The Wind Singer (16 page)

Worn out by the terror of the old children and the violence of their escape, all three of them fell into a fitful sleep, in which their bodies felt as if they were still careering wildly across the plains in the runaway land-sailer. Dream and memory mingled with the howling wind, and in sleep they were tumbled over and over, and awoke crying out loud and holding on to each other for dear life.

As the confusion of daytime sleep passed, they realised that a great silence had fallen all round them. The storm was over. The wind had dropped to a breeze. The air had cleared, and above them, when they crept out from under the crashed land-sailer, the sky was a brilliant blue. Now for the first time since they had left the salt caves they were able to see for a long way in every direction.

They were in the middle of a featureless sandy plain made up of low undulations as far as the eye could see. To the north, the line of mountains rose up on the horizon. Apart from that, there was nothing by which the traveller could orient himself. The mountains were nearer, but still many days’ walk away. They had enough food left to last them for perhaps one more day, if they were careful. What after that?

‘We go on,’ said Kestrel. ‘Something will happen.’

The sun was descending in the sky; no point in continuing their journey today. So she took out her supply of mudnuts.

Mumpo at once announced that he was hungry, as she had known he would.

‘We all had the same amount, Mumpo.’

‘But mine’s all gone.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Kestrel. ‘But you’re not having any of mine.’

‘But I’m hungry.’

‘You should have thought of that before.’

She was determined to make him learn the lesson; and so she ate her mudnuts in proud silence. Mumpo sat and watched her, like a sad faithful dog.

‘It’s no use looking like that, Mumpo. You’ve had yours and now I’m having mine.’

‘But I’m hungry.’

‘Too late now, isn’t it?’

He started to weep, in a quiet dribbly sort of way. After a few moments, Bowman pulled out one of his mudnuts, and gave it to him.

‘Thank you, Bo,’ said Mumpo, cheering up at once.

Kestrel watched him eating it, and felt annoyed. Her brother’s kindness made her feel cross with herself.

‘You really are useless, Mumpo,’ she said.

‘Yes, Kess.’

‘We’ve got a long way to go, you know.’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t know where we’re going.’

It was true: they had never taken the time to tell him. Bowman suddenly felt ashamed.

‘Show him the map, Kess.’

Kestrel unrolled the map and explained their journey as best as she could. Mumpo listened quietly, watching Kestrel’s eyes. When she was finished, he said,

‘Are you afraid, Kess?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll help you. I’m not afraid.’

‘Why aren’t you afraid, Mumpo?’ asked Bowman.

‘What is there to be afraid of? Here we are, the three friends. The storm’s gone away. We’ve had our supper. Everything’s all right.’

‘But don’t you worry about what might happen to us later?’

‘How can I? I don’t know what’s going to happen until it happens.’

Bowman looked at Mumpo curiously. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. Maybe –

He froze. Kestrel sensed his fear at once.

‘What is it, Bo?’

‘Can’t you hear it?’

She listened, and she heard: a far-off thunder. They all turned their eyes to the near horizon.

‘Something’s coming. Something big.’

15

Prisoners of Ombaraka

O
ut of the dunes, a flag had appeared, and was moving towards the children. A red-and-white flag high on a flagpole, flapping in the breeze. Whatever supported the flagpole was out of sight, on the other side of a rise in the land, but they knew it was heading towards them, because the flagpole was rising higher all the time.

Soon they saw that it wasn’t a flagpole at all, but a mast, because now a sail was coming into view. They crept into the hull of the crashed land-sailer, so as not to be seen by whoever was approaching; and from this hiding place, they went on watching.

The one sail became many, ranged in a long line of masts, smaller sails at the top, larger sails beneath. Now they could see the superstructure of the craft, an elaborate housing lined with windows and crossed with walkways. There were people on the walkways, running about, though too far away to identify. Still the craft was rising, as it climbed slowly out of the hollow, and now they could hear its noise clearly: a huge low rumble. More sails were appearing, on lower masts, below the level of the walkways. And then a second level of superstructure loomed over the sand, far wider than the first, a higgledy-piggledy collection of shacks and shelters linked by rope bridges and wooden passages. Crowds of people were milling about here, and now that they were nearer they could be heard shouting instructions to each other. They wore long flowing robes, and moved about with agility, swinging themselves from level to level, their robes ballooning about them.

The low sun caught the flank of the giant craft as it creaked and clambered up the rise, its myriad sails puffing in the breeze. Now as the children watched in fearful wonder, a third level of wooden buildings loomed up into view. This level was far more elaborately constructed, a classical sequence of houses with beautifully carved windows and handsome porticoes, gathered round three pillared open-sided halls. The great masts rose up through these buildings, and up through the two further levels above, all the way to the highest sails, and the flags at the very top. And still the vast structure was growing in size, as it crested the rise towards the crashed land-sailer. Its noise was deafening now, a groaning and a rattling and a creaking that seemed to fill the whole world. Already it towered high above, filling the sky. Now the wheels on which it moved became visible, each one higher than a house. And between the wheels there was yet another level, of storerooms and manufactories and farmyards and smithies, all joined by winding gangplanks and internal roads. This was no land-ship, this was a town on wheels, a whole rolling wind-driven world.

For all its colossal size, the mountainous craft was being steered with great accuracy directly towards the crashed land-sailer. The children could do nothing but crouch inside, and hope they were not crushed by the passing of the juggernaut. But it did not pass. As its shadow fell over them, they heard a new series of cries ring out from level to level, and the hundred sails were reefed in, and the monster shuddered and rolled to a halt, its nearest wheels within a few yards of where the children lay.

More commands were issued. A long timber crane arm came swinging out from a level high above, and from its end there descended a pair of massive iron jaws. The men working the beam and tackle were skilled at their job. Before the children had realised what was going on, the jaws had closed about the land-sailer, and with a great jerk, they felt themselves being hoisted up into the sky.

As they rose up and up, they saw people on the mother craft pointing towards them and gesticulating. The crane arm now swung inwards, and the smashed land-sailer was lowered with shuddering jerks down a well in the upper decks, to a lower deck. Already the order to move on had been given, the sails had been unfurled, and the whole huge edifice was juddering on its way. As the land-sailer hit the deck, the children saw a ring of ferocious-looking men waiting on every side, their arms folded before them. They all looked alike: they were tall and bearded, they wore sand-coloured robes cinched by leather belts, and their long hair was tied in hundreds of narrow braids, each one of which had plaited into it a brightly-coloured thread.

‘Out!’ commanded one of the men.

The children climbed out. At once they were seized and held.

‘Chaka spies!’ said the commander, and spat contemptuously on to the deck. ‘Saboteurs!’

‘Please, sir – ,’ began Kestrel.

‘Silence!’ screamed the commander. ‘Chaka scum! You don’t speak until I tell you to speak!’

He turned to the land-sailer. Some of his men were inspecting it to assess the damage.

‘Is the corvette destroyed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Lock them up! They’ll hang for this!’

He strode away, followed by a gaggle of his subordinates. Bowman, Kestrel and Mumpo were pushed towards a cage on the side of the deck. Their guards came into the cage with them, and called out, ‘Down! All the way!’ The cage was then lowered, running between vertical timber rails, to the lowest level. As they descended, the guards glared at the children with hatred and open disgust.

The cage bumped to a stop, and the children were marched down a dark passage to a barred door. A rough push sent them tumbling into what was all too clearly a prison cell. The door closed behind them, and they could hear the sounds of a big key being turned in the lock.

The cell was empty, not even a bench to sit on. It had one window, which looked out on to an exercise yard. As the children stood up, and looked round them, and took stock of their new situation, they heard the sound of marching feet. Through the window they saw a troop of bearded robed men lining up in the yard. The men’s leader barked out an order, and they all drew long swords and held them out before them.

‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ he cried.

‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ cried all his men.

There followed a sequence of violent cries and gestures, which seemed to be a war dance. The leader called out on a rising note, ‘Baraka!’ and the men struck the air with their swords and howled back, at the tops of their voices, ‘Raka ka! ka! ka!’ and ‘Kill the Chaka spies!’ This was repeated many times, louder and more violently each time, until the men were stamping and red-faced with passionate fury, ready to fight anything and everything.

Kestrel and Bowman watched this with mounting dismay, but Mumpo followed the war dance with admiration. Most of all, he was struck by their hair.

‘Do you see how they do it?’ he said, fingering his own lank locks. ‘They wind red and blue string into each plait. And green and yellow. And every colour.’

‘Shut up, Mumpo.’

The lock rattled, and the door opened to admit a man who looked just like all the others, except that he was older and somewhat stouter. He was breathing heavily, and carried a tray of food.

‘Can’t say I see the point,’ he said, putting the tray down on the floor. ‘Seeing as you’re to be hanged. But it’s as the Morah wills.’

‘The Morah!’ exclaimed Kestrel. ‘You know about the Morah?’

‘And why wouldn’t I?’ said the guard. ‘The Morah watches over all of us. Even me.’

‘To protect you?’

‘Protect me!’ He laughed at the idea. ‘Oh, yes, the Morah protects me, all right. With storms and diseases, and good milk-cows dying for no reason. That’s how the Morah protects me. Just you wait and see. Here you are, all bright and bonny, but tomorrow you’ll be hanged. Oh, yes, the Morah watches over every one of us, all right.’

The food was corn-bread, cheese and milk. Mumpo sat down and started eating at once. After a moment’s hesitation, the twins followed suit, eating more slowly. Their guard stayed by the door, watching them suspiciously.

‘You’re small for spies,’ he observed.

‘We’re not spies,’ said Kestrel.

‘You’re Chaka scum, aren’t you?’

‘No, we’re not.’

‘Are you telling me you’re Barakas?’

‘No – ’

‘Then if you’re not Barakas, you’re Chakas,’ said the guard simply. ‘That’s what Chakas are.’

Kestrel didn’t know what to say to this.

‘And we kill Chakas,’ added the guard.

‘I like your hair,’ said Mumpo, who had now finished his food.

‘Do you?’

The guard was taken by surprise, but it was evident he was pleased. He reached up and tugged carelessly at his braids.

‘I’m trying greens and blues this week.’

‘Is it difficult to do?’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s difficult. But getting the braids evenly spaced as well as tight, that takes a bit of practice.’

‘I bet you’re good at it.’

‘I do have quite a deft hand,’ said the guard. ‘You’re a bright young fellow, I must say. For a Chaka scum.’

The twins followed this with astonishment. All the hostility had left the guard’s voice.

‘The blue’s the same as your eyes,’ said Mumpo.

‘Well, that was the idea,’ the guard admitted. ‘Most people like a touch of red, but I prefer the natural tones.’

‘I don’t suppose you could do mine,’ said Mumpo wistfully. ‘I’d love to look like you.’

The guard contemplated him thoughtfully.

‘Well, I could,’ he said at last. ‘I mean, seeing as you’re going to hang anyway, I don’t see that it would make much difference. What colours would you like?’

‘What colours have you got?’

‘All of them. Any colour you please.’

‘Then I’d like all of them,’ said Mumpo.

‘That’s not very subtle, you know,’ said the guard. ‘But then, it is your first time.’

The guard left them, locking the door behind him.

‘Honestly, Mumpo!’ said Kestrel. ‘How can you be thinking about your hair at a time like this?’

‘What else is there to think about?’ said Mumpo.

The guard reappeared, carrying a comb and a bag full of hanks of coloured string. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and set about braiding Mumpo’s hair. As he worked away, he became almost friendly to them. His name was Salimba, and his normal job was being a cowman. He told them that Ombaraka, the huge rolling town in which they lived, carried a herd of over a thousand cows, as well as a herd of goats and a flock of long-horned sheep. Kestrel took advantage of the guard’s friendliness to discover more essential information. Who, for a start, were the Chakas?

Salimba took this question to be a trick.

‘Ah, you don’t catch me like that. Now, here’s a fine rich purple. Your hair could do with a wash, you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mumpo.

‘Are the Chakas the enemies of the Barakas?’ pursued Kestrel.

‘How can you ask me that? Enemies? You Chakas have butchered us without mercy for generations! You think we’ve forgotten the Massacre of the Crescent Moon? Or the murder of Raka the Fourth? Never! No Baraka will rest until every Chaka scum is dead!’