William Nicholson - The Wind on Fire Trilogy - Firesong

As she approached she saw both Bowman and Kestrel staring at her in surprise. Do I look so different? she thought to herself. Is it written on my face?

‘Leave us, Kestrel,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to Bowman alone.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Kestrel wonderingly. Bowman signalled her with his eyes, calling, Don’t leave me. But Kestrel was already on her way.

He was alone with Sisi. Her eyes were fixed on him so intently that he felt himself blush.

‘We’ll be moving on any minute,’ he said. ‘We should rejoin the others.’

‘Not yet,’ said Sisi.

To his astonishment, she laid one hand lightly on his arm. She had not been this bold since they had left the Mastery.

‘I know you can’t love me,’ she said, ‘since I’ve lost my beauty. But I can love you.’

‘Sisi, you mustn’t speak like this.’

‘Why not? All I have to lose is my pride. I’m tired of my pride.’

‘You don’t understand. Whether you love me, or I love you, it makes no difference. In a little while someone will come for me, and I’ll leave with him, and you’ll never see me again.’

‘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.