Firesong

by William Nicholson

  ‘All well.’

  Hardly had Tanner Amos spoken the words, when he felt a shudder beneath his feet. He stopped, and braced himself. He spoke softly.

  ‘Bek? Did you feel that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bek Shim was a hundred yards to his right. The ice was bouncing.

  Tanner took a few steps forward. The shudder came again. He looked back. The others were spread out all across the lake, black forms moving slowly over the white surface.

  ‘Do we warn them?’ said Bek Shim.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Tanner. ‘It may be nothing.’

  Hanno, watching them from behind, saw their nervousness, but said nothing to the others. One way or another, they must cross the lake before nightfall.

  Creoth watched from the shore. He saw no reason for alarm.

  ‘The ice’ll bear the beasts.’

  ‘So long as they go quietly,’ said Seldom Erth.

  ‘They’ll be quiet enough. It’s been a long climb.’

  But as he spoke, one of his cows jerked up her head and shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘There, Dreamer, there! Nothing to worry about.’

  Seldom Erth saw that his horses’ ears were twitching.

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that.’

  He looked round. The light was beginning to fade, and it was hard to make out anything in the deep shadows between the trees, but he thought he saw something moving.

  ‘What is it?’ said Creoth, now picking up more nervousness among his cows.

  ‘I don’t know. But I say we start moving.’

  The nearest of the people ahead were almost at the mid-point. The others would be safe enough even if the ice did break here by the south shore.

  ‘Come on, then. You go first.’

  So Seldom Erth led his two horses onto the ice, one on a short rein, the other on a long rein, to keep them apart. The ice groaned under the horses’ hooves, but it held.

  ‘Off you go,’ said Creoth. ‘I’ll follow in a while.’

  Hanno Hath looked back and saw to his surprise that the horses were already on the lake. He frowned, asking himself why they hadn’t waited as they had agreed. He looked ahead, and saw how slowly and cautiously Tanner Amos and Bek Shim were proceeding. Then there came a sound from the distant trees: a long, low howl.

  Mumpo’s head swung round at once.

  ‘Wolves!’

  The cows heard the wolf cry and started forward onto the ice before Creoth could stop them. He followed at once, doing his best to calm them with his voice.

  ‘Now, Tawny! Now, Stumper! Easy, easy.’

  The long howl sounded again. Mumpo looked back towards the shore, and caught sight of movement between the trees.

  ‘They’ll stampede the cattle,’ Hanno said.

  Then the ice would break. He didn’t need to say that.

  ‘They were our friends once,’ said Mumpo.

  Hanno understood him.

  ‘Could they be again?’

  ‘Maybe. I can try.’

  Without another word, Mumpo unbuckled the harness that drew the litter, and Hanno took it from him. Mumpo then turned and began to slide slowly and carefully back across the lake towards Creoth and the cows.

  ‘What is it?’ called the others. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Keep moving!’ cried Hanno. ‘Keep on to the far shore!’

  Bek Shim, who had stopped to look, turned back on hearing this. His first onward step was a little too eager. Even as his foot landed on the ice, he knew he had applied too much pressure. The ice shivered at the impact, and let out a single sharp report, like the crack of a whip.

  ‘Bek!’

  ‘I’m alright.’

  He could feel the crack, could sense its weakness, but already he was sliding away from it, away from Tanner Amos, the other leader.

  ‘Ice crack!’ Tanner called back. ‘It’s holding. Keep away. Follow me.’

  Mumpo paid no attention to the ice crack. He forged on, back across the lake, until he came up with Seldom Erth and Creoth. The horses were jittery, but under control. The cows looked anxious.

  ‘Alright so far,’ said Creoth. ‘I think it’s a wolf.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Mumpo.

  As he spoke, the first great grey wolf stepped out of the trees, and stood on the shore, watching them. It held its head high, its great thick-pelted body tensed and alert.

  ‘Keep the beasts moving.’

  ‘Look at the size of the animal!’ exclaimed Creoth.

  ‘They were good to us once. They may not harm us.’

  ‘They’re wolves,’ said Seldom Erth. ‘Wolves must eat.’

  Two more wolves now came out of the trees, and stood looking over the lake.

  ‘Keep the beasts moving,’ said Mumpo again. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Creoth and Seldom Erth set off again, urging their nervous beasts over the ice. Now the rest of the Manth people became very afraid. They could see the wolves behind them, and they could feel the cracked ice ahead. In their fear they stopped moving, and stood still. Hanno Hath called to them, his voice carrying clearly through the twilight air.

  ‘Keep moving! Think of nothing but your next step! One step at a time. Every step brings you nearer the shore. Don’t stop moving! Not too fast, not too slow. One step at a time.’

  This simple instruction steadied their nerves, and they set off again, over the bouncing ice. Only Pinto disobeyed her father. She was small and light, she knew the ice would hold her. She turned back, towards Mumpo.

  Mumpo was watching the wolves. Still they stood, sniffing the air, not venturing onto the ice. Did wolves hunt on ice? The cows and the horses were making steady progress away from him across the lake. That was good. Beyond them, Bek Shim, the leader, was close to the far shore, despite the cracked ice. That was good.

  Then one of the wolves stepped out onto the ice.

  That was not good.

  The wolf stood for a moment, perfectly at ease, on the snow-blanketed lake. Then it started loping forward, towards Mumpo.

  Pinto increased her pace. She still had fifty yards of slithering ice to cover.

  Mumpo heard the cows bellow with fear behind him, but he did not turn. He heard Creoth’s urgent efforts to calm them.

  ‘So, so, so! Easy, easy!’

  He kept his eyes on the wolf. What was it Bowman had done? He had met the wolf’s eyes. He had let it touch him. He had shown no fear.

  The wolf kept coming towards him. Mumpo shivered, but did not look away. He felt a sudden stab of pain in his wounded stomach.

  I must be very afraid, he thought; as if his fear was a separate part of himself.

  Behind him, unknown to him, Pinto was running now, running and sliding, propelling herself back over the ice.

  Now the wolf was close to Mumpo, within easy leaping distance. Now it was stopping and crouching, its yellow eyes fixed on him, its jaws a little open, showing its white teeth.

  ‘I’m your friend,’ said Mumpo. The words sounded meaningless in the icy air. Why should the wolf understand him? Wolves can’t talk.

  Two more wolves came loping up behind. Mumpo reached out a hand, meaning to show friendship. His wound throbbed. The lead wolf’s claws dug into the ice, its muscles tensed, its ears flattened. It let out a low snarl.

  Pinto raced towards Mumpo as fast as she could. She had no idea what to do, she was driven solely by the need to protect him. She heard the snarl, saw the look in the wolf’s eyes, and knew that it was about to attack. She drove herself faster –

  ‘Pinto! No!’

  – faster and faster, straight at the wolf as it made its spring, and she too jumped, sprang like a wolf, hurling herself off the ice and into the air. In that flashing moment, as she jumped, there in mid-air, a hot light exploded within her, and she cried out – she thought aloud, but no sound came – cried out to the wolf – Friend of my friend! Enemy of my enemy! – collided with the wolf in mid-air – and was knocked, sprawling, breathless, to
the ice.

  The wolf landed on its great paws, half-stunned, confused.

  ‘Pinto!’

  Mumpo was coming for her.

  ‘I’m alright.’

  The wolf swung round its great shaggy head, glared at Mumpo, then turned on Pinto, its mouth leering open.

  ‘No! –’

  There was nothing to fear. Pinto reached out one hand. The wolf lowered its head and licked her hand with its rasping tongue, and nuzzled her neck, and licked her face.

  You heard me, wolf! You felt me!

  Mumpo came to a stop, watching, silent with astonishment. The other wolves were clustering round Pinto now, three of them, then four and five. He had seen it happen before, long ago, only this time it was little Pinto who was talking with wolves.

  ‘You too!’ he said.

  She turned to look at him: a seven-year-old child with eyes that were suddenly so much older. This was how Kestrel had looked at him, before she had gone away.

  ‘They won’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘They’re our friends.’

  She stroked the wolves’ shaggy necks, and rose to her feet. She waved to the others, who stood looking back over the ice, fearful in the twilight.

  ‘I’m alright! Go on!’

  The people and the cows and the horses turned and continued on their slow way over the creaking ice. Pinto left the wolves, and joined Mumpo.

  ‘Come on, Mumpo.’

  The wolves stood still, in a guardian line, watching her go.

  Goodbye, my friends.

  Seek shelter, little one, came the reply. The storm is coming.

  Pinto took Mumpo’s hand, and they set off after the others, Mumpo no longer sure if he was supporting Pinto or she was supporting him.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Nor did I. Not until now.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I’m growing up,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  They walked fast over the lake, both for different reasons unafraid of the bouncing ice. Pinto was filled with the sensation she had had before when the passion fly had made her drunk: she felt she could do anything, that nothing could withstand her will. Let the ice crack! What did she care? She would command the ice to carry her, and it would obey. Only this time she was not drunk, her mind was sharp and clear, she understood many things. She saw her father ahead, pulling the litter that carried her mother, and she felt how much they needed her, and how strong she would now be for them.

  I’ll look after you, she called to them without sound. I’ll look after you all.

  She wasn’t drunk, but the sensation was intoxicating. She saw her people reach the far shore, she saw them gather on the lakeside, dark figures in the growing darkness, she saw the horses and the cows stumble up onto the frozen ground, and it felt to her as if it was she, Pinto, almost the youngest of them all, who had delivered them safely to the other side.

  I can do anything!

  Mumpo held her eager hand in his and followed the others, his mind full of wonder at the change in her. Mumpo’s nature was such that he only ever thought of one thing at a time, and thinking of Pinto left him no room to be afraid of the groans and shudders of the ice. How had she changed? She looked the same. Why then did he feel a new timidity in her presence, a sensation of unworthiness? He clasped her hand more tightly, not thinking what he was doing, and then felt ashamed, and let it go.

  ‘It’s alright, Mumpo,’ she said. ‘I won’t leave you.’

  He blushed in the dusk, glad she couldn’t see.

  ‘I’m the one who’s meant to look after you.’

  ‘We’ll look after each other.’

  They reached the lake shore. Hanno Hath gave his daughter one keen look, then he turned to the mountain peaks ahead.

  ‘We’ll make a fire here for tonight. The way ahead’s too steep to climb by moonlight.’

  Ira Hath reached up her hand and Pinto took it and clasped it tight. Her mother said nothing aloud, but Pinto felt her meaning clearly.

  It’s not fair, her mother was telling her. It’s too soon.

  ‘How old were you when it happened, ma?’

  ‘Me?’ Her mother smiled on her, and whispered soft words. ‘I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know it. Before I could talk, or walk. I just lay in my crib, knowing.’

  Pinto laughed.

  ‘So you see. It’s about time I knew, too.’

  15

  Bowman flies

  Mist the cat lay on the deck of the barge, concealed beneath a fold of canvas, listening to the voices rising from the cabin below. In the normal run of things, Mist paid little attention to human voices. Chatter chatter chatter: so much talk, so little sense. Long ago the cat had concluded that men and women talked to ease some pressing internal need, like letting air out of an over-inflated balloon. The words themselves were of little consequence. These voices, however, were different. The loud one, the contemptuous booming voice, impressed Mist as being full of wisdom; though it would be fair to say that in the cat’s world-weary eyes any strong expression of contempt sounded wise. The other voice was Bowman’s. He said little, and in low tones which were sometimes hard to hear, but Mist liked the boy. He was soft, and he’d turned out to be a disappointment in many ways; but still he liked him.

  ‘Great stars!’ shouted the big voice from the cabin. ‘Don’t you know how to listen? Is the boy deaf as well as stupid?’

  ‘What am I to hear?’

  ‘Hear? Did I say hear? Did anyone say hear? You’re not to hear, you’re to listen! You know what that means? It means you don’t know what sound is out there. It means you’re waiting for the sound to come to you. Did you hear that? Yes? Nod your head if you understand a single word I’m saying. Good. Maybe we’re getting somewhere at last.’

  Mist crept forward to peep through the cabin window, curious to know what the boy was being commanded to listen to. There, gathered round the cabin table, were Albard and Bowman, Jumper and Kestrel; and in the middle of the table, the object of all their attention, making no sound that the cat could discern, was a spoon.

  ‘The spoon has its own song,’ said Albard, not so angrily now, seeing the attentive expression on Bowman’s face. ‘Listen to its song.’

  Bowman nodded, his eyes on the spoon.

  ‘Now tune your song to the spoon’s song.’

  Bowman nodded again. Kestrel, in direct contact with her brother’s mind, felt a series of soft vibrations run through him.

  ‘Now lift the spoon.’

  Bowman eased the spoon off the table, using only the grip of his mind. He had done this sort of thing before. This was nothing new.

  The spoon hovered in the air.

  ‘Now,’ said Albard, ‘scoop a hole in the table with the spoon.’

  Bowman wrinkled his brow in perplexity. The spoon dropped to the table with a clatter.

  ‘You have a problem with that?’

  ‘The spoon’s too blunt to cut into the table.’

  ‘But not too blunt to cut into custard.’

  ‘Not too blunt to cut into custard. Too blunt to cut into wood.’

  ‘Then don’t cut into wood. Cut into custard.’

  Bowman thought about this in silence for a long moment. Then without asking further questions, he turned his attention from the spoon to the table. Albard saw this, and met Jumper’s eyes. Bowman began to listen to the table as he had listened to the spoon. It sounded deeper, duller; more – wooden.

  Kestrel, watching, followed her brother’s every thought. She felt the intensity of his attention to that simple timber surface. She heard the low thudding sound that it made in his mind, and probed it curiously along with him. She felt too the undercurrent of frustration in him, that he was asked to do something he didn’t yet understand. Kestrel herself felt no such frustration: she was no more than an onlooker. Perhaps for this reason it was she, not Bowman, who all at once found herself tumbling, as into a woodland pool,
into the ripple-grained surface of the table.

  It was the oddest feeling. One moment she was looking at the table, the next moment it was all around her, and fluid, and warm. It even had its own distinctive smell, of resin and damp cloth. She knew at once that she could form this substance into any shape she wanted, she could puddle it like clay or pour it like water. The table, while still standing before her, had opened itself up to her and allowed her to find the true matter out of which it was made, matter that was only provisionally assembled in the form of a table.

  Why, she thought to herself, it could just as easily be custard.

  She looked up, eyes bright and laughing, and her gaze fell on an old calendar pinned to the cabin wall. With a soft hissing sound, the out-of-date numbers began to uncurl and form into wiggly lines on the faded paper. Then with a little pop! they burst into sparkly dust, and shivered into the air, leaving the paper blank on the wall.

  Kestrel blinked, to force her eyes back into focus. But her eyes were seeing clearly: more clearly, more penetratingly than ever in her life. For now the cabin wall was disintegrating. With a curious gurgling sound that surely the others could hear, though they showed no sign, the planks were turning spongy, and separating into clumps of what looked like moss, and dropping down in floppy heaps onto the floor. Only, the floor wasn’t there. Beneath her feet was water: water that gleamed and rippled, and yet was firm underfoot, and entirely translucent, for looking down, looking through the vanished bottom of the barge into the shining river below, she saw the sky – or at least, bright space – and then she realised this wasn’t water at all below her, it was air – and not even air, but light –

  Dizzy, frightened, she looked up, and the cabin, her brother, Albard, Jumper, all were gone. She was alone in a world of light. She held out her hand before her, and saw – nothing. She looked down at her own body and saw – nothing. She too had gone. There was only this infinity of humming light – and herself, knowing it.

  So I can’t be gone. I must still be here.

  But where?

  Everywhere, came the answer. I’m everywhere. I’ve joined everything.

  With that, she stopped being afraid, and at once she was filled with joy. She understood it now. Somehow she had slipped between the walls that hold things apart from each other to enter that place where they all join up. She remembered the winter dawn, when she had stood in the dazzling light of the sun streaming through the trees and had said to herself, Why should it ever end? Here, now, lost in a greater light, she knew there was no end, no boundaries, no this and that, no then and now. All existence had melted, including the thing she had once known as her own body –