by Maurice Gee
The soldiers marched away, two of them dragging the attendant’s body, with Ben’s knife still in its throat.
‘Now,’ said the Limping Man, smiling at Ben with his pink mouth, ‘tell me who you are.’
It took all Ben’s strength to raise his head. He spat at the Limping Man. ‘Vosper,’ he croaked.
The Limping Man’s face darkened, but in a moment he smiled again as though at a child.
‘That used to be my name, boy. You learned it from my mother. And yours is . . .?’
Ben snarled, but suddenly, painfully, the darkness in his head increased, and he heard his voice whisper, ‘Ben.’
‘See, it pops out like a pip from a lemon. You can’t hide anything from me. You visited my poor mother, Ben, you and the girl. To find out what? Who I am? You think I have a secret. There’s no secret. People love me. They worship me. Did you know that? When I’ve wiped out your villages and killed the Dweller vermin in the north, the world is mine and I’ll give it to those who follow me. Will you follow me, Ben?’
Ben managed to shake his head. He did not know the sound he made, meaning no.
‘You’re a stubborn boy,’ said the Limping Man. ‘I had to kill my mother because of you. She sold me for a fat pigeon. Poor Queenie. But never mind. I have Blossom and Hubert and I have you. What a pity the girl ran away. My men found her footprints in the sand. Betrayal, Ben. She turned her back on you the way Queenie did on me. Women, you see. They’re good for nothing. But we’ll find her when we march north, and punish her. What’s her name, Ben?’
Ben could not help himself. He choked the name back but could not stop it.
‘Hana,’ he croaked.
‘Hana. Well, Ben, Hana will burn. Be sure of it. But you, you will drown. Tomorrow, in the square. The numbers grow, Haggie. What a day it will be. Blow for the boy. Let him hear my sound.’
The crier raised his trumpet and blew a rough-edged blast until his breath ran out.
‘Hear that, Ben? Your forests will ring with it. How can you not worship me? But you hate me still. I see it in your head, feeding like a worm. Let me get rid of it for you.’
No, Ben managed to think, and then the word made a wailing sound and faded away and in its place a picture grew: the Limping Man, his smiling face, his loving smile, his eyes blue like the sky, shining with the promise of happiness. Where was the word? Where was ‘no’? It had vanished. Instead there was ‘yes’. There was love instead. It splashed over him like warm water from a jug. He struggled to his knees in front of the glowing figure standing before him. Tears ran down his face as he cried his love.
‘Man,’ Ben cried. ‘Master,’ he cried.
‘There, you see, it’s easy. But that’s enough,’ the Limping Man said. ‘Tomorrow you will drown. I prefer to have you hating me, it pleases the crowd. So – tie him, Haggie.’
The crier bellowed, ‘Rope,’ and a man ran out of the barracks with a coil on his arm.
‘Tie him,’ the crier said. ‘Tight.’
The man fastened Ben’s elbows behind his back. He tied his ankles. Still Ben tried to see his master. In spite of the pain he cried his love.
‘Enough. Stop now, Ben. Let my men see the face of hatred.’
As suddenly as he had been mastered, Ben was free. This time the water that washed him flowed from a forest stream. The monstrous love fell away like dirt from his mind, leaving no hatred, only pity. He looked up at the Limping Man – the robes, the rooster’s comb, the weak eyes and baby’s mouth, and he thought, He’s stupid, Vosper is. How can I stop him killing everyone?
He said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stick you. But someone will.’
‘Not you, boy. No one, ever,’ the Limping Man said. ‘Bring him, Haggie. Put him with the others.’
He limped into his palace. The crier followed, dragging Ben by the rope that bound his feet. The bearers carried the litter away.
ELEVEN
Hana heard the trumpet blow and feet tramp evenly on the path. Keeping back from the parapet, she raised herself high enough to see the Limping Man’s litter disappear into the scrub. Its colour dazzled her. The crier’s sword flashed in the sun. The soldiers’ jerkins gleamed like beetle wings. She knelt again. Her knees felt weak. How could anyone fight him? A boy with a knife and a girl with – nothing.
The roof was warm. She lay close to the ferns, ready to hide if she heard the hoist rumble. Ben was out there somewhere in the scrub. Or perhaps he had followed the Limping Man along the path, waiting for his chance. It would never come. Her eyes grew wet with pity – he was so full of courage that had no use. She knew that in the end Ben would attack, even if he had no chance. He would throw his life away.
‘Ben,’ she whispered.
She lay on the hot roof as the sun climbed up the sky. She would help him somehow. She would join him when he attacked and throw her own life away. But she must not be captured. Hana was terrified of being burned.
She thought of Mam – and Mam seemed to be watching her. Mam crooning a lullaby. Mam in the shelter, in the firelight, with Hana sitting between her knees; her fingers soft one moment, hard the next, as she picked lice out of Hana’s hair.
When Mam came to her this way, when Mam was watching, it was a caress. She felt it again – but differently, not tender, something sharp, cutting round her edges like a knife . . .
Hana sprang to her knees. She looked at the sky. Wiped her wet eyes. Looked again.
A small black dot was circling there.
‘Hawk,’ she whispered.
Hawk, she cried inside herself. Without thought she let herself go to him, as she had that first time on the hill. It was climbing a silver rope, it was changing her skin as she fitted behind his eyes. There was no greeting. That was not Hawk’s way. He was here. He was with her. That was all. It had to be her way as well.
She saw what he saw: the palace roof, herself kneeling with her face raised to the sky. She saw the scrub, the broken hand, the abandoned building on the cliff, with waves foaming on the rocks below.
Ben? Where’s Ben? she said.
Hawk swooped lower, searching the scrub.
Your wing? Hana said. But Hawk could only show what he saw. If he ever came to sit with her she would look at the wing and see how well it had healed. In the meantime he flew, that was enough.
Ben was lying on his side in the scrub. He seemed to be sleeping. The sun, at its highest, lit his legs and face. Hana wanted to go lower and see if there was a way of talking with him but Hawk turned away. She could not command him, he was not hers. He dived in a straight line down a zigzagging path, into a city she had never seen – not the burrows but the place Company had built – and there she saw people on a cleared piece of land and saw them kneeling to the Limping Man. He stood by his litter, with guards on either side. The crier paraded in front, bellowing, and the kneeling men shouted their response, which Hana heard faintly with Hawk’s ears: ‘Man, Man, praise the Man.’
Higher, Hawk, she whispered. She did not want the Limping Man to notice him. He too wanted to leave this place. He flew over Ceebeedee and out over the plains, where men galloped horses and others marched in squadrons and bowmen shot bolts and arrows into targets. Hawk flew above the reach of arrows. He looped south over a city of tents with coloured roofs and pennants flying on poles. At noon the soldiers would make fires and cook their food. Their leaders would be resting now in their tents – the same eastern and southern chiefs Hana had seen in multi-coloured robes at the burning. She tried to spit at them but could not – she was Hawk up here, she was a guest. She felt his head turn and the Limping Man’s army slid away like a tray on a table. The speed of Hawk’s changed focus made her dizzy. He looked beyond the tents into a hollow between two hills, where something moved. It was a hare. She felt Hawk’s hunger, and felt her own, but knew she had no place in the kill.
Hawk, I’m going, she whispered. Come back soon. At once she was on the palace roof, with slate under her shins and her body stiff from kneeling.
She searched the sky westwards but Hawk was not there. He was on the ground, between the hills, tearing his prey. She could almost taste the warm flesh. Hawk, bring me some, she whispered. She crept behind the ferns, out of the sun, and drank some water – almost her last. She searched for insects in the stalks. Meat, she thought. Please bring me some.
Below her the sentries tramped round and round the building. How did they keep going? Why didn’t they turn and walk the other way? Hana dozed and woke, dozed and woke, tormented by hunger. In spite of it she was happy – Hawk had come. She woke with a start from a dream in which he was searching, a dream in which he circled in the sky, crying forlornly. She crawled from her hiding place and lay in the sun. The stone roof burned but she stayed where he could see, wondering how many days he had spent searching as she and Ben travelled, as they slept in the cave and hid in Danatok’s house.
I’m sorry, Hawk.
Then, distantly, she heard a trumpet cry. The Limping Man was coming. She needed to see. Hawk, she called urgently. Whatever Ben planned, he would do it now. If she could see where he was there might be a way of helping him.
Ben, she called. There was no answer. His whole mind now was getting ready for Vosper. His whole mind would be in his knife.
Hana waited, watching for Hawk, feeling for Ben. Another trumpet blast: the Limping Man was close. She felt like an insect in a jar, knowing nothing of the world outside.
Feet tramped on the path through the scrub. They came to the palace door. She heard the litter creak as the bearers put it down.
Ben, don’t, she whispered – then tried to withdraw the words. Whatever he would do, there was no place in his mind for her. Hawk, she said, I need to see.
Three heavy bangs shook the palace. The crier’s voice bellowed, ‘Open for the Man.’ No sound of a door, but the swish of curtains opening. The Limping Man was stepping from his litter.
Hana waited. She pleaded for Hawk to come . . .
A grunt. Was that Ben? A scream like a seabird’s cry. The whirr of crossbow bolts and a shout from the crier: ‘Kill him.’ Then a small voice, a whistling, childish voice, saying, ‘No.’
How fast her brain was. She felt the bolts strike Ben, and strike her; but ‘no’ meant they had missed and he was alive. She had to see, and she raised her eyes again to the sky. Hawk was there. He found her as she found him. At once she climbed the silver rope and shared his eyes.
Everything was clear. She saw Ben lying face down, trying to crawl. She saw a small man dressed in black lying on the grass with a knife in his throat. She saw the buttons on his jacket and blood leaking into the cloth. He was meant to be the Limping Man. But the Limping Man leaned on his stick. He leaned and searched. She felt his mind rolling like a fog down the path and across the scrub; it climbed the palace walls and spread across the roof, over the toad-house and over her kneeling form as she stared at the sky. It ran over her and found nothing to touch. She had climbed the rope. Her mind was in the sky with Hawk.
Soldiers dragged Ben by the heels and laid him in front of the Limping Man. Hawk gave a twist of his tail, sliding across the scrub and sliding back.
Go down lower, Hana whispered. She wanted to hear what Vosper said. Was Ben speaking too? The crier stamped on him.
Lower, Hawk, please.
Hawk took no notice. There were times when he heard and times when he did not. He had fought for her in the forest but he would not go lower for Ben. So Hana left him; slid her mind down the sky into her own body. For a moment she was dizzy and stayed on hands and knees. Then she crawled to the parapet and hid in the ferns. She raised her head as Vosper, in his unbroken voice, said, ‘Hana will burn.’
How did he know her name? Had he plucked it from Ben’s mind? What else did he know?
The crier blew a long blast, making her ears ring. She heard only faintly what happened next – someone speaking. Then she heard Ben cry, ‘Man. Master,’ and she covered her ears to keep out the dreadful sound. The Limping Man had taken Ben’s mind. It was worse than killing him. It was like making Ben one of his toads.
No, Ben, she whispered. Come back.
She listened again, and still he cried, ‘Master,’ in a voice full of devotion. She stopped her ears. She heard no more, except, distantly, the thud of a closing door.
It was a long time before she risked looking over the parapet. A sentry walked by, slow and lazy. That was all. She looked at the sky.
Hawk was gone.
TWELVE
Rain clouds boiled up from the west. Heavy drops splashed on the roof. Hana drank the last of her water and filled the bottle from the gutter inside the parapet. Her hunger did not matter, she was used to it. What mattered was bringing Ben back and the only way to do it was to kill the Limping Man. If he came to feed his toads again she would get in through a window. She tried to work one of the bars loose with her knife. The point snapped off. She knelt with the rain beating on her head. Not even a knife. Perhaps tomorrow she could hide in a building in the burrows and tip a heavy stone on to the litter . . . But she did not know which streets he would pass through, and even if she did, no stone would kill the Limping Man.
Hawk, help me, she pleaded.
The rain stopped and the clouds rolled away. He was nowhere in the sky.
Hot sun. She lay on the roof, ignoring the shade of the ferns. Her clothes steamed and her hair dried on the slates. Ben was somewhere in the palace below, perhaps crying his devotion still. If the Limping Man questioned him he would say she was on the roof. She had the horrible thought that Vosper might send Ben to kill her. The only way then would be to jump from the parapet and, if her legs did not break, run for the scrub. Where to after that? She imagined Ben coming after her – a Ben she did not know, horribly changed. She would try to wrestle him off the cliff. They would fall like Pearl and Hari. Pearl and Hari had lived. They would die.
If Hawk would only lift me up and fly away . . .
Hana slept, and when she woke he was waiting beside her. He lifted his claw off a fat pigeon lying by her head.
‘Ah, Hawk . . .’
She plucked its feathers and cut off a leg, which she offered him. He refused. She peeled the skin and ate the flesh, then sliced tender meat from the breast and ate that too. Hawk accepted the carcase after that. He opened it with his beak and found the heart and liver. Hana poured water into her hand and held it out. He drank, scooping with his lower beak, then flew away. Hana waited for the sun to go down. It touched the sea, turning red and shooting an arrow of light along the horizon.
Shouted orders came from the front of the palace. She crept to the back; found Hawk in the sky; joined him and watched until the sentries were lined up outside the palace door. She hurtled down the silver rope and shook herself into her own body. Monkey-quick, she climbed down the corner of the building and ran for the scrub, where she burrowed in and waited until the sentries resumed their march. Then she crept to the hand. The last of the sun turned it pink, and there was Hawk, perched on the broken finger.
Where do you sleep, Hawk? Where do you go?
They were questions for herself.
Will you find me in the morning? I don’t know where I’ll be.
His feathers shone in the last shooting rays – red, green, gold – then he spread his wings (she saw no wound) as if trying them, sprang into the air and flapped away. Hana heard a sentry approaching on the path. She retreated into the scrub, which was full of black pools now the light was gone. She felt her way through, although it would be safer to wait until the moon came up. But she did not want to stay near the palace. All day she had lain on the roof, close to Vosper and his toads. She wanted to get away from the contagion that had claimed Ben.
She passed the burned mansion, passed the other fallen houses, and as she went felt the Limping Man’s influence decrease. She felt sick at leaving Ben there.
‘I’ll try, Ben, I’ll try,’ she whispered; and could not make sense of her words.
Hana reached Bawdhouse Bu
rrow as the sun rose. There was no change – the same rubble heaps, the same broken stairways, the same scummy pools in the parks, with weeds spreading on them, half-closing them like eyes. Women were usually out at dawn, drawing water from the single well. Today they stayed in their shelters, keeping their children close, keeping quiet. If the burning quota was not full the constables would take any woman they saw. She found the crawl to the shelter she had shared with Mam and rested there a few steps from the street. Sleep was hard. Fear crept into her mind with every breath. But Mam was with her too. Mam placed a cool hand on her brow. Hana, she whispered, the weed.
Hana understood. If she had frogweed she would be safe. If constables found her she could die like Mam. She crawled until she reached the stone blocking the shelter. There were no voices inside, no life. A man would be gone already to People’s Square but a woman would be moving about and children playing. She put her feet on the rock, straightened her legs and rolled it away. Silence again. She crept into the room where she had spent most of her life. No one lived there now. The family that had moved in was gone. The bunk lay smashed. The fire corner was cold, the ashes grey. Nothing remained except . . . Hana advanced. The pot stood on the shelf. Leaves of frogweed drooped down its sides. They crumbled when she touched them. The weed was dead.
Hana sat on the cold floor and wept. Soon Mam spoke to
her again.
Hana, I told you to go far away.
‘Yes, Mam,’ she said.
But you came back.
‘Yes,’ she snuffled.
So now you must be brave.
‘How?’ she said.
Was it Mam who answered or was it herself?
You’ve still got Hawk.
She wiped her arm across her face. She stood up and left the shelter, not using the crawl but stepping into the street. The sky was half white with clouds and half blue. No Hawk. He would be hunting. She wondered if he would bring her another pigeon. But it seemed wrong to think of eating on the day Ben would die – Ben and Blossom and Hubert and all the others. And apart from bringing food, how could Hawk help her? Perhaps only by finding a place where she could run at the Limping Man with her broken knife.