Firesong

by William Nicholson

  And my mind? My self? Is that melted away?

  That was scary. She shied away from the thought, and with a lurch, found she was back in the cabin, and there was Bowman wrinkling his brow, trying to turn the table into custard.

  It’s easy, Bo. Like this.

  She let him into her mind. He felt the light-heartedness in her, and relaxed his fierce attention. She looked with him, her eyes guiding his, at the surface of the table, and she caught its song, her ears guiding his, and spoke to him in their mind, telling him what to do.

  It’s hard because it’s shivering so fast. Slow it down, and it’ll go softer.

  After she’d said this she wondered how she knew it. It was something to do with the way everything had disappeared, and yet had still been there. In that brief moment, she was sure things had moved slowly, had hardly moved at all.

  Bowman tried to do as she said. He felt the shivering of the table quite clearly, but he didn’t see how he could slow it down. It struck him as he listened to it that its sound was quite different to his own sound, which was sweeter and softer. Perhaps if he were to surround the table sound with his own sound, that would slow it down. So he focused his attention on the weave of sound that Albard had taught him to know as his own song, and started to fold it like a blanket around the table. Then he thought of custard.

  Albard saw and approved. He had not detected Kestrel’s silent intervention. He saw only that the boy, unguided, was taking control of the solid matter before him and making it serve his will.

  For a few moments, nothing happened. Bowman felt foolish, staring at a table and thinking of custard. But then he felt Kestrel give him a nudge, and he tipped over, and with a quick gulp of his mind the table’s buzz was overcome, was swallowed, by his own vibrations. The table was still there before him. But all its essential qualities were now inside him, and under his control.

  Custard. He thought smooth. He thought creamy. A spoon could dip into that without any difficulty.

  He raised the spoon, still using only his mind, and scooped up a brimming spoonful of table. It came up like custard. The surface of the table flowed back to smooth out the scoop, just as a thick creamy custard would, but what he had now in the spoon was table: that is, it was wood.

  ‘Good boy!’ bellowed Albard. ‘Now he’s getting it!’

  The spoon dropped to the table. The piece of wood rolled out, and lay there rocking back and forth on its curved underside.

  ‘You see that, blob?’ said Albard. ‘This boy of mine is going to be alright.’

  Bowman gazed at the fragment of wood. He felt a surge of power swell up within him. He turned his attention onto the spoon, and thought: water. The spoon dissolved into a silver puddle.

  ‘Who’s a clever boy?’ crooned Albard. ‘Who’s not a cloth-eared cretin after all? Oh, blob! If I was younger, and there was any room to move in this floating coffin, I’d dance a jig!’

  Jumper looked at Bowman and smiled. Then his eyes turned quietly to Kestrel, and became thoughtful.

  ‘Great stars!’ shouted Albard. ‘Storm down below!’

  He pounded up onto deck, and there he stood, legs planted wide apart, and urinated violently over the side into the river.

  ‘Aah!’ he cried as his bladder emptied. ‘Storm passing. Fair winds. Clear skies.’

  The others followed him up onto deck. The barge was running on the fast-flowing currents, some ten yards from the bank.

  ‘You, blob! Make yourself useful! Tie us to the riverbank.’

  Jumper obediently picked up one end of the mooring rope and stepped over the side of the barge, and onto the riverbank. He did this with so obliging a manner that only Mist, watching from his hiding place, noticed that he walked over the water itself.

  ‘So, boy!’ boomed Albard. ‘Time you learned to fly!’

  Mist heard this with a surge of excitement. Now at last his long-cherished dream would come true. Ever since he had seen the hermit Dogface, his former companion, fly down from his tree, he had dreamed of being a flying cat. Since then he had learned to fly short distances, given a good run up before take off. But real flying, he knew, required no run up. Dogface hadn’t run anywhere, ever. He had just floated into the air.

  Jumper drew the barge to the riverbank and moored it to a tree. An inch or so of snow covered the ground, and lay on the branches of the tall pine trees that grew almost to the river’s side. The spot chosen by Jumper for mooring the barge was evidently a well-used river crossing point, for here the encroaching forest stood back a little way, forming a semi-circular glade; and on the further side of the glade, a cart-track wound away southwards through the trees.

  Albard heaved his great body off the barge, and stamped about over the snow investigating the open space. Bowman and Kestrel followed. Mist remained in hiding on the barge. The cat had no reason to hide, other than a general liking for secrecy; and here, surely, secrets were about to be revealed. Mist valued information more highly when he supposed he was not meant to be learning it.

  Albard discovered that the clearing was man-made, and that here and there the woodsmen who had felled the trees had left stumps standing in the snowy ground. He fixed upon one such stump, that stood some two feet high, and had been sawn clean across, like a stool.

  ‘Stand on this, boy.’

  Bowman stepped up onto the tree stump and stood there.

  ‘You want me to fly from here?’ he asked.

  ‘Fly? How can you fly? Have you got wings?’

  ‘But I thought you said –’

  ‘No wings, can’t fly. Not hard to grasp.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right, then. No more talk of flying. All I want you to do is take one step off the stump towards me. One step, no more. Got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Off you go.’

  Bowman took one step off the stump, and landed on the snowy ground.

  ‘No, no, no!’ bellowed Albard. ‘Did I say fall off? No, I did not! I said take one step!’

  ‘How am I to stop myself falling?’

  ‘The same way you stop yourself from sitting down. You choose not to. You fall because you expect to fall. Now get back on that stump, take one step, and wait there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How? HOW?’ Albard went red and stamped his feet. ‘NEVER ASK HOW! How doesn’t matter! How doesn’t exist! How is for fools and slaves! How makes everything small! You’re greater than how, you don’t care how, if you will it, the how must follow! You’re to be a master! A master knows nothing of how!’

  After this sudden tirade, a silence fell over the snowy glade. Albard shook himself, and stared crossly at Jumper, who was looking at him with a smile.

  ‘Well? What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jumper. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Kestrel. ‘He’s talking nonsense. It has nothing to do with masters and slaves.’

  Albard stared at her in angry surprise.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, as if he had never seen her before. ‘Who cares what you think?’

  ‘My brother does. So does he.’ A nod at Jumper.

  ‘No they don’t. Go away. Obliterate yourself.’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Burn the brat!’

  ‘You can’t burn anyone any more.’

  ‘I can break your scraggy little neck.’

  He made a move as if to take hold of her. She showed no fear.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I warn you –’

  Kestrel took hold of his out-reached hand and bent it back with ease. He was very weak.

  ‘Ow! That hurts!’

  Tears of pain and humiliation sprang into his eyes.

  ‘She hurt me! It’s not fair!’ he cried. ‘This is all your fault!’ He glowered through his tears at Jumper. ‘Why didn’t you leave me to die?’

  ‘Your time will come,’ said Jumper gently. ‘But first you must pass on your skills to the boy.
Make him strong in your place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Albard, cheering up, ‘yes, he’s young, he can be strong for me.’ He turned to Bowman. ‘When I’ve made you strong, you’ll crush this worm-child for me, won’t you? Out of respect for your teacher.’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ said Bowman.

  ‘Is she?’ Albard seemed surprised. ‘Ah, well. Be a good boy, attend to what I tell you, and you’ll rule the world. Then I shall go in peace.’

  ‘I don’t want to rule the world. I just want to be a Singer.’

  ‘Hey ho. Things come as they will. I wanted to play the violin to applauding crowds, but here I am, all skin and bone, with barely strength left to draw breath. Sun and moon! I made such music once! But you took my fiddle from me, boy – no, not you, what did you know? Sirene took it from me. Sirene never forgets, and never forgives.’

  He dabbed at his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned to the task in hand.

  ‘Back on the stump. Take one step. Choose not to fall.’

  Bowman got back on the tree stump.

  ‘No doubts. No uncertainty. No how. The ground has power to draw you down, but you have power too. Use it.’

  Bowman stepped off the stump. Then he fell. But for a fraction of a second, before he fell, he caught the sensation of what it would be like not to fall. He understood his mistake. He had supposed effort was needed not to fall. He had been straining invisible muscles. But no effort was required. He needed stillness. It was more like finding the point of perfect balance when standing on one leg. Until you find it, you wobble and wave your arms, but once you have it, perfect stillness keeps you in place.

  He returned to the stump.

  ‘Don’t say anything. Let me try again.’

  He stepped onto air – and stood there.

  Hubba hubba Bowman!

  He grinned to hear Kestrel’s silent cheer, and dropped to the ground.

  Albard looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Could you have stayed there?’

  ‘I think so.’

  There came a splash from the river. Mist had tried to float off the boat, in imitation of Bowman, with less success. He crawled soaking onto the river bank.

  ‘Mist! Where have you come from?’

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ said Mist bitterly, shivering his coat.

  ‘Shoo! Filthy animal!’ said Albard. ‘Go away!’

  ‘Let him alone,’ said Bowman. ‘He’s a friend.’ And to Mist, silently, he said, ‘Don’t rush at it. You have to take it gently.’

  In demonstration, not knowing at all how he was doing it, he let his arms rise from his sides, and he floated slowly up into the air.

  Albard eyed him critically.

  ‘What have you got your arms out for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It feels right.’

  ‘It’s pretend wings, isn’t it? Forget wings. You’re not a bird.’

  Bowman let his arms fall.

  ‘How do you do it, boy?’ cried Mist, whimpering with longing.

  ‘I don’t know. I just do it.’

  Jumper understood the cat’s desire. He reached out and touched Mist with the fringes of his mind. Mist started, and the hair went up on his back. Then he softened again, as he felt an unfamiliar lightness flow through him. He turned to see where it was coming from. Jumper was watching him, smiling. He looked to Mist for all the world like a comfortable purring mother cat.

  Jumper nodded encouragingly. Mist stretched his long lithe body, and sprang.

  ‘Wheee! Here I come!’

  The cat bounded up into the air, turning slowly over and over as he went. Bowman, still hovering, rose higher still, and in doing so, collided with a snow-laden branch, knocking the snow off to shower down on the cat below.

  ‘Yeow! Don’t do that!’

  Mist wriggled in mid-air, to shed the snow that had fallen on him. Goaded by the cold snow, he made another mid-air bound that took him past Bowman and over his head, to land lightly on a higher branch. His weight shook snow onto Bowman below.

  ‘See how you like it, boy!’

  He sprang away, moving from branch to branch, and Bowman gave chase, both forgetting that they were leaping from nothing to nothing, and landing with ease on the tips of branches that would barely sustain the weight of a bird. Albard and Jumper and Kestrel watched from the ground, all smiling the same smile, as boy and cat danced through the high branches, and the snow fell in cascading clouds between the trees.

  When Bowman floated at last to the ground, pink-faced and glowing and proud, Albard strode up to him and wrapped him in his broad embrace.

  ‘Wonderful boy! You remind me of my first time!’

  He kissed him on the cheeks and on the brow, then he stood back from him and said,

  ‘Did you hear it?’

  Bowman knew Albard meant the sound within himself.

  ‘Yes. I heard it.’

  ‘Can you sing it?’

  Bowman tried to imitate the sound with his voice. What came out was a humming burbling sound.

  ‘Get it right.’

  He made his mouth refine the song, until he was as close as he could make it to the sound he heard within himself.

  ‘Don’t try too hard. Let the song sing itself through you. Like the old wind singers.’

  Like the old wind singers? He remembered the wind singer of Aramanth well. The high creaking structure of wooden struts and metal pipes had possessed no mind of its own. The wind drove it round, and made its way down its pipes, and used it for its song. Could he be as empty, as mindless, as a wind singer?

  He tried again. This time he opened his mouth and let the song pass out of him of its own accord. He knew at once that it was exact: the song he sung was the song he had heard. He felt his body rise in the air.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Albard, smacking his sagging belly, well pleased. ‘Learn the song. Use it at will.’

  Let me hear it, Bo.

  Bowman gladly opened his mind to Kestrel. He felt her enter and reach for the new sensation in him, and find the power that Albard called a song. He sensed her learning it, and taking it into herself. It was what he wished. His mind and all its power belonged to her, as hers belonged to him.

  ‘Boy!’ said Mist. ‘Let’s fly again!’

  Mist curved up into the air, this time ostentatiously in control, arching his back and stretching as he flew, and showing his claws. Bowman followed, bounding up into the air with long strides of his legs, as if he was climbing an invisible giant’s staircase. And after a moment’s hesitation, Kestrel, watching them, smiling with pleasure, rose gently upwards to join them.

  Kess! You can fly too!

  Bowman danced through the air towards her, and took her hand. Hand in hand they floated up above the tree tops.

  ‘Shall we go higher?’

  ‘Higher, yes! And higher!’

  Up they went into the clear winter sky, higher and higher, holding hands, until they became frightened that there was no end to their ascent. They could, it seemed, go on for ever. So they paddled to a stop, as if their limbs controlled their movements, though they knew very well it was their minds that chose to fly or not to fly. And there, treading air, up where thin clouds were passing, they looked over the forest and the land beyond.

  For many miles the land was white. Snow lay on the trees of the forest, and on the rolling ground beyond. The cracks in the land showed as shadowed slits. Beyond, where the hills rose again, they could see clusters of houses, and here and there, bright flickers of flame.

  As they became accustomed to being so very high and seeing so very far they began to pick out more of these points of flame. Why so many fires out of doors? Were these the camp fires of wandering people, driven from their homes by the troubled times? But as they learned to look better, they realised the fires, though small to them, were far bigger than those built for boiling kettles. These were great fires, these were whole houses burning, these were villages. All over the immense white landscape, homes were burning.<
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  What’s happening, Kess? Who’s doing this?

  It’s the time of cruelty, Kestrel answered, knowing this was no answer.

  A gust of wind carried towards them the distant smell of wood smoke, tinged with charred meat. It could be the smells of cooking, or it could be something far more grisly.

  In silent consent, the twins floated back down to the snow-covered ground.

  ‘Everything’s burning,’ said Bowman. ‘It’s as if the world has been set on fire.’

  ‘That’s what happens,’ said Albard with some bitterness. ‘Take away mastery, and you get chaos. I warned them. But they don’t care. They just watch.’

  ‘Our time will come,’ said Jumper.

  ‘Our time, our time. And meanwhile what? Suffering and ugliness.’

  Jumper replied only, ‘We should be on our way.’

  They returned to the barge, this time joined by the cat as an acknowledged member of their group. Mist had half a mind to go flying after birds, but he felt tired and decided to rest first. Bowman too felt tired, heavy tired, as if he had been doing hard labour. So he and the cat curled up on the cabin bench and went to sleep.

  Jumper cast off the mooring rope and remained on deck, sitting like a small fat gnome astraddle the prow, with his legs dangling down on either side. Here Kestrel found him.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Who would you like me to be?’

  ‘I need someone to explain things to me.’

  ‘Then I’m the explainer.’

  He looked at her with a friendly smile. As he looked, his appearance altered. Nothing physical changed, but he seemed to her to grow older. He was turning into a grandfather. As she watched the transformation, she realised that she must be doing it herself. She wanted a wise old grandfather, and he was obliging her.

  ‘What do Singer people do?’