Jumper felt the silver voice with his soft plump fingers.
‘It is warm,’ he said.
‘I come too! We go together!’
Jumper wrinkled his soft pink brow.
‘I was sent to bring the child of the prophet,’ he murmured. ‘Not the children.’
‘We are the child of the prophet,’ said Kestrel.
Jumper looked deep into her eyes and pondered.
‘Kess,’ said Bowman gently. ‘I don’t want to leave you. More than my life, I want to stay with you. But if I die and you live, then we both live. Don’t let us both die. That would be death indeed.’
Kestrel seemed not to hear him. Her fierce eyes were fixed on Jumper. She still held the silver voice in her hands.
‘You felt it,’ she said. ‘It was warm.’
‘Of course it’s warm,’ said Bowman. ‘You wear it against your skin.’
‘He knows what I mean.’
To Bowman’s surprise, Jumper bowed his head.
‘Perhaps it’s best so.’
‘I can come?’
‘You can come.’
Before Bowman could make further objection, Kestrel ran back to her mother and father.
‘You should have made her stay with the others,’ he said to Jumper.
‘She wants to be with you.’
‘The parting must come. If not now, then soon.’
‘True enough, true enough.’
He sighed, but made no attempt to change his decision. Bowman felt relieved and dismayed at the same time. He had dreaded parting from Kestrel. Now he was spared the pain, but since it must come, one day soon, he was not spared the dread.
‘Bowman!’
He looked round. It was Sisi.
‘Is it true you’re going?’
‘Yes.’
She turned her great eyes onto Jumper.
‘Have you come to take him away?’
‘Yes,’ said Jumper.
‘Keep him safe.’
Jumper bowed his round head.
‘Bowman, you always told me one day you’d leave me, so I don’t complain. But I want you to know that I’ll wait for your return.’
‘No, Sisi. You mustn’t do that.’
‘You know the things you know, and I know the things I know. Now kiss me.’
He kissed her.
‘See? I don’t cry.’
‘I cry, Sisi.’
There were tears in his eyes as he held her hands and spoke to her.
‘You’re to marry, and have children, and live a long happy life.’
‘I will, Bowman. Oh, I will.’
Ira Hath held Kestrel silently in her frail arms and rocked her back and forth, as she’d rocked her when she was a baby. Neither spoke. Kestrel was crying, but making no noise.
‘We will meet again,’ said Ira at last, speaking the words said by the Manth people at the time of a death.
Word spread through the marchers that both Bowman and Kestrel were leaving them. They began to crowd round, asking questions, growing afraid.
‘Why must you go? Where are you going? Will you be with us in the homeland?’
‘We don’t know. Perhaps not.’
‘Then we must say goodbye. You can’t go without saying goodbye.’
All the marchers felt the same way. They pushed close, clamouring for their turn. In the darkness it was hard to tell who was who, so little Ashar Warmish, squeezed to the edge of the gathering, drew a burning stick from the fire and held it before her, to light her face.
‘Kestrel! Say goodbye to me before you go!’
Tanner Amos saw her face shining in the dark, and took a burning stick of his own, so that he too could be seen. After that, they all did the same, each holding a brand from the fire, from which a blue-yellow flame, or a red glow of embers, gave out a little gleam of light. As they came back from the fire they took up positions standing side by side, in an ever-lengthening line. When Kestrel and Bowman saw the line, they knew there was no question of slipping quietly away. They must make their farewells to each and every one of their people.
‘Ashar.’
‘Come back soon, Kestrel.’
‘Tanner.’
‘Miss you.’
‘Bek. Rollo.’
‘Bowman.’
So it went on, down the line, the farewells distilled from all that could be said into a simple litany of names. Silman Pillish, Sarel Amos, Cheer Warmish whose husband was dead. Little Scooch and big Creoth. Miller Marish and his girls, Fin and Jet. Miko Mimilith and his wife Lea, and Red Mimilith, and the boys Lolo and Mo. Old Seldom Erth and plump Lunki, and Mrs Chirish holding Mumpo’s hand. The Such family, with Seer Such in tears. And Pinto, there at the end of the line that had begun with her mother and father: Pinto, the last flame-lit face in that line of faces, watching like ghosts over the parting.
‘You must be all of us now, Pinto.’
‘I will.’
Kestrel leaned close to kiss her little sister’s face. As she did so she whispered to her,
‘Love him for me too.’
Now Bowman and Kestrel were at the end of the line, and there was Jumper waiting. Kestrel turned back one last time to look on her people, their faces glowing in the dark.
‘Goodbye,’ she said quietly. ‘All my loves.’
13
The egg’s song
J
umper moved surprisingly fast, heading across an open stretch of land in the moonlight. Bowman and Kestrel had to run to keep up.
‘Are we going to run all the way to Sirene?’ asked Bowman.
‘No, no,’ said Jumper, slowing down. ‘We’re going by boat.’
They now saw that he had taken them across a spit of land that lay within a bend of the river, for here was the river once again before them. Moored by the bank lay a long low barge, with the light of a lantern glowing in its cabin windows.
‘Climb aboard, and I’ll cast off.’
Bowman and Kestrel scrambled onto the barge’s deck, while Jumper, following behind, unlooped the mooring rope from its post. Had they been looking they would have seen that he achieved this without touching the rope: just a little nod of his head, and it unwound itself, and snaked back aboard the barge.
Almost at once the barge began to move, carried downstream by the currents of the river. Bowman could see the wheel that controlled the rudder, through the cabin window.
‘Shouldn’t there be somebody at the wheel?’
‘There is,’ said Jumper.
He gestured for them to go on through the low cabin door, and so down three steps into the cabin itself. Here they found a snug well-appointed room, with a table and two padded benches, several cupboards, and a door through to the forward section; this main cabin, with its raised housing, being in the stern.
On one of the padded benches there lay a man asleep, covered by a blanket, snoring loudly.
‘That’s Albard,’ said Jumper. ‘You’ll meet him in the morning.’
The sleeping man’s face was turned away, towards the bench’s back, but something about his bulky body seemed familiar to Bowman.
‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s the one who will teach you,’ said Jumper. ‘It won’t be easy. It takes years to make a Singer, in the usual course of things. Albard has two days.’
To make a Singer! Bowman felt a thrill of excitement at the words.
‘I’m to be a Singer.’
‘Of course.’
Kestrel watched and listened, and said nothing.
‘But first, I advise you to sleep. The teaching will begin at dawn. There’ll be little sleeping once you’ve begun.’ He indicated the second bench, on the far side of the table from the sleeping man. ‘Do you think the two of you can squeeze onto the bench?’
‘Yes,’ said Bowman. ‘But where will you sleep?’
‘On the floor. I’m used to it.’
So Bowman and Kestrel twined themselves up together on the bench, glad of the familiar closeness. Pressing their brows together, so that they would share dreams, they let themselves drift into a much-needed sleep.
Jumper laid himself down on the boards, easing his plump little body into the most comfortable position he could manage. They were not awake to see, but had Bowman or Kestrel looked, they would have seen that he was lying an inch or so above the floor, as if resting on an invisible mattress.
The barge cruised on down the wide river, sometimes out in mid-stream, sometimes carried by the currents to the snow-covered banks, but never quite striking the trees that grew there. The wheel in the wheel-housing jerked this way and that in the lantern-light, as if a ghost was in command of the rudder; but in reality it was the rudder that turned the wheel. The river had taken charge of the barge, and was guiding it on its way. Jumper had found the river’s song, and tuned the barge to its notes, and now he slept at his ease.
What not even Jumper knew was that as the barge was carried down the river, a lean grey cat was running along the river bank, waiting for his moment. When at last a bend in the river brought the barge gliding almost alongside the bank, the cat jumped, and landed safely on the shallow-pitched roof of the hold. From there, he found a place of refuge inside a coil of rope, where he turned round and round, scratching a comfortable bed, and so lay down to wait for morning.
‘Wake UP!’
The last word came out in a furious bellow, as if the sleeper addressed obstinately refused to do as he was told.
‘You slug! You lard-cake! You clod of dung! Up! Up! On your feet!’
Bowman and Kestrel, ripped from dreams, confused as to where they were, blinked and struggled to wake. Albard stood over them, prodding at Bowman with a stick, himself only just up, to judge from his wild hair.
‘You empty snake-skin! I should have crushed you when I had the chance! Pity, that’s my vice. Too much damned womanish pity. Look at you! A wet-eyed child!’
Bowman was now sufficiently awake to see the man called Albard clearly, and to recognise that booming bullying voice.
‘You’re the Master!’
‘What of that? The past is past, thanks to you. Please inform me’ – pointing his stick at Kestrel – ‘what is that?’
‘My sister Kestrel.’
‘Throw her in the river! Don’t want her.’
Kestrel was as astonished to see the Master as her brother.
Bo! What’s he doing here?
I don’t know. I thought he was dead.
‘You died,’ said Bowman aloud. ‘I felt it.’
‘Oh? And do you feel this?’
He hit Bowman with his stick, across his shins.
‘Ow!’
‘Not as dead as all that, eh?’
Jumper now joined them, from the door into the forward section. He was carrying a tray of breakfast. Albard turned on him with a snarl.
‘Can’t do it,’ he said. ‘The boy’s a lump.’
‘You can,’ said Jumper mildly. ‘You’re the best.’
‘Grease, grease, grease. You think I don’t know what you’re up to, you little grease ball?’
‘Breakfast,’ said Jumper.
The tray sailed gently from his hands to land on the cabin table. Once there, the mugs and plates and knives, the basket of eggs, the loaf of bread and jug of milk, the butter and the honey jar, all shuffled about until they were arranged for a sitting of four people. Albard watched this miniature display of mind power and let out a groan.
‘Once I ruled a nation. Now I can’t even move a plate.’
Sighing, he sat down to eat. The others joined him. They ate and drank in silence, until they were done. Then Jumper said to Bowman,
‘Albard will teach you.’
‘But not her!’ said Albard, stabbing a butter-smeared knife in the direction of Kestrel.
‘You will do everything he says.’
‘Throw her in the river!’ added Albard.
‘You’ll find it hard. You must not give up. Do you understand? Whatever you feel, however great your distress, don’t give up.’
‘I understand that,’ said Bowman. ‘But I don’t understand why he is to be my teacher.’
‘Nor I, boy,’ echoed Albard.
‘Surely the Master is the enemy of the Singer people.’
‘Not at all,’ said Jumper brightly. ‘Albard is our brother. We love him and embrace him.’
‘Please!’ groaned Albard. ‘Spare me your embraces!’ Then turning to Bowman, ‘You remind me of a boy I knew, long ago. A boy who believed he was different from all other boys, and lived to prove it.’
‘Your son?’
‘Not my son, you earthworm! I have no son! I’m talking about myself. Did I not tell you, you will become me?’
‘Time is passing,’ murmured Jumper.
‘Oh, passing, is it? Well, well, well! There’s a surprise.’
But Albard accepted the implied instruction, and led Bowman out on deck. Kestrel followed, unasked. It was a cold clear morning. Bowman felt invigorated by the winter air, and by the prospect of the teaching that was about to begin.
Kestrel was still bewildered by the presence of the man she had known as the Master.
How can he teach you? He’s the one who made slaves of us all.
I don’t know.
Don’t you want to know?
I want to learn how to be a Singer. Then I’ll know.
‘None of that!’ bellowed Albard. ‘I can’t tell what you’re saying, but I know you’re twittering to each other.’
‘You don’t need to shout all the time,’ said Kestrel. ‘We’re not your servants.’
Albard glared at her.
‘You’d shout if you’d been through what I’ve been through,’ he grumbled. ‘He should have left me to die.’ This with a glowering look at Jumper.
‘Time is passing,’ said Jumper softly.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Albard turned on Bowman. ‘So, boy, vessel of my destruction – for it wasn’t you, don’t flatter yourself it was you, you were the channel for powers greater than either of us –’
‘I know that.’
‘You’d better know it, and more too. You’re to know you have no special abilities. No special powers. No special destiny. You’re nothing but the tool, the plaything of others. Do you know all that?’
‘No –’
Smack! Albard struck him across the face with the flat of his hand. Not hard, but it brought tears to Bowman’s eyes.
‘I say yes!’
His hand was raised to strike again. Bowman rallied the powers of his mind to resist the blow, but found his powers were gone.
Smack! The second blow stung far more. Involuntary tears trickled down his cheeks.
‘Aren’t you going to stop me? Are you going to sit there like a whimpering puppy and let me hit you?’