, larger sails beneath. Now they could see the superstructure of the craft, an elaborate housing lined with windows and crossed with walkways. There were people on the walkways, running about, though too far away to identify. Still the craft was rising, as it climbed slowly out of the hollow, and now they could hear its noise clearly: a huge low rumble. More sails were appearing, on lower masts, below the level of the walkways. And then a second level of superstructure loomed over the sand, far wider than the first, a higgledy-piggledy collection of shacks and shelters linked by rope bridges and wooden passages. Cr
owds of people were milling about here, and now that they were nearer they could be heard shouting instructions to each other. They wore long flowing robes, and moved about with agility, swinging themselves from level to level, their robes ballooning about them.

  The low sun caught the flank of the giant craft as it creaked and clambered up the rise, its myriad sails puffing in the breeze. Now as the children watched in fearful wonder, a third level of wooden buildings loomed up into view. This level was far more elaborately constructed, a classical sequence of houses with beautifully carved windows and handsome porticoes, gathered round three pillared open-sided halls. The great masts rose up through these buildings, and up through the two further levels above, all the way to the highest sails, and the flags at the very top. And still the vast structure was growing in size, as it crested the rise towards the crashed land-sailer. Its noise was deafening now, a groaning and a rattling and a creaking that seemed to fill the whole world. Already it towered high above, filling the sky. Now the wheels on which it moved became visible, each one higher than a house. And between the wheels there was yet another level, of storerooms and manufactories and farmyards and smithies, all joined by winding gangplanks and internal roads. This was no land-ship, this was a town on wheels, a whole rolling wind-driven world.

  For all its colossal size, the mountainous craft was being steered with great accuracy directly towards the crashed land-sailer. The children could do nothing but crouch inside, and hope they were not crushed by the passing of the juggernaut. But it did not pass. As its shadow fell over them, they heard a new series of cries ring out from level to level, and the hundred sails were reefed in, and the monster shuddered and rolled to a halt, its nearest wheels within a few yards of where the children lay.