The Wind Singer (31 page)

‘Give that to me, you dirty little brat!’ commanded the Chief Examiner in his most authoritative voice, seizing Mumpo in his powerful hands. But as he spoke, his eyes met Mumpo’s, and something happened inside him that he couldn’t control. He gave a low gasp, and felt a hot rush in his throat and face.

‘You!’

He let go, and Mumpo broke away, and raced towards the wind singer, the silver voice in his hand. Outside, the marching Zars were closer now, and the crowd in the arena could hear the band, and were straining to see who it was that dared to play music on this day of days. Bowman and Kestrel, each held tight by their captors, watched as Mumpo reached the wind singer, and started to climb.

Go, Mumpo, go
!

Agile as a monkey, Mumpo shinned up the wooden tower, the silver voice in his hand. But where was it to go?

‘In the neck!’ shouted Kestrel. ‘The slot in the neck!’

Now the music of the Zars was coming clear from the street, and the tramp! tramp! tramp! of their marching feet. Mumpo searched frantically for the slot, his hands feeling the rusty metal of the wind singer’s neck.

Hanno Hath watched him, his heart in his mouth, willing him with all his being.

Go, Mumpo, go
!

Ira Hath watched him, trembling uncontrollably.

Go, Mumpo, go
!

All at once his fingers felt it, higher up than he had expected. The silver voice slipped into the slot with a slight springy
click
!, just as the leading Zars burst through the pillars, their swords drawn and flashing, their song on their lips.

‘Kill, kill, kill, kill – ’

The wind singer turned in the breeze, the air flowed into its big leather funnels, and found its way down to the silver voice. Softly, the silver horns began to sing.

The very first note, a deep vibration, stopped the Zars dead in their tracks. They stood as if frozen, swords raised, faces bright and smiling. And all round the arena, a queer shivery sensation ran through the people.

The next note was higher, gentle but piercing. As the wind singer turned in the wind, the note modulated up and down, over the deep humming. Then came the highest note of all, like the singing of a celestial bird, a cascade of tumbling melody. The sounds seemed to grow louder and reach further, taking possession of the arena terrace by terrace, and then of the stands, and then of the city beyond. The marshals holding Bowman and Kestrel released their grip. The examinees looked at the papers on their desks in bewilderment. The families in the stands stared at each other.

Hanno Hath left his desk. Ira Hath left the Grey stand. Pinpin crept out from the lowest benches and toddled into the open space, and started to chortle with joy. And all the time, the song of the wind singer was reaching deeper and deeper into the people, and everything was changing. Examinees could be heard asking each other, ‘What are we doing here?’ One examinee took the papers off his desk, tore them up, and threw the pieces into the air. Soon everyone was doing it, laughing like Pinpin, and the air was thick with flying paper. The families in the stands began to intermingle, and there was a great mixing of colours, as maroon flowed into grey, and orange embraced scarlet.

The Emperor up in his tower heard the music of the wind singer, and opened his window wide, and hurled out his bowl of chocolate buttons. They scattered as they fell, and landed all round the column of the frozen Zars. Then the Emperor turned and strode out of one of his many doors, and down the stairs.

In the arena, Ira Hath moved wonderingly down the tiers, through the crowd, where people were now swapping clothes, trying out combinations of colours, and laughing at the unfamiliar sight. She saw Hanno coming from the other direction, his arms outstretched. She reached the centre circle and took Pinpin in her embrace, and hugged her and kissed her, and turning found her dear Bowman before her, his arms reaching for her, his lips kissing her cheeks. Then Hanno joined them, and Kestrel was in his arms, and there were tears streaming down his kind cheeks, and that was when Ira Hath too started to weep for pure joy.

‘My brave birds,’ Hanno was saying as he embraced them all, kissing them over and over again. ‘My brave birds came back.’

Pinpin jumped and wriggled in her mother’s arms, beside herself with excitement.

‘Love Bo!’ she cried. ‘Love Kess!’

‘Oh, my dear ones,’ said Ira Hath, as she put her arms round them all. ‘Oh, my heart’s darlings.’

Not far away, unnoticed in the confusion and the laughter of the crowd, Maslo Inch made his way to Mumpo, and slowly sank to his knees before him.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice trembling.

‘Forgive you?’ said Mumpo. ‘Why?’

‘You’re my son.’

For a few long moments, Mumpo stared at him in astonishment. Then, shyly, he held out one hand, and the Chief Examiner took it, and pressed it to his lips.

‘Father,’ said Mumpo. ‘I’ve got friends now.’

Maslo Inch began to weep. ‘Have you, my boy?’ he said. ‘Have you, my son?’

‘Do you want to meet them?’

The Chief Examiner nodded, unable to speak. Mumpo led him by the hand to where the Hath family stood.

‘Kess,’ he said. ‘I have got a father, after all.’

Maslo Inch stood before them, his head lowered, unable to meet their eyes.

‘Look after him, Mumpo,’ said Hanno Hath in his quiet voice, his arms still tight round his children. ‘Fathers need all the help their children can give them.’

The Emperor passed between the double row of pillars on to the top terrace, and stood gazing at the chaotic scene in the arena. The song of the wind singer flowed on, and he felt its warming loosening power like sunshine after a long winter. He spread his arms wide, and smiled happily and called out,

‘That’s the way! Ha! A city needs to be noisy.’

As for the Zars, from the moment that the wind singer had begun to sing, they had started to age. Standing still as statues, the beautiful features of the golden youths crinkled and sagged, and their fanatic eyes grew dim. Their backs began to stoop, and their golden hair thinned and went grey. Years passed by in minutes, and one by one the Zars crumpled to the ground, and there they died. Time and decay, held at bay for so long, now overwhelmed them. The flesh rotted on their bodies, and turned to dust. Out in the streets of Aramanth, the wind that sang in the wind singer blew the dust from their bones, and swirled it away into gardens and gutters, until all that was left of the invincible army of the Morah was a long line of skeletons, swords at their sides, glinting in the sun.

Volume II of THE WIND ON FIRE

Kestrel clung to the burnt-out wind singer. She wasn’t noticed by the invaders . . . She saw her father and brother forced back. She heard the piteous cries of the wounded, and the brisk blows of the sprearmen. She watched the leader of the invaders ride by on his horse, saw him clearly, his handsome young face . . .
She stared as long as she could.
I won’t forget you my enemy

Suddenly and unexpectedly the city of Aramanth is attacked and burned, and the Manth people taken into slavery. Only Kestrel is free. She sets out to find her beloved brother Bowman, and vows revenge on her family’s captors. The hunter is about to become the hunted.

Volume III of THE WIND ON FIRE

They must seek shelter, they must reach the safety of the homeland, before the storm breaks; or the coining wind will carry them away.

In the time of cruelty, the Manth people march back to their homeland. They grow weak with starvation. Ira Hath is the only one who knows the way, but she is dying. Bowman eagerly awaits his calling to join the Singer people, but when his sister Kestrel is taken by bandits, he must use his powers to find her. Together they fight . . . until their destinies lead them apart. And all the while they wait for the wind to rise . . . Only one will sing the firesong.

William Nicholson is one of the greatest and most imaginative writers of today and has won countless awards for his work in television, plays and films.
The Wind Singer,
the first title in the Wind on Fire trilogy, won the Smarties Prize Gold Award and the Blue Peter Book Award. His latest novel,
Rich and Mad –
his first for teenage readers – received much praise, and he has written several successful adult novels. He is an acclaimed Hollywood screenwriter; his work includes
Elizabeth: The Golden Age,
the Bafta award-winning
Shadowlands,
and
Gladiator,
for which he received his second Oscar nomination. William Nicholson lives in Sussex with his wife, Virginia, and their three children.