The Resuurection Fields (14 page)

Dante was about to ask Kidu to follow when he realized that something very unusual was happening to the bird. Kidu was no longer listless and apathetic. Instead, his whole body was alert, and he seemed to be listening. Deliberately Dante lowered the barrier he had built between his own mind and Kidu’s. He allowed himself to share the bird’s thoughts fully.

It was as though a musical note was sounding in the bird’s mind, a note that was full of a wild longing. The note was only faint as yet, but it was growing stronger all the time—and the more Kidu listened to it, the more excited he became.

“What is it, Kidu?” Dante demanded.

“Satsumballa,” Kidu answered.

“What does that mean?”

But Kidu did not even bother to reply. Forgetting his injuries, he spread his wings and took to the air.

“Wait, Kidu!” Dante protested. “I need to stay by Enil’s tree.”

“Satsumballa!” Kidu insisted.

The bird’s mind was filled with that strange musical sound, which was changing now, moving up and down the scale, weaving a kind of ecstatic melody so that even Dante understood how thrilling it was. But what did it mean?

Soon he saw a number of black specks in the distance—birds
flying in the same direction as Kidu. Others appeared, coming from a different part of the sky, then more still. Before very long Kidu was surrounded by birds, each one occupying its own space, yet all coordinating their flight by some mysterious process, so that when the wing tips of one bird tilted slightly, the wing tips of all tilted in exactly the same way.

As each new bird joined the group, the eerie music that filled Kidu’s mind swelled and grew more complex until it was like listening to some vast orchestra. There was meaning to the music, but not the kind of meaning that could be put into words. It told them how to fly and where to fly, as though the birds had all surrendered their individual minds to make one great mind that was directing the behavior of them all. “So this is what it is like to be part of a flock!” Dante thought. But then he corrected himself: not
part
of a flock, for there was no room for individuality. There was just the flock. Dante could not communicate with Kidu any longer, for Kidu had shut down his distinct personality to make room for the collective identity.

Now the music began to change, and Dante saw that other flocks made up of other species were coming from other parts of the sky: tiny songbirds and great strong birds of prey among them. Each species contributed its own music. But all merged together into the one. Past enmities and disputes were forgotten, generations of conflict and competition put aside as predator and prey fell into line, one behind the other.

Now Dante understood what Kidu had said before taking to the air so suddenly: satsumballa—the Great Flock. This was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, once in many lifetimes. To the birds
that filled the air all around him, the satsumballa would have been only a legend, told to them as they huddled sleepily in the nest. And now they were joining together to bring it about because an impulse had come from somewhere deep within their minds. They did not know how or where this call had originated, only that it had to be answered. So they had taken to the air without question, their excitement and certainty growing stronger with each wing beat. They did not yet know their destination, but they would recognize it when they arrived.

To human beings watching from below, it must have seemed as though an enormous black cloud made up of a million tiny particles was passing overhead. Did they realize that something as significant in human terms as a revolution or a war was taking place? No. They probably imagined it had something to do with the weather and just shook their heads and went back to their work.

By late evening the flocking was complete, and the eyes of every bird turned downwards, towards a mountain in the center of the country. Even with his lack of education, Dante had heard of this great eminence, the highest spot in all Gehenna, Mount Sulyaman.

The flock began its descent, using currents of wind to glide gracefully down in a series of spirals, instinctively coordinating their movements so that no two birds sought out the same spot and finally settling on the great shoulders of the giant rock like a covering of snow. Once more the music changed, becoming urgent and expectant as if an audience were preparing itself for a speech by some great orator.

Every nook and cranny of the mountain was covered with birds by now, and every one of them was in perfect communication with its fellows. Suddenly Dante understood what they had all come together to discuss. Him.

“Silence!”

The command echoed across the mountain as every bird ordered its fellows to be quiet.

At the very top of the mountain perched a trio of ancient buzzards. The one in the middle seemed to be the oldest of the three, perhaps the oldest bird of all. One of his eyes was missing, but there was enough cruelty in the remaining eye to make up for it. He surveyed the ranks of other birds with contempt.

“Let the Giddim Carrier come forth!” he declared.

Every bird on the mountain turned its head to look directly at Kidu. Nervously he flew up and perched on a rock in front of the buzzards.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

Kidu began to stammer out some sort of response. He told the Chief Buzzard that he had not invited the giddim to share his body, but that it had come all the same, that he had tried to make it leave him but that he had no control over it.

“Enough!” the Chief Buzzard interrupted. “A sick zimbir carries death to his nest. Everyone here knows that.”

Up and down the mountain, heads nodded and the words were repeated by a million beaks.

“Giddim promise him leave soon,” Kidu assured his inquisitor.

“A giddim is a false creature and not to be believed,” the bird perched to the right of the Chief Buzzard said dismissively.

The Chief Buzzard ignored this intervention. He addressed himself to the assembled birds. “You all know why this has happened,” he declared, “and you know what it means. Shurruppak has returned to the world.”

“Shurruppak!” A horrified whisper spread through the feathered ranks.

“With every day he grows stronger,” the Chief Buzzard continued. “If he is not stopped, he will devour the world. Then there
will be nowhere left for the zimbir to build their nests, and annalugu will be lost to us.”

“Annalugu will be lost!” the birds cried despairingly.

“There can be no doubt what this giddim is doing here,” the Chief Buzzard went on. “It is Shurruppak’s spy.”

“Shurruppak’s spy!” Their despair turned to anger.

“Tell them it isn’t true!” Dante urged.

“Giddim not like Shurruppak,” Kidu protested. “Giddim help zimbir defeat Shurruppak.”

The Chief Buzzard’s one eye narrowed. “You are telling me that the giddim that has taken possession of your body will help us defeat Shurruppak?” he demanded.

“Yes. Giddim strong. Giddim powerful. Giddim help zimbir. Make Shurruppak go away. Go forever.”

“And how exactly will the giddim achieve this?” the Chief Buzzard asked.

“Kidu not know,” Kidu admitted in a voice that was barely audible.

The Chief Buzzard nodded. “Just as I thought,” he declared. “The satsumballa has reached its verdict. Death!”

Malachy, who had spent years working in the civil service, had no difficulty preparing a set of false identification papers for Bea. Seersha cut her friend’s hair short, just in case there might be anyone in Duran who had witnessed the raid in Podmyn. There were tears in the old woman’s eyes as the locks of hair tumbled to the ground. Albigen watched the proceedings in silence, but his grim expression spoke volumes.

Every one of them had tried to persuade Bea to change her mind, but their efforts only made her more adamant. “Look for the hardest choice,” Tzavinyah had told her.

When Albigen drove her to Duran the next morning, Maeve and Seersha insisted on coming along, too, to see her off. Albigen stopped the truck on the outskirts and they all got out. First Maeve hugged Bea, then Seersha followed suit. Seersha’s hug was so tight Bea could hardly breathe. Finally it was Albigen’s turn.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, Bea,” he said.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He sighed. “Perhaps, and perhaps not …”

“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Bea said as brightly as she could.

The others nodded. Maeve and Seersha got back into the truck, but Albigen hesitated. “Bea,” he said, “I know that you and Dante were …” Then he stopped.

“What?” Bea asked.

Albigen shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Good luck.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek; then he, too,
got back in the truck and started up the engine. Bea watched while the truck turned around, then left.

As she set off on the last mile towards Duran, Bea asked herself what Albigen had been about to say before he had changed his mind. “I know that you and Dante were…,” he had begun. But what exactly had she and Dante been? Friends? Yes, of course they had been friends. But hadn’t they been more than that? Hadn’t they meant something special to each other? Bea liked to think so.

Perhaps Albigen had been about to tell her that she meant something special to him, too. That thought made her sad, for though she liked and admired Albigen, she would never feel that way about him.

But she had made up her mind to join the Faithful. Who could tell what that decision would lead to? She might never see Albigen again, or any of the others. On the other hand, she might return to them in triumph, having defeated their enemy.

Duran was a bigger town than Podmyn, and there were even more volunteers and well-wishers crowding the railway station. Plenty of people were signing up that morning. Bea joined a line and showed the enlisting officer her papers. He wrote down her details without even glancing at her face. She made her way onto the train and was lucky enough to find one of the few remaining empty seats. Those who came after her were forced to stand. When the train was finally so packed that it could not take even one more passenger, it set out on the journey north.

Despite the overcrowding, the atmosphere was festive. Farther up the carriage a group of volunteers began singing. It was a song Bea remembered her mother singing years ago, about leaving your friends behind but keeping their memory alive, lyrics that had once struck her as trite and sentimental but that now seemed almost unbearably poignant.

It was clear that her fellow passengers were looking forward to what awaited them. “We’re going to show those Tavorians a thing or two,” a middle-aged man with enormous ears told Bea.

“I thought the Tavorians had joined forces with us,” Bea said.

“Some of them have,” the man replied. “But not the diehards. They want to keep their rotten society with its crime and disorder. They’d like to infect us with it, too. They’re the ones we’ll be dealing with. But don’t you worry”—here he tapped his nose with his finger—“we’ll soon sort them out. Sigmundus the Second knows what he’s doing. That’s why he was picked, see? He’s the man for the job. And we’re the ones to back him up.” He looked around the carriage with a satisfied smile as he said this, and several people grinned back at him enthusiastically.

It was an old train, and it lumbered ponderously along the tracks, often slowing down almost to a walking pace. As the journey dragged on, the mood on board began to change. Outside, the bright sunshine of the morning had turned to an overcast sky from which rain now began to slant down across the countryside. Many of the volunteers had brought nothing to eat or drink, assuming that they would be provided with food on the journey. Bea shared the sandwiches that Seersha had made for her with the man with the enormous ears. Others were not so fortunate. Gradually the atmosphere grew more somber. One or two people said that it was not right. The train should stop to let people get out and stretch their legs. Someone ought to come around handing out food. But others assured the complainers that it was obviously a mistake and would certainly be rectified when they reached their destination.

As they traveled farther north, farmland gave way to moorland. Here and there Bea glimpsed rusting machinery and great heaps of rock, like man-made hills. They were approaching the Ichor Belt, where the entire countryside had been turned over to the production of the drug on which Gehenna depended.

At seven o’clock in the evening the train reached its destination, a bleak and windswept station in the middle of nowhere. If any of the volunteers had expected a reception to match their send-off, they were sorely disappointed. There were no cheering crowds, just a line of grim-faced security guards with wooden batons hanging at their sides.

As the passengers began to file warily off the train, the officer in charge shouted at them to hurry up. Bea’s fellow traveler, the man with the enormous ears, walked over to him.

“You don’t understand,” he began. “These people have had nothing to eat or drink since they set out. I realize that this was probably just an oversight on someone’s—”