The Wind Singer

by William Nicholson

  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.

  Behind her, out of the darkness, came a line of bandsmen, all uniformed in white. They too were young, boys and girls of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and every one of them was beautiful, and every one of them was smiling. They marched briskly, keeping excellent time, playing their instruments as they came. Behind them were more bandsmen, followed by a rank of drummers. And behind them, singing as they smiled and swung along, came rank upon rank of youthful soldiers.

  Kestrel heard the singing voices, and slowly the shape of the words penetrated her shocked senses. These beautiful boys and girls, this army of white and golden youth, were singing the same song as Bowman, the song that had only one word.

  ‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’

  The tune was martial but melodic, and the melody, once heard, was impossible to forget. It swung up and down, and back up to its climax; and then round it came again, relentless.

  ‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’

  The ranks of soldiers came on, line after line, out of the darkness. How many were there? The numbers seemed limitless.

  ‘My beautiful Zars,’ said the old lady. ‘Nothing can stop them now.’

  The baton-twirling band leader now came to a stop, but continued marching on the spot. Behind her the band, still playing, formed up in broad ranks, also marching on the spot. And behind them, the soldiers. The singing ceased, but the music and the steady tramping went on: though now the great army did not advance. At the rear, far away in the darkness where the lamplight didn’t reach, more lines of soldiers were coming forward all the time, to join the waiting ranks. All were young, all were beautiful, and all were smiling.

  Kestrel was backing further and further away all the time, in the direction of the passages and the fire. She still clutched the silver voice tight in one hand, but she had forgotten it entirely. She was weeping, also without knowing it. For her eyes were on her beloved brother, who she loved even more than she loved herself, and her young heart was breaking.

  My brother! My love! Come back to me!

  Bowman didn’t hear her, or look at her, he was so changed. He was moving into position in front of the great army, and his sword was sweeping the air, and on his face was the same terrible smile that was on all their faces. Then in the ranks behind, even as she wept, Kestrel saw another familiar face transformed. It was Mumpo, wearing the white-and-gold uniform of the Zars, and he wasn’t old any more, and he wasn’t dirty. He was young, and handsome, and smiling with pride. As she stared at him, he caught her eyes and waved at her.

  ‘I’ve got friends, Kess!’ he called to her joyously. ‘Look at all my friends!’

  ‘No!’ screamed Kestrel. ‘No! No! NO!’

  But her screams were drowned, as Bowman raised his sword high, and with a long rippling flash all the Zars drew their swords, and the army began to march. The beautiful baton-twirler came high-stepping behind Bowman, and the bandsmen and the drummers played, smiling into the distance, and the soldiers sang as they marched.

  ‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’

  Kestrel turned and weeping, she ran for her life.

  When the column of Zars reached the canopied bed, they parted to either side of it. Their drawn swords flashed as they marched, slicing the orange on its silver plate, slashing the canopy to ribbons, sending fragments of gauze floating in the air. One fragment landed in the bowl of the lamp, and caught fire. In a moment, the whole bed was ablaze. Still the Zars marched on, unswerving, their handsome young faces briefly illuminated by the burning bed. And in the bed, the old lady lay motionless, raised on burning pillows, and watched the army pass in pride.

  Kestrel ran weeping down the Halls of the Morah, the silver voice in her hand. Behind her came the Zars, destroying everything in their path. The elegant clothes laid out in the dressing-room, the dining-table laid for company that never came, all fell to the flashing swords and turned to dust.

  Oh my brother, my dear love, my own!

  Kestrel cried out in her heartbreak as she ran in her terror, until she saw before her the stone fireplace, where burned the fire in its grate. Behind her the marching tramp of amillion feet, the singing of amillion voices. No time to question or to understand. Without slowing down in her headlong flight, she hurled herself into the fireplace, and –

  Silence. Cool columns of flame. Dazzling brightness. Panting, shaking, she forced herself to stop. The eery cold of the fire cleared her head, and she knew this was not what she wanted to do. Why was she running from her twin? For her, there was no life without him. If he was changed, then she would change too.

  Not like this, she thought. We go together.

  She turned, and there in the white light she saw her beloved brother coming towards her, at the head of the army of the Zars. He was moving slowly, and the sound of the music seemed far away, but he was still singing softly, as were they all, a smiling whisper as they came.

  ‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’

  Kestrel raised her eyes to meet his, and opened her arms wide, so that his sword, which rose and fell before him as he marched, would strike her across the breast.

  We go together, my brother, she said to him. Even if you have to kill me.

  His eyes found her now. He was still smiling, but the words of the song faded on his lips.

  I won’t leave you, she said to him. I’ll never leave you again.

  He was closer now, the sword still rising and falling before him.

  I love you, she said to him. My beloved brother.

  Now the smile too was fading, and the sword rising and falling more slowly. He was very close to her, and could see the tears on her cheeks.

  Kill me, dear one. Let’s go together.

  His eyes filled with confusion. His sword was raised now, and he had reached her. One more downward stroke would cut her through. But the blow never fell. He stopped, and stood there, motionless.

  The beautiful band leader came high-stepping right past them without so much as a sideways glance. So too the lines of bandsmen and drummers, playing away, smiling into the chill of the flames. Bowman’s eyes were locked on Kest
rel’s, and she could see him returning, the brother she had lost, like a diver rising from the deep.

  Kess, he said, recognising her. And the sword fell from his hand. He took her in his arms and hugged her, as the army of the Zars marched singing past them.

  Oh, Kess .. .

  He was shaking now, and weeping. She kissed his wet cheeks.

  There, she said, there. You’ve come back.

  21

  The march of the Zars

  Seizing his sister’s hand, Bowman ran through the cool white flames, and Kestrel ran with him. There was no time to talk of what had happened. They overtook the leader of the band, who still paid them no attention, as if the fire through which they passed held everything in suspension. Then suddenly they were out of the fire, and there were the forest-clad mountains rising on either side, and the wind in their faces, and the broad sweep of the Great Way before them, and dark clouds above.

  Not clouds: Kestrel looked up and saw them. The eagles were circling in their hundreds, darkening the sky. She pulled Bowman off the road, into the trees.

  ‘They’re going to attack!’

  The great eagles swept lower and lower, the beat of their powerful wings shivering the branches of the trees. And there, standing silently between the trees, yellow eyes on the gate of fire, were line upon line of grey wolves.

  The beautiful young band leader came strutting out of the fire, her baton flying high, and after her the band, playing their jaunty music. As the columns of the Zars followed them eight abreast on to the Great Way, the eagles folded their wings and dropped like thunderbolts, screaming out of the sky. They spread their wings again at the last moment, as the giant talons struck. The claws took hold, and up they powered, white-and-gold bodies twitching beneath, to release their victims high above the tallest tree-tops. Never once did the raptured Zars utter a single cry; never once did their comrades look up, or show fear. Eagle after eagle, wave after wave, ripped into the marching column, but each hole they tore in the ranks was immediately filled from behind, and still the Zars marched on. Their long swords were out, flashing and deadly, and many an eagle made its dive and never rose again. But more terrifying than the blows the Zars struck was their disregard of the blows they received. Not for one instant did they cease to smile as their comrades were hurled into oblivion. Not once did they miss a step. And still, unending, they marched out of the tunnel, a long unbroken line of white and gold.