William Nicholson - The Wind on Fire Trilogy - Firesong

‘No washing!’ exclaimed Lunki. ‘How is my precious one to keep clean?’

‘It won’t be for long,’ said Sisi. ‘We’ll find water soon.’

Hanno made his rounds, speaking softly to Creoth about the cows, and to Seldom Erth about the horses, saying nothing new, giving no instructions they would not have carried out for themselves, but showing a care for each person on the march. This was the nature of his leadership: not the shouting of orders, but the letting himself be seen as the link between all of them, the one to whom they all turned their eyes, so that as they went on their way, they went together.

Now he gave the signal to resume the march. The group round the fire put out the flames, stamping out the embers and rescuing the unburned faggots to be used again. Others bent down to lace up boots that had been loosened to ease their weary feet. Bowman moved to the front of the column as it formed, and took up his place as the lead watchman, his eyes alert for danger. So it was he who found the body.

It was not the first body they had passed on their long march. In these lawless times, the robber bands that attacked travellers on lonely roads often left their victims dead or dying; when what knives and clubs had begun was finished by the night cold. The Manth people could do no more than pause on their way, and cover the sad remains with stones, as an act of respect.

This was the body of an old man, lying face down on the ground, his hands raised as if to cover or protect his face. Bowman knelt down by his side, and gently eased the body over, to satisfy himself that there was no hope of saving him; though the utter stillness of the body told him that life was long gone. The hands remained clutched to the dead face, concealing the features. Bowman let his sensitive probing mind reach gently into that lifeless skull, and as he did so he felt for an instant that something was moving within it; then the moment passed, and all was still. He took hold of the dead man’s hands, and drew them away from his face.

The eyes were open, and unseeing. The old cheeks grizzled, unshaven. The dry lips apart, as if calling. But most shocking of all, the skin of his face, from brow to chin, was lacerated: scratched and torn into a hideous wreck, the blood dried black in the dead white skin.

Mumpo now joined him, and stood looking down at the dead man in silence.

‘What would do that to him?’ said Bowman.

‘He did it to himself. Look at his fingernails.’

Mumpo had noticed what Bowman had overlooked: the dead man’s fingernails were black with dried blood. For some terrible reason, as he was dying he had torn at his own face.

The rest of the marchers were approaching. Creoth came up to them, and looked.

‘Oh, the wretched man!’

‘Let’s cover him,’ said Bowman. ‘No need for the others to see.’

He scraped up handfuls of stony earth and began to sprinkle it over the corpse. Mumpo and Creoth did the same. Bowman hurried to cover up the torn face. He thought again as he let the earth drop over that dead open mouth that something moved: a brief flurry in the air that shivered the falling dust. He thought he heard a faint whine pass close by his head, as of some small flying insect. But then the wagon was rolling near, and with it his father.

‘Poor fellow,’ said Hanno Hath, kneeling down to help with the roadside burial.

When the body was entirely covered, a dusty mound that would not long resist the wind and the rain, the Manth people stood round the stranger and Hanno Hath rose to his feet to speak the customary funeral words.

‘We who are left behind watch you on your way.’

He fell silent for a few moments. No one spoke or moved. Then he went on with the old words in his quiet clear voice.

‘The long prison of the years unlocks its iron door. Go free now, into the beautiful land. Forgive us, who suffer in this clouded world. Guide us and wait for us, as we wait for you. We will meet again.’

He bowed his head, and they all repeated,

‘We will meet again.’

They could do no more. Hanno gave Bowman a quick sad smile, and turned to his wife. Bowman caught the faint whine he had heard before, and the quick shimmer in the air. He saw his father give a small start, and raise one hand to his throat. Bowman suddenly felt the close presence of danger.

‘What is it, pa?’

‘Nothing. Some little stinging insect. Nothing to worry about.’

He turned away, a little too quickly.

‘Pa, look at me.’

Hanno turned back, frowning with annoyance.

‘I’m alright, I tell you. We have to get moving. We’ve wasted enough time already.’

For the last time Bowman looked down at the long mound by the roadside, and wondered fearfully what would make a man tear at his own face. But now the column was reforming, and it was time to go.

While the wagon had been stationary, Seldom Erth had loosened the horses’ harness, and Mrs Chirish had decided to wrap the cook-pots in an extra layer of cloth, afraid that the shaking of the wagon-bed would shatter them. The cows had drifted off in search of grass. Many of the people had sat down.

Now that it was time to move off again, Hanno Hath started to shout at them.

‘You! Cowman! If you can’t control your animals we’ll have them for dinner!’

Creoth was speechless with surprise. Hanno never spoke like that.

‘You! Old man! Did I say you could unharness the horses?’

Ira Hath, aware that something was wrong, tried to take him aside.

‘Hanno –’

‘Not now, woman. Come along, everybody! We’ve wasted enough time!’

Kestrel heard him, and reached out for Bowman with her mind.

What’s wrong with pa?

I’m not sure. Something bad’s happened to him. I need to feel him.

Come on. I’ll help you.

Kestrel knew what her brother meant when he said he wanted to ‘feel’ their father: he wanted to enter Hanno’s mind. For that he needed close physical contact, preferably brow to brow. But Hanno was moving fast, never staying in one place for long. The twins didn’t want to alarm everyone by making a direct attack on their father.

‘Pa,’ said Kestrel. ‘Before we set out again, let’s have a wish huddle.’

‘No time,’ said Hanno.

‘Please. It won’t take a moment.’

‘Ma! Pinto!’ called Bowman. ‘Wish huddle!’

Hanno turned on them, eyes blazing with anger.

‘I am the head of this family! You heard me say we have no time! How dare you disobey me!’

Pinto had come running.

‘But I’d like a wish huddle, pa –’

Smack! He struck Pinto across the face with the flat of his hand.

‘You will do as I say!’

The blow hurt. Pinto bit her lip to stop herself crying, not understanding how her gentle father could hit her so hard.

‘I’m sorry, pa.’

Hold him! Don’t let him move!

Bowman and Kestrel hurled themselves forward in the same moment. Bowman got his arms round his father’s chest, pinning his arms to his side, while Kestrel wrapped herself round his legs. Hanno struggled, and fell to the ground, but Bowman did not let go. He pressed his head to his father’s head, and summoned all his power to force his way into his father’s mind. He found it at once, felt its shape without seeing it: it was like a grub, curled up tight, with a thick and slimy skin. He tried to grasp it, but it was slippery, and it wriggled out of his grip. It was strong, and growing stronger, feeding on its host that was his father.

Bowman set about flooding his own mind into his father’s mind, filling him up, leaving the grub no room to breathe. None of this was apparent to the others, who saw only that Bowman and Kestrel had fallen to the ground with their father in their arms, and were holding onto him. They crowded round, not sure what to do.