Firesong (6 page)

‘Oh, in a little while. Who cares about that? Here you are, and here am I.’

She stroked his arm.

‘I don’t know what I can do for you, Sisi.’

‘I do.’

She made him meet her eyes: made him become still.

‘Just for now, just for a few moments, pretend you love me.’

‘Please, Sisi, I think this is –’

‘Touch my scars.’

He stared back at her, filled with confused feelings.

‘Do my scars disgust you?’

‘No.’

‘Touch them.’

So he raised one hand and touched one fingertip to the livid stripe on her cheek. He felt the residue of scar tissue, and the softness of new skin where the scab had crumbled away. He did it out of pity for her, and because her will was strong.

‘Now touch my lips.’

He felt her lips: so soft, and moist.

‘What do you want from me, Sisi?’

‘I want you to kiss me.’

The great amber eyes gazed at him unashamed. For the first time, Bowman stopped thinking about his own confusion, and attended to the change in her. Sisi would never make such a request, so directly. Something had happened to her.

‘Kiss you?’ He needed time. ‘Why?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘We’re not betrothed.’

‘I don’t care. Do you care?’

This was not Sisi speaking to him, he was sure of it. This was the passion fly within her. He needed closer contact, to reach into her mind.

‘Close your eyes,’ she was saying. ‘Then you won’t see the scars. The kiss will be just as sweet.’

He closed his eyes. He felt her come into his arms. He felt her lips reach up to his. As they kissed, he felt a shiver of delight go through his body, and for a fleeting moment he was aware that he’d never kissed before, not like this. There was a closeness to it that was both tender and eager. He felt her body press against his, and the feeling of her body was part of the kiss. He held her tight in his arms, and his hands felt the shape of her slender back, and his lips moved against hers, sharing
secrets
–

No! He jerked his mind free. He reached through the kiss, beyond the kiss, into her desire-possessed mind. As he pressed closer, she kissed him ever more passionately, ever more desperately, as if only in kissing him was she safe. Pushing, probing, burrowing into her, he found it at last, the creature curled within her. He seized it in a firm grip, and still holding Sisi in his arms, he dragged it, tore it, ripped it out of her. One last spasm of resistance, and it let go. He heard the whine of its wings as it flew away.

Sisi went limp in his arms. He held her weight, not wanting to cause alarm among the others. He looked towards them to see if any had been watching, and had witnessed the kiss. Everyone was up and preparing to continue the march. If they had seen, they were not showing it now.

Sisi awoke, in confusion.

‘What happened?’

She remembered, and blushed a deep red.

‘Oh!’

‘It wasn’t you,’ said Bowman quickly. ‘Something got into you. It made you do things.’

‘The stinging insect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it make me drunk?’

‘Yes. In a way.’

Sisi looked down, ashamed.

‘It made me kiss you, didn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s alright. It wasn’t you.’

Now the horses were being harnessed to the wagon, and the people were moving to their places in the march.

‘Did it get into you too?’

‘No.’

‘But you still kissed me.’

‘I needed to hold you close. To get it out.’

‘Of course. To get it out.’

There were several curious glances directed at them as they returned to the others, and Bowman realised they had been seen. He would have to explain.

‘The stinging insect is still with us,’ he said. ‘I’ve just taken it out of Sisi.’

‘My baby! Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Lunki, I’m fine.’

‘Be on your guard!’

‘To your places,’ called Hanno. ‘Lookouts, to your posts. We have an hour of daylight yet.’

The march set off once more.

Bowman marched in the middle of the column, and listened for the return of that telltale whining buzz. He heard nothing, and none of his companions were acting strangely. As the immediate danger faded, the memory of Sisi’s kiss returned, and troubled him. He told himself it had not been her who had kissed him, but the thing that had possessed her: but it had felt like her, like the most intimate part of her.

There came a patter of feet behind him, and turning, he saw Kestrel running up to join him. He blushed, and feeling the blush, told himself it was because he should have thought to reassure Kestrel about Sisi.

‘She’ll be alright,’ he told her. ‘I got it out of her.’

Kestrel looked at him curiously.

‘Will it come back?’

‘Yes, probably, but I can’t tell where. I’ve never even seen it. It’s as if it doesn’t exist until it stings someone. And then it’s like it’s a part of them.’

‘I saw how it made Sisi drunk.’

‘I had to touch her. To get it out.’

‘Yes, of course. You had to touch her.’

Neither of them called it a kiss. The word hung in the air between them, unspoken. There had never before been anything they hadn’t been able to say. Bowman felt his sister’s silence, and it made him miserable.

‘Something strange happened –’

‘Bandits!’

Mumpo’s urgent cry from the ridge shattered the private moment. Bowman span round just as there came a rumbling sound ahead, and what seemed to be half the hillside came sliding down, to crash into the riverbed in a cloud of fragments and dust.

‘Halt!’ cried Hanno. ‘To your weapons!’

Bowman and Kestrel ran back to the wagon. A second grinding roar, this time behind them: a second rock fall now cut off their retreat. They were boxed in.

‘Mumpo! Tanner! Come down!’

The lookouts came scrambling down the slopes to join the rest of the marchers, who were frantically taking out swords, hay-forks, and lengths of firewood, with which to defend themselves.

‘How many?’

‘A dozen. Maybe more.’

Within moments they were able to count for themselves. A figure appeared on the west ridge, tall, lean, and seemingly faceless; to be joined by another, then by three more. They stood looking down in silence, silhouetted against the white winter sky. They wore many layers of clothing, of many different kinds, like refugees who scavenge where they can. The loose garments were cinched at the waist and above the elbows and knees with ties of fabric. Round the shoulders and neck, round the face and head, each one had wound a long scarf, so that only the eyes remained uncovered.

‘Bandits, sure enough,’ said Hanno.

More and more were showing themselves along the ridges that walled the Manth people in. Bowman counted thirteen on the west side, and another eight on the east. They seemed not to be armed.

‘They don’t have swords,’ he said low to his father. ‘I think we can match them.’

But even as he spoke, one of the masked men drew a cord from his belt, and stooping, picked up a stone from the ground.

‘Sling shots!’ cried Rollo Shim.

The bandit swung the cord in rapid circles over his head, hissing through the air, building up speed at its weighted end. Then with a flick of the hand, he released the stone. It shot down into the valley and hit one of Creoth’s cows on the side of its head, with such force that the beast fell dead without a sound. The Manth people were struck with terror. Creoth cried out, and ran to the side of the lifeless animal.

‘Cherub! My Cherub!’

All along the ridges the bandits could now be seen to be holding sling shots at the ready. They neither moved nor spoke. Their posture of readiness said all that was needed.

Hanno made a rapid calculation. The bandits were above them on both sides. The horses and cows could not scramble over the steep landslides. They must fight or give in. If they fought, they could inflict damage on the bandits, but many of his people would fall as the cow had fallen.

‘Lay down your weapons,’ he said to the marchers.

He called to the one who had used his sling shot to such great effect, who he presumed to be the leader.

‘We are Manth people! We mean you no harm! What do you want from us?’

The bandits stared back in silence.

‘Do you want our cows and our horses? We have nothing else.’

The bandit leader signed to two of his men. At once they jumped over the ridge, and pushing small rock-slides before them, came skidding down to the valley floor. The rest of the bandits raised their slings, to show their readiness to strike should their companions come under attack.

‘Don’t move!’ Hanno called to his frightened people. ‘Stay still, until we know what they want.’

The two scarfed bandits now came among them, eyes glittering, and scanned the motionless marchers. One of them pointed to Kestrel, then to Sarel Amos. His companion took both by the arms and roped their wrists.

Mumpo growled a deep growl of rage.

‘Don’t move, Mumpo!’ hissed Hanno.

He saw, and understood that they would have to fight after all, whatever the cost: but he wanted to give his people their best chance. He looked round, to calculate how many of them could find cover beneath the wagon. Even so slight a movement of his head was enough to signal his intention to the keen-eyed bandit leader above, and his sling whirred. Bowman saw the stone leave the sling and hurtle towards his father. At once he reached out with his mind to shield him, and himself rocked under the stone’s impact, sending it glancing harmlessly to one side. Its force shocked him. He had enough strength to deflect a single shot, but he knew that if all the bandits were to strike at once he would be helpless.

The bandit leader, surprised that he had missed, was already reloading his sling.

‘Bo,’ said Hanno, ‘do we have a chance?’

‘No. They’ll kill us all.’

As he spoke, one of the bandits on the valley floor was roping Ashar Warmish. Her father Harman Warmish drew his knife.

‘Harman! Don’t!’

A snap, a crack, and Harman crumpled to the ground, his skull smashed. Bowman gasped aloud. It had happened too fast, he had caught the flick of the sling too late.

Now for the first time the bandit leader spoke, calling down into the valley in a harsh voice.

‘Must we kill every man among you? We’ve done it before.’

Harman Warmish lay unmoving on the ground, the blood bubbling from his head. His wife sobbed, but did not move. The bandit holding young Ashar Warmish pulled her, now limp and unresisting, to join Kestrel and Sarel. After her they picked out Seer Such, and Red Mimilith, and Sisi: all the girls who were no longer children, but were not yet mothers; though Ashar was barely twelve years old.

Kestrel allowed herself to be roped and led aside, because she understood exactly what danger they were in, even before the killing of Ashar’s father. Bowman was speaking to her.

Don’t resist. Not yet.

Sisi too understood that she had no choice. When her turn came she brushed the bandit’s hand away with contempt, and walked of her own free will, head held high, to join the shivering group. Lunki tried to go with her, but the scarfed bandit pushed her back.

When the six girls were all roped together in a chain, the bandits indicated that they were to climb the slope. Their mothers and fathers began to groan, so that Hanno had to command them.

‘Don’t move! Our duty is to live!’

It was a pitiful sight to watch, the manacled girls half-scrambling, half-pulled up the slope, dragged by the rope from above, slithering to their knees, kicking for a foothold on the loose scree. But then it was done, and the bandits on the eastern ridge were already loping away.

‘Don’t try to follow us!’ called the bandit leader. ‘We go into the labyrinth. You’ll never find us, and you’ll never find your way out again. We wish you no harm. Take this warning, and go on your way.’

He gave a sign, and the roped girls were led away. Mumpo watched, groaning under his breath, his whole body shaking with controlled rage.

‘I wish you harm!’ he said.

‘Don’t, Mumpo!’ said Hanno. ‘You’re no use to us dead.’

Bowman called silently to Kestrel.

I’ll find you. We can’t do anything yet. But I’ll find you.

One by one the bandits on the ridge slipped away, leaving only the gaunt threatening figure of the bandit leader. Then suddenly he turned and was gone.

At once Mumpo and Bowman, Tanner Amos and the Shim brothers, raced for the western slope. It was far harder to climb than they had supposed, watching the sure-footed bandits. Again and again their scrambling feet set off rock slides, which carried away the ground beneath them and sent those behind tumbling back down. Mumpo fell twice, and then took the entire hill at a run, hurling himself to the top by sheer force. The others, scrambling up behind him, called out to him.

‘Do you see them?’

‘No,’ said Mumpo, standing on the ridge where the bandits had stood, looking west.

One by one the others joined him, and understood why he had fallen silent. From the ridge to the far off western horizon the land was riven by a maze of deep cracks. Here and there the jagged fissures met, or crossed each other, in a crazy network that extended for miles. The cracks varied in depth, some no deeper than a man, some seeming bottomless. From the surface they all looked the same: shadowy slits without any distinctive markings, without any visible plant life, without the marks of human habitation. The bandits and their captives had vanished into the labyrinth leaving not even a trail of footsteps on the hard windswept plains.

Bowman closed his eyes and turned his face to the west. He was tracking Kestrel by other means.

‘They’ve not gone far,’ he said. ‘They’re moving fast. But I can find them.’

4

Walking the storm

K
estrel felt the tug-tug-tug of the rope on her wrists as she followed the bandits down the cracks of the labyrinth. She hated them for what they were doing to her, but she also hated to be dragged like a roped calf, so she did her best to keep up with their jogging pace. Behind her she felt the tug of the rope that was pulling Sisi along, and behind Sisi the other girls, all strung like pendants on the same twitching string. When one stumbled all of them were jerked back a pace, and then lunging forward again, the stumbler was dragged back to full speed. Behind the chain of girls came the rest of the scarfed bandits, in silence but for the pounding of their running feet.