Slaves of the Mastery Read online

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanno.

  ‘Don’t glare at me, my good sir. I didn’t burn it. Well, we won’t waste your talents here. The Mastery knows how to use people. Good day to you.’

  He turned and made his way out, moving at considerable speed for one with such short legs. The warehouse manager hurried after him.

  ‘Professor! What am I to do with him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ came the booming reply. ‘I’ll send for him in due course. Just go on doing nothing, my good fellow, as per usual.’

  At the end of the day, the monkey cages were unlocked and the people inside let out. A new batch of slaves was lined up to take their place, complete with rugs to keep them warm through the night. Hanno and Ira Hath were there to see Pinto released, and Bowman too. All up and down the roadway people were hugging and kissing, as their loved ones were given safely back to them; while others looked on with quieter sadness, as their loved ones climbed up into the cages, and saw the iron gates locked after them.

  Pinto let her mother hold her tight in her arms and kiss her, but she didn’t cry. The long hours in the cage had had their effect.

  ‘These are wicked people,’ was all she would say.

  ‘They are, my darling, they are.’

  It was the turn of Mrs Chirish to spend the night in the cage. Mumpo was there to help her in.

  ‘I’ll come for you in the morning, auntie.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Mumpy.’

  ‘All you have to do is lie down and sleep.’

  ‘I don’t like to be any trouble,’ said Mrs Chirish looking round, ‘only I am on the large side, and there doesn’t seem to be enough room.’

  ‘Yes, there is, auntie. You squeeze yourself up against the bars here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s all right, then. Good night, Mumpy. Friends in dreams.’

  ‘Good night, auntie.’

  As they walked back up the road, Pinto asked Mumpo what Mrs Chirish had meant when she said ‘Friends in dreams’.

  ‘When I was young I was always sad, because I had no friends. So every night when auntie tucked me up she said, never mind, you’ll make friends in your dreams.’

  ‘Oh, Mumpo. Did you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘But you’ve got us now, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m all right now.’ Then he remembered. ‘Except for Kess.’

  ‘We’ll find her,’ said Bowman. ‘Or she’ll find us.’

  Back at the marshalling yards they found the clerks with their ledgers, and learned that they had been allocated new living quarters. They were to sleep from now on in specially-built two-storey slave barracks, dispersed all over the countryside on the fringes of villages. The Hath family were led off, together with many others, to Slave Barracks Seventeen, a mile or so down the hillside, nearer to the lake.

  The long building was partitioned into many smaller rooms, each reached by an open passage at the front. They were plain rooms, with no curtains on the windows or rugs on the floor, but they offered privacy of a kind, and best of all, beds. The beds were wooden frames strung with rope, the mattresses coarse bags stuffed with straw, but to the weary slaves this was luxury. The beds stood close together, eight to a room. At the foot of each was a slave number. For a while there was a great to-ing and fro-ing as people searched for their places, checking their wrist numbers as they went. The Hath family had all been placed together, along with Mumpo, Scooch, Creoth, and the absent Mrs Chirish. Bowman, who was to work through the night, ate an early supper and went to lie down on his bed. There was still an hour to go before dark.

  Creoth appeared later than the rest, as dusk was falling, glowing with happiness. He joined the others for supper in the big communal kitchen on the ground floor, and told all who would listen, in between mouthfuls of soup, about his day on the farm.

  ‘Cows!’ he exclaimed. ‘Excellent fellows! Beard of my ancestors, what a day!’

  It turned out he had learned how to milk a cow.

  ‘It’s a knack, you see. You don’t squeeze, or pull. Oh, no! You close your fingers one after the other, like this.’

  He wiggled his fingers to demonstrate. Everyone laughed, and he laughed with them.

  ‘You can laugh,’ he cried, ‘but you should try it! Not as easy as I make it look.’

  Creoth was not the only one who had enjoyed his first day of slave labour. Miko Mimilith was full of the wonders of the materials he had found at the dressmaker’s.

  ‘I’ve never seen such finely woven silk. Like air, I promise you. No, finer than air. Like thought!’

  Dr Batch, a teacher in Aramanth, had been assigned to a class in one of the schools set up for the slave children.

  ‘I must confess I’ve been given all that I need. And as for discipline – well, no problems there, believe me. I will say this for our masters, they have created a climate of respect for authority, and I can’t altogether disapprove.’

  Mumpo revealed that he had been accepted into the manaxa school. Pinto was horrified.

  ‘You can’t! You mustn’t! They’ll kill you. I don’t want you to die.’

  ‘I won’t die.’

  She followed him when he went outside to stretch his legs.

  ‘You’ll be stabbed to death. You mustn’t do it. We need you.’

  She clung to his arm as she pleaded with him. ‘Say you won’t.’

  ‘I want to do it,’ he replied. ‘So I’m doing it.’

  ‘Plee-ease, Mumpo.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I won’t let you go till you promise me you won’t do it.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  He tried to shake her off, but she clung tight. The dim sense that Pinto was right only made him crosser.

  ‘Get off me, you skinny little rat!’

  He gave a vigorous jerk of his arm, and Pinto was thrown to the ground. She bruised her shoulder in falling, and started to cry. The sight of her crouched on the ground crying made Mumpo more angry still.

  ‘Why are you always hanging round me?’ He shouted at her, to make the hurt be her own fault. ‘I don’t want you. Leave me alone.’

  Pinto crept away. Later her mother found her curled up in a corner, her eyes red from crying, but she wouldn’t say why.

  Jessel Greeth, who was quartered in a different building, called on Hanno Hath before nightfall. He was well aware that most of the Manth people had found their first day more bearable than they had expected.

  ‘What do you say now, Hanno? Still calling for rebellion?’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ said Hanno.

  ‘Indeed not. Not easy, and maybe, not wise.’

  ‘I think we should put aside a little food each day. Anything that can be stored. That way we’ll be able to feed ourselves on the journey.’

  ‘The journey, eh? You’ve got to get away first. How do you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, before you go stirring everyone up, just listen to this. I’ve been given a job in the Department of Supply. I helped organise the meal you had this evening. They must have seen that I have a natural talent for management. Anyway, my boss, the fellow who oversees the supplies for the whole sector, is a slave! He showed me his brand number!’

  Hanno looked back on Greeth’s beaming face without understanding.

  ‘Don’t you see? They promote slaves! There are slaves in positions of authority! We could do well here.’

  ‘But Jessel,’ said Hanno, wrinkling his brows. ‘These are the people who murdered our families and burned our home.’

  ‘Well, yes, yes, there’s that, I realise that, of course. But what’s the point of looking back, eh? Here we are, so let’s look forward.’

  ‘The point is, whatever’s good about this country is built on force and cruelty. It’s poisoned at the heart.’

  Greeth looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then he shrugged, and said,

  ‘Nothing’s perfect. We live in the real world. Our duty i
s to make the best of it. And ask yourself, what is the alternative? A journey to nowhere?’

  So saying, satisfied that he had won the argument, he went over to shake Dr Batch’s hand, and share experiences of their first day.

  Hanno Hath confided his worries to his wife.

  ‘I don’t know how to make them listen to me.’

  ‘They hear you,’ she said. ‘The time will come soon enough when they’ll believe you.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Before winter comes.’

  10

  A visitor in the night

  When night fell, Bowman’s work began. With a lantern in one hand and a staff in the other, he was sent out into the pastures by the lake shore to watch over a herd of cows and their calves. His job was to scare away any wolves that might come sniffing round the herd, looking to steal a calf.

  A hut had been provided for the cowherd, a small windowless shelter against rain or cold, and here Bowman took up his post. He sat on the earth floor, with the door open before him to pasture and lake, and watched the cows moving placidly past, tearing softly at the grass. As the sounds of voices in nearby villages faded into quietness, he turned his mind to Kestrel, and listened for her in the night. Once or twice he thought he felt her, but so faintly and so far off that he couldn’t be sure. The moon rose in the sky, a half-moon, its light shining faintly down on the palace on the lake. One by one the lights in the beautiful buildings were going out.

  He had no way of measuring the passing of time, and so time itself seemed to come to a stop. The stars turned, and the moon crossed the sky, but these were cycles that were outside time; or so Bowman felt. The night grew cold. He had been given a long sheepskin cape, which he drew ever closer about him. The cows settled down to sleep. A wind sprang up, and ruffled the waters of the lake. The palace across the water was in darkness now. All was quiet.

  Then he heard a sound: the soft swish of grass, and a low tuneful humming. Someone was approaching. He took hold of his staff, and stepped out of the hut, wondering what sort of person could be out at this time of night. The humming sounded more clearly now. Out of the darkness, slowly entering the reach of the lantern-light, there came an ugly one-eyed man.

  He was evidently making for the hut. He held his arms folded across his chest, the hands inside the loose sleeves of his robe. The robe was a plain garment of undyed wool, not nearly thick enough for warmth on this chill night. His feet were bare. Bowman wondered as he approached who he was and what he could want. Perhaps a poor man hoping to share the shelter of the hut. Perhaps one of the lone witless creatures to be met with on remote roads, who live and die like animals. Except the tune he was humming was no random noise: it made a pattern of sound that, once you caught it, was quite pleasant. Behind him, no more than a shadow in the lantern’s light, loped a grey cat.

  The stranger reached him at last. He stopped humming, and looked at Bowman without speaking, and Bowman looked at him. He had a melancholy face, and one of his eyes was a milky colour, and didn’t move. He examined Bowman closely with the other eye, as if to satisfy himself about something.

  ‘Are you the child of the prophet?’ he said.

  ‘Am I –?’ Bowman was greatly surprised. ‘Which prophet?’

  ‘Is there more than one?’

  He shuffled his way into the hut, and sat down on the floor. Then looking up at Bowman, he patted the ground beside him.

  ‘Sit.’

  Bowman sat.

  The stranger began to hum again. It seemed to be a deliberate humming, that it would be rude to interrupt, so Bowman sat quietly and waited for him to stop. After some time, he brought his wordless song to an end, and stretching out his fingers, worked them together.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said. ‘I get pain in my hands, especially on a damp night. But I’m all right now.’

  ‘Is that why you were humming?’

  ‘Yes. That was the song for relieving pain in the extremities. Really I should accept the pain, and put it to use. After all, pain is just another form of energy. But we all fall short of perfection.’

  He looked out over the lake towards the dark city.

  ‘That would be the High Domain.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you been there? Have you seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They say it’s quite something. Beauty. Learning. The human spirit in flower.’

  Bowman stared at the city-palace with anger.

  ‘All I know is they kill people and they make slaves.’

  ‘Yes, well, that too.’

  The grey cat suddenly appeared, jumping out of the darkness onto the stranger’s lap. Bowman stared.

  ‘You have a cat?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I have a cat. He travels with me.’

  Mist looked up at Bowman with dislike. To Dogface, he said in their silent form of communication,

  ‘Who is this halfwit?’

  ‘He’s someone we need. I have to make sure he knows what to do.’

  ‘What?’ said Bowman. Dogface had spoken aloud.

  ‘Sorry. I was talking to the cat.’

  ‘You were talking to a cat?’

  Mist slowly turned his head away. He wanted nothing more to do with this dull youth.

  ‘Leave him to the cows,’ he said. ‘He seems to have their level of intellect.’

  Dogface noticed the cows for the first time.

  ‘So they’ve put you to watch the cows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are the cows grateful?’

  ‘Are they grateful? I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘I can’t talk to cows.’

  ‘Of course you can. You just haven’t tried.’

  ‘Spare me!’ said Mist. ‘Do we really have to sit here getting colder by the minute, listening to cows?’

  ‘It’s as good a beginning as any,’ said the hermit.

  Bowman supposed this was addressed to him.

  ‘Beginning of what?’ he said.

  The hermit fixed his good eye on the nearest cow, and spoke to it.

  ‘Wake up, my friend,’ he said. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you. The young man here would like a word.’

  To Bowman’s astonishment the cow lumbered to its legs and came over to them. The big head swung down, close to where he sat, and he felt the cow’s moist breath on his face.

  ‘I believe you already know what to do,’ the hermit prompted.

  Bowman had no idea at all how to begin, so he just looked into one of the cow’s big unblinking eyes, and let himself go quiet and empty inside, as he did when listening for Kestrel. After a few moments, the cow trembled violently, and Bowman sensed a confused buzz of sound. The cow was frightened.

  It’s all right, he told the cow, not so much in words as in feelings. I won’t hurt you.

  Slowly he felt the cow grow calm, and the vibrating noises faded to a single slow pulse of sound: oomfa – oomfa – oomfa. The cow’s big wet nose pushed very close to him, and he felt the suck of air as she snuffled at his face.

  Then he found it. It was like that moment when you’re in a room full of people all talking at once, their voices mingling into a meaningless jumble of sound, and suddenly you catch a voice speaking your own name. From then on, you hear that voice alone, and understand it, and all the other voices slip into the background. Only, the cow didn’t exactly have a voice. She had a flow of observations. She had concerns.

  Monster night stillness juice of grass don’t-trust always near calf smell of my own one no sudden moves monster sleep my own one pale monster in moonlight shivering . . .

  ‘I’m your friend,’ said Bowman aloud, so the hermit could hear too.

  Friends move slow monsters jump . . .

  It was the strangest thing. The cow wasn’t talking, but he received the answer, feeling by feeling, with perfect clarity. He had always assumed cows were stupid. He now understood that they just worked more slowly than people.
r />   He raised one hand to touch the cow, but deliberately made the hand move very slowly through the air.

  ‘I – can – be – slow,’ he said, also speaking slowly.

  The cow contemplated him gravely.

  Miserable monster no peace no rest sudden moves hurt stillness monster grieving . . .

  Astonishing! The cow thought he was the one with the problems.

  ‘Do you pity me, cow?’

  Sad monster rush rush and odd stick creature jerky jerky go about and about ha ha ha . . .

  Now the cow was laughing at him! In her slow and wordless way, she found him amusing.

  ‘Laugh at me if you want,’ said Bowman, a little offended. ‘But you’re still afraid of me too.’

  Ah monster hurt monster hurt all jerky jerky funny monster terror monster death monster and at the end ha ha ha . . .

  Bowman understood.

  ‘We monsters bring so much fear, what can you do but laugh at us?’

  The cow gazed at him a little longer, with what seemed to Bowman to be a deep compassion, an acknowledgement that he had understood how she felt. Then she swung slowly away, and plodded off in search of her calf.

  ‘There you are,’ said the hermit.

  ‘It’s so strange. I feel quite different about cows now.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Mist. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘I’m not done yet,’ said Dogface.

  Bowman was looking at the cat.

  ‘Does it work with all animals?’

  ‘Of course. And with plants. And even rocks, though you have to work very hard with rocks.’

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘How does anyone know anything? I’ve been taught.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You mean you want to know my name? Names are greatly overrated. We can all manage perfectly well without them.’

  He shivered as he spoke.

  ‘Why, you’re cold!’

  Bowman pulled off his sheepskin cape and drew it over the hermit’s shoulders.

  ‘You should wear warmer clothes.’

  ‘I have to say I agree. But where I come from, it’s very much frowned on. If you’re cold, they say, sing the song against cold. Or accept the cold, and put it to use. Still, you’re very kind. And you were most sensitive with that cow. I can see you’ll do a decent enough job when it comes to it.’