The Wind Singer Page 3

  Next to the plaza, beneath the towering walls of the Imperial Palace, at the meeting point of the four main streets, lay the city arena. This great circular amphitheatre had originally been designed to bring together the entire population of Aramanth, for the debates and elections that had been necessary before the introduction of the ratings system. Today there were far too many citizens to cram into the arena’s nine descending marble tiers, but it had its uses, for concerts and recitals. And of course this was the venue for the annual High Examination, when the heads of all the households were tested, and their family ratings adjusted for the following year.

  In the centre of the arena, in the circle paved with white marble that formed the stage, there stood the curious wooden tower known as the wind singer. Everything about the wind singer was wrong. It was not white. It was not symmetrical. It lacked the simplicity and calm that characterised the whole of White District. It creaked this way and that with every passing breeze, and when the wind blew stronger, it let out a dismal moaning sound. Every year a proposal would come up at the meeting of the Board of Examiners to dismantle it, and replace it with a more dignified emblem of the city, but every year the proposal was vetoed; by the Emperor himself, it was whispered. And it was true to say that the people regarded the wind singer with affection, because it was so very old, and had always been there, and because there was a legend that one day it would sing again.

  Kestrel Hath had loved the wind singer all her life. She loved it because it was unpredictable, and served no purpose, and seemed, by its sad cry, not to like the orderly world of Aramanth. Sometimes, when the frustrations of her existence grew too hard to bear, she would run down the nine tiers of the arena and sit on the white flagstones at the bottom and talk to the wind singer, for an hour or more. Of course, it didn’t understand her, and the creaky groany noises it made back weren’t words, but she found that rather restful. She didn’t particularly want to be understood. She just wanted to vent her feelings of fury and powerlessness, and not feel entirely alone.

  On this day, the worst so far, Kestrel headed instinctively for the arena. Her father would not be home from the library yet, and her mother would be at the clinic, where Pinpin had to have her two-year-old physical assessment. Where else was there to go? Later she was accused of plotting her disgraceful actions in advance, but Kestrel was not a schemer. She acted on impulse, rarely knowing herself what she would do next. It would be more true to say that Bowman, following her, sensed that she would get herself into trouble. As for Mumpo, he just followed her because he loved her.

  The main street to the centre led past the courtyard of the Weavers’ Company, where, because it was lunchtime, all the weavers were out in the yard doing their exercises.

  ‘Touch the ground! Touch the sky!’ called out their trainer. ‘You can do it! If you try!’

  The weavers bent and stretched, bent and stretched, in time with each other.

  A little further on they came upon a street-cleaner sitting by his barrow eating his midday meal.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any litter you’d care to drop?’ he asked them.

  The children searched their pockets. Bowman found a piece of charred toast that he’d put there so as not to hurt his mother’s feelings.

  ‘Just drop it in the street,’ said the street-cleaner, his eyes brightening.

  ‘I’ll put it in your barrow,’ said Bowman.

  ‘That’s right, do my job for me,’ said the street-cleaner bitterly. ‘Don’t you worry about how I’m to meet my target, let alone exceed it, if nobody ever drops any litter in the street. Don’t ask yourself how I’m supposed to get along, you’re from Orange, you’re all right. It doesn’t occur to you that I want to better myself, same as everyone else. You try living in Grey District. My wife has set her heart on one of those apartments in Maroon, with the little balconies.’

  Bowman dropped his piece of toast on to the street.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said the street-cleaner. ‘I may just look at it for a while, before I sweep it up.’

  Kestrel was already far ahead, with Mumpo trailing after her. Bowman ran to catch them up.

  ‘When are we going to have lunch?’ said Mumpo.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Kestrel.

  As they crossed the plaza the bell in the high palace tower struck two. Mnang!Mnang! Now their classmates would all be trooping back to their desks, and Dr Batch would be marking the three truants down as absent without leave. That meant more lost points.

  They passed through the double row of marble columns that ringed the highest tier of the arena, and made their way down the steps to the bottom.

  Mumpo came to a sudden stop on the fifth tier, and sat down on the white marble step.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he announced.

  Kestrel paid no attention. She went on down to the bottom, and Bowman followed her. Mumpo wanted to follow her, but now that he had become aware of his hunger he could think of nothing else. He sat on the step and hugged his knees and yearned for food with all his heart.

  Kestrel came to a stop at last, at the foot of the wind singer. Her rage at Pinpin’s test, and Dr Batch’s taunts, and the whole suffocating order of Aramanth, had formed within her into a wild desire to upset, to confuse, to shock – she hardly knew who or what or how – just to fracture the smooth and seamless running of the world, if only for a moment. She had come to the wind singer because it was her friend and ally, but it was only when she stood at its foot that she knew what she was going to do.

  She started to climb.

  Come down, Bowman called in alarm. They’ll punish you. You’ll fall. You’ll hurt yourself.

  I don’t care.

  She hauled herself up on to the platform, and then she started climbing the tower. This wasn’t easy, because it swung in the wind, and the footholds were slippery among the pipes. But she was wiry and agile, and held on tight as she ascended.

  A sharp cry sounded from the top tier of the arena.

  ‘Hey! You! Get down at once!’

  A scarlet-robed official had seen her, and came hurrying down the steps. Finding Mumpo sitting hunched on the fifth tier, he stopped to question him.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you in school?’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Mumpo.

  ‘Hungry? You’ve just had lunch.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘All children eat school lunch at one o’clock. If you didn’t eat your lunch, then you have only yourself to blame.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the unhappy Mumpo. ‘But I’m still hungry.’

  By now Kestrel had reached the wind singer’s neck, and was making an interesting discovery. There was a slot cut into the broad metal pipe, and an arrow etched above it, pointing to the slot, and a design above the arrow. It looked like the letter S, with the tail of the S curling round and right over its top.

  The scarlet-robed official arrived at the base of the wind singer.

  ‘You, boy,’ he said sharply to Bowman. ‘What’s she doing? Who is she?’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ said Bowman.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m her brother.’

  The fierce official made him nervous, and when nervous, Bowman became very logical. Momentarily baffled, the official looked up and called to Kestrel:

  ‘Get down, girl! Get down at once! What do you think you’re doing up there?’

  ‘Pongo!’ Kestrel called back, climbing ever higher up the structure.

  ‘What?’ said the official. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Pongo,’ said Bowman.

  ‘She said pongo to me?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Bowman. ‘She might have been saying it to me.’

  ‘But it was I who spoke to her. I ordered her to come down, and she replied, pongo.’

  ‘Perhaps she thinks it’s your name.’

  ‘It’s not my name. No one is called Pongo.’

  ‘I didn’
t know that. I expect she doesn’t know that.’

  The official, confused by Bowman’s tremulous but reasonable manner, turned his face back up to Kestrel, who was now almost at the very top, and called out:

  ‘Did you say pongo to me?’

  ‘Pongo pooa-pooa pompaprune!’ Kestrel called back.

  The official turned to Bowman, his face rigid with righteousness.

  ‘There! You heard her! It’s a disgrace!’ He called back up to Kestrel, ‘If you don’t come down, I’ll report you!’

  ‘You’ll report her even if she does come down,’ said Bowman.

  ‘I certainly shall,’ said the official, ‘but I shall report her more if she doesn’t.’ He shouted up at Kestrel, ‘I shall recommend that points be deducted from your family rating!’

  ‘Bangaplop!’ called Kestrel. She was on a level with one of the wide leather scoops as she called out this rude word, and the sound travelled down the pipes of the wind singer and emerged from the horns, a second or so later, in a fuzzy distorted form.

  ‘Bang-ang-anga-plop-op-p!’

  Kestrel then put her head right into the leather scoop, and shouted:

  ‘Sagahog!’

  Her voice came booming out of the horns:

  ‘SAG-AG-AG-A-HOG-G-G!’

  The official heard this aghast.

  ‘She’s disturbing the afternoon work session,’ he said. ‘They’ll hear her in the College.’

  ‘Pompa-pompa-pompaprune!’ called Kestrel.

  ‘POMP-P-PA POMP-P-PA POMP-P-PA-PRU-U-UNE!’ boomed the wind singer across the arena.

  Out of the College of Examiners, in a flurry of white robes, poured the high officials of the city to see what was intruding on their afternoon.

  ‘I HA-A-ATE SCHOO-OO-OOL!’ cried Kestrel’s amplified voice. ‘I HA-A-ATE RA-A-ATINGS!’

  The examiners heard this in shock.

  ‘She’s having a fit,’ they said. ‘She’s lost her wits.’

  ‘Get her down! Send for the marshals!’

  ‘I won’t strive ha-a-arder!’ cried Kestrel. ‘I won’t rea-ea-each hi-i-igher! I won’t make tomorr-orr-ow better than today-ay-ay!’

  More and more people were gathering now, drawn by the noise. A long crocodile of children from Maroon District, who had been on a visit to the Hall of Achievement, appeared between the double row of columns to listen to Kestrel’s voice.

  ‘I don’t love my Emperor-or-or!’ Kestrel was now crying. ‘There’s no glor-or-ory in Aramanth-anth-anth!’

  The children gasped. Their teacher was too shocked to speak. A band of grey-coated marshals came running down the steps, their batons in their hands.

  ‘Get her down!’ cried the scarlet-robed official.

  The marshals formed a ring round the wind singer, and their captain called up to Kestrel:

  ‘You’re surrounded! You can’t get away!’

  ‘I don’t want to get away,’ Kestrel replied; and putting her head back into the leather scoop, she called out,

  ‘PONGO-O-O TO EXAM-AM-AMS!’

  The Maroon children started to titter.

  ‘Oh, the evil child!’ exclaimed their teacher, and herded her class back to the Hall of Achievement. ‘Come along, children. Don’t listen to her. She’s a wild thing.’

  ‘Come down!’ roared the captain of the marshals. ‘Come down or you’ll be sorry!’

  ‘I’m sorry now,’ Kestrel called back. ‘I’m sorry for me, and I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for this whole sorry city!’

  She put her head into the scoop and called out over the wide arena:

  ‘WON’T STRIVE HAR-AR-ARDER! WON’T REACH HI-I-IGHER! WON’T MAKE TOMORROW-OW-OW BETTER THAN TODAY-AY-AY!’

  Bowman made no more attempts to control his sister. He knew her too well. When she got into one of her rages, there was no reasoning with her until her passions were exhausted. The schoolteacher was right: Kestrel had become a wild thing. The wildness coursed through her, glorious and liberating, as she swung from side to side on the top of the wind singer, and shouted all the terrible unthinkable thoughts that had been buried within her for so long. She had gone so far now, she had broken so many rules and said such wicked things, that she knew she would suffer the most severe punishment; and since what was done could not be undone, she was free to be as bad as she wanted to be.

  ‘Pongo to the Emperor!’ she cried. ‘Where is he anyway? I’ve never seen him! There isn’t any Emperor!’

  The marshals started to climb the wind singer to bring her down by force. Bowman, afraid they would hurt her, slipped away to fetch their father from the sub-library in Orange District where he worked. As he left the arena on one side, the Chief Examiner himself entered from the other, and stood gazing down on the chaotic scene in grim silence.

  ‘POMP-PA POMP-PA-PRU-U-UNE TO THE EMPEROR-OR-OR!’ rang out Kestrel’s amplified voice.

  Maslo Inch drew a long breath and strode steadily down the steps. By the fifth tier he felt a small hand clutch at the hem of his clean white robe.

  ‘Please, sir,’ said a small voice. ‘Do you have any food?’

  The Chief Examiner looked down and saw Mumpo, his nose dribbling, his face grimy, his moist stupid eyes gazing up at him, and he snatched his robe away in sudden fury.

  ‘Don’t you touch me, you poxy little brat!’ he hissed.

  Mumpo was used to being brushed off, or laughed at, but the pure hatred he heard in the Chief Examiner’s voice astounded him.

  ‘I only wanted – ’

  Maslo Inch did not wait to hear. He strode on down to the stage of the arena.

  His arrival caused panic among the officials and marshals.

  ‘We’ve ordered her down – we’re doing all we can – she must be drunk – have you heard her? – she won’t listen to us – ’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said the Chief Examiner. ‘Someone remove the filthy child back there, and wash him.’ He made a gesture over his shoulder towards Mumpo.

  One of the marshals hurried up the steps and took Mumpo by the wrist. Mumpo went slowly, looking back many times at Kestrel high in the wind singer. He didn’t complain, because he was used to being dragged here and there by people in authority. The marshal took him to the fountain by the statue of Creoth the First, and held his head under the stream of cold water. Mumpo screamed, and struggled violently.

  ‘You better watch out,’ the marshal said, cross at being splashed. ‘We don’t want your sort in Aramanth.’

  He released his hold, and washed his hands in the fountain bowl.

  ‘I don’t want to be in Aramanth,’ said Mumpo, shivering. ‘But I don’t know where else to go.’

  In the arena, Maslo Inch watched the efforts of the marshals clambering over the wind singer, trying to catch hold of the lighter and more agile child.

  ‘Come down,’ he ordered the marshals.

  ‘They’ll get her in the end, sir,’ said the captain of the marshals.

  ‘I said, come down.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The marshals descended, panting and red in the face. Maslo Inch looked with his steady and contemptuous gaze at the assembled crowd.

  ‘Has nobody here got any work to do this afternoon?’

  ‘We couldn’t let her say those wicked things – ’

  ‘You are her audience. Go away, and she will become silent. Captain, clear the arena.’

  So the officials and the marshals trickled away, looking back over their shoulders as they went to see what the Chief Examiner would do next.

  Kestrel did not become silent. She made a kind of song out of all the bad words she knew, and sang it through the wind singer.

  ‘Pocksicker pocksicker pompaprune!

  Banga-banga-banga plop!

  Sagahog sagahog pompaprune!

  Udderbug pongo plop!’

  Maslo Inch gazed up at her for a few moments, as if to familiarise himself with her face. He said nothing more. The girl had mocked and insulted everything that Aramanth most respected.
She would be punished, of course; but the case called for more than punishment. She must be broken. Maslo Inch was not a man to shrink from hard decisions. Young as she was, it must be done, and it must be done once and for all. He gave a single brisk nod of his head, and turned and strode calmly away.

  4

  Practising for Maroon

  By the time Bowman returned with his father, the arena was empty and the wind singer was silent. The marshals guarding the perimeter refused to let them enter. Hanno Hath told them he was the wild child’s father, and had come to take her home. The marshals sent for their captain, and their captain sent for instructions to the College of Examiners. Back came a simple order.

  ‘Send her home. She’ll be dealt with later.’

  As father and son made their way down the arena steps, Bowman asked in a low voice,

  ‘What will they do to her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hanno.

  ‘They said we’d lose points from our family rating.’

  ‘Yes, I expect they’ll do that.’

  ‘She said pompaprune to the Emperor. She said the Emperor doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Did she now?’ said her father, smiling to himself.

  ‘Does the Emperor exist, pa?’

  ‘Who knows? I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never met anyone else who’s seen him. Perhaps he’s just one of those useful ideas.’

  ‘Will you be cross with Kess?’

  ‘No, of course not. But it would have been better if she hadn’t done it.’

  They reached the wind singer, and Hanno Hath called up to the top, where they could see Kestrel curled up among the leather scoops.

  ‘Kestrel! Come down now, darling.’

  Kestrel looked over the edge, and saw her father below.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘No,’ he replied gently. ‘I love you.’

  So Kestrel climbed down, and as she reached the ground her courage suddenly forsook her, and she started to tremble and cry. Hanno Hath took her in his arms, and sat down on the bottom step of the arena, and held her close. He hugged her, and let her sob out all her tears of anger and humiliation.