Firesong (18 page)

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s not right. If you’re going to die soon, you should love me now, before it’s too late.’

‘And then leave you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t want that.’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Oh, Sisi.’

‘You can say “Oh Sisi” as much as you like, but when you kissed me, you liked it. Don’t pretend you didn’t.’

‘It’s true. But what’s the point?’

‘What’s the point of kissing? It doesn’t have a point. It’s just a kiss. If everything you do is in order to do something else, when do you ever get to the end of it all?’

Bowman felt himself smiling, and wondered if she could sense it.

‘You make it all sound so easy.’

‘It is easy. Because of what you said. You said you’re going to die soon. Don’t you see how easy that makes everything?’

He was impressed. Once he had thought Sisi a stupid child. The more he came to know her, the less stupid she seemed.

‘Everything you might ever have done in all your life has to be done now, or you’ll never do it.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘Now, Bowman. Do you know what now means?’

‘I think so.’

‘It means now.’

A silence fell: a silence that roared like thunder in the utter darkness. Bowman found himself calculating how far apart from each other they were sitting. If he were to put out a hand –

He reached out one hand. With a shock, he felt her fingertips. She was reaching out to him.

Their hands met, palm to palm. Without saying a word, their fingers interlocked, in the secret friends sign. Without saying a word, they both leaned forward, until they could feel each other’s breath on their cheeks, until their brows met and touched. Without saying a word, they kissed.

For the rest of that warm night, they lay folded close in each other’s arms, and made not a sound. When light began to creep into the sky, they parted, understanding that whatever had passed between them belonged to the darkness, and must slip away like a dream with the dawn.

The Manth people woke, and stretched, and washed, their usual morning chatter somewhat subdued. This was to be the day of parting. Canobius was up and about, busying himself at his pots, which now stood neck-deep in the seething waters of the lake. Beside the three big pots stood a small pot, to which he was adding ingredients from his store.

Hanno Hath set his little group to work packing the wagon and preparing everything for their departure. Bowman shook Mist. This time the cat woke. He had slept for a whole day and a night.

‘Thank goodness! I thought there was something wrong with you.’

‘Oh, boy!’ said Mist, still half in a dream. ‘I’ve been so far away! Must I come back?’

‘We’ll be on our way soon. Can’t sleep for ever.’

‘Yes, boy, yes. Can sleep for ever. Such a happy sleep. Want it to be for ever.’

This dreamy contentment was out of character. Bowman looked at the cat more closely.

‘I think maybe you’ve been sick, my Mist.’

‘Life is a sickness,’ murmured Mist. ‘Death is the cure.’

‘What! You’re not sick! You’re drunk.’

He picked Mist up, floppy in his hands, and carried him over to the nearest stream, and dropped him in. The cat sank like a stone, and then jerked into frantic life, clawing his way back out of the pool.

‘Does that feel better?’

‘It feels a great deal worse,’ said the cat, shaking off the water. ‘And since you’re neither helpful, attractive, or amusing, I’d prefer you to leave me alone now.’

‘That’s my Mist,’ said Bowman, relieved.

At his wife’s request, Hanno Hath made one last appeal to the twenty who had chosen to stay in the valley.

‘You still have time to change your minds.’

‘I was going to say the same thing to you,’ said Branco Such. ‘Give up this foolishness, Hanno. The winter will pass soon enough.’

‘We leave in an hour,’ Hanno replied.

‘In an hour! What about the captain’s feast? You can’t miss the farewell feast.’

‘We need all the daylight we can get,’ said Hanno; and returned to the wagon.

Mrs Chirish was sent over to Captain Canobius to ask if it would be possible to have the feast right away.

‘But it’s not ready,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘I need a good hour yet. The morning herbs have only just gone into the kettle.’

‘Our friends are leaving, you see,’ said Mrs Chirish.

‘What of that?’ said Canobius. ‘My feast isn’t for those who go. It’s for those who stay. And for you, good lady, a special dish, which I shall share with you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Corn cakes, with white truffles! I’ve been keeping them for a special occasion. There’s just enough truffles for two.’

‘I’ve never had truffles,’ said Mrs Chirish.

‘Madam, your life has not yet begun.’

Mrs Chirish returned to the others, and told them why the feast could not be eaten yet, and how she was to be given white truffles.

Now the horses were harnessed to the wagon. Creoth rounded up his three cows. Tanner Amos stacked the last of the wood he had chopped into the wagon’s bed. The time was come to say goodbye.

‘We’ll follow in the spring,’ said Miko Mimilith. ‘Only a few weeks, and we’ll all be together again.’

The little girls clustered round Mumpo, hugging him and weeping. Silman Pillish coughed and cleared his throat and coughed again.

‘Sad day,’ he said. ‘Duty to the little ones. Hard winter. Sad day.’

Creoth spoke briefly to Mrs Chirish.

‘Well, madam. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

Mrs Chirish held Mumpo in her arms and wept.

‘Oh, Mumpie! My Mumpie!’

‘It won’t be long, auntie. Don’t cry.’

Miller Marish shook everyone’s hand, saying,

‘It’s for the children.’

One by one they completed their goodbyes.

‘When the time comes,’ said Hanno, ‘head north, across the river, over the mountains. We’ll be waiting for you.’ But the look on his grave face told another story.

So the little group set off at last, Bowman and Mumpo in the lead as usual, followed by Kestrel, Sisi, Lunki and Pinto. Behind them came Seldom Erth leading the two horses and the wagon. Hanno and Ira walked behind the wagon. Then came the three cows, Tawny, Stumper and Dreamer. Last of all, Creoth walked with little Scooch.

They retraced their steps in silence through the dense green jungle, following the path of the hissing stream. They were filled with sadness at leaving their friends behind, and fear of the winter waiting for them outside the valley. As for Bowman, his mind was racing with unanswered questions.

Why had Canobius been filled with terror? What had the pigs meant, when they said the people in the graves died of happiness? There were no people in the graves. They were the captain’s memorial to his dead shipmates. The captain wasn’t a captain at all, but a cook. He had cooked them a feast, but it wasn’t for the ones who were going away, it was for the ones who were staying behind. Mrs Chirish was to have white truffles. The valley was specially suited to fat people. Menfolk and womenfolk make babies. Mouths coming out of mouths.

The questions and the fragments of remembered words crowded in on him, but he could make no sense of them. Maddeningly, he was taunted by the feeling that he was somehow putting them in the wrong order, that if only he could arrange them correctly he would be able to read their message.

The luxuriant growth was giving way to hardier trees now, and the air was cooler. They were passing the place where Mist had chased the bird, and led Bowman to the three lines of graves.

Five. Eight. Thirteen.

Twenty-six graves. How many shipmates on the Stella Marie? Twenty-three, the captain had said. Why the extra three mounds?

‘Stop!’

The little column halted behind him.

‘Something’s wrong. Mumpo, I need you.’

‘What is it, Bo?’ asked his father.

‘I’ll tell you if I’m right.’

He led Mumpo through the trees to the graveyard. There were the rows of mounds, neatly tended, as he had first seen them.

‘The captain told me there’s nothing under these mounds,’ Bowman said to Mumpo. ‘But I want to see for myself.’

They picked the mound that looked the most recent, and with their bare hands they scraped away at the earth. In that damp warm climate, the earth was soft, and came away in sticky lumps. For a while all they found was more earth. Then their scrabbling fingers hit something that was not earth. Feeling their way more carefully, they brushed away the soil, and found cloth. They followed the cloth, disturbing it as little as possible, until they found its end. Beyond it lay several ridges of earth, harder than the soil they had been brushing away. Only this too was not earth. It was skin and bone. It was the decaying soil-encrusted back of a dead man’s hand.

Carefully, respectfully, trembling a little, they covered up the grave they had disturbed, and rose to their feet. Mumpo looked to Bowman for an explanation.

‘Why did the captain say the graves were empty?’

Bowman was revisiting his memory of that feeling he had stumbled on, deep inside Canobius. Was it terror?

I am doomed.

Mouths coming out of mouths. The island is impossible to leave. People die of happiness. Mrs Chirish is to eat white truffles. A happy sleep, the cat had said. Want it to be for ever.

‘Quick!’ cried Bowman. ‘We must go back!’

There was no time to explain.

‘He’s going to kill them all!’ cried Bowman. ‘I have to stop him!’

He and Mumpo set off at a run. The others turned the wagon round and followed as fast as they could.

The twenty Manth people who had chosen to stay behind had formed an orderly line, to be given their share of the feast. A mouth-watering aroma rose from the steaming mixture. Captain Canobius held the ladle above the pot with a beaming smile.

‘You’ve never tasted anything so fine in all your lives, I promise you!’

He had just dipped the ladle into the stew when the sound of running feet surprised them all. They turned to see Bowman and Mumpo come bursting out of the trees.

‘Don’t eat it!’ cried Bowman, panting for breath. ‘It’s poisoned! He wants to kill you all! He’s killed other travellers before us! You’ve all seen their graves!’

Utter astonishment filled every face. Their eyes turned towards Canobius. He looked as surprised as any of them.

‘Kill them all?’ he said. ‘What nonsense! I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

‘Then eat it yourself!’

Bowman had his breath back now. He jumped up onto the deck of the Stella Marie, took the brimming ladle from Canobius’s hand, and held it up to his mouth.

‘Eat it yourself!’

Canobius took the ladle. He looked from Bowman to the stew, and then, with great dignity, back to Bowman.

‘I will eat it myself,’ he said. ‘It would make me happy to do so.’

He sat down on the deck, tipped the ladle towards his lips, took in a mouthful of the palm-heart stew, and ate it.

Bowman watched, confused.

‘Am I wrong?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d found a poisonous plant that put people to sleep for ever. I thought you were giving Mrs Chirish her own special food because you wanted her alone to stay alive.’

‘What nonsense!’ cried Mrs Chirish. ‘Why ever would he do that?’

‘Mouths coming out of mouths,’ said Bowman. ‘He thinks too many mouths will eat up his paradise.’

‘Look at him!’ said Branco Such. ‘He’s eating it himself! How can it be poisoned?’

They all watched the fat man as he scooped up another ladleful of the stew. But then, as he ate, he began to weep. The tears streamed down his fat cheeks. He ate another ladleful of the stew. The Manth people looked on in consternation.

‘Can it be true?’

Those nearest to the pot stepped back, suddenly afraid.

‘If this is true,’ said Branco Such, his anger mounting, ‘then he deserves to die!’

In silent answer, Canobius ate more of the stew, sobbing as he ate.

‘He’ll die,’ said Bowman.

The Manth people watched him with a horrified fascination. Only good Mrs Chirish was moved to pity him.

‘The poor man!’ she cried. ‘Can nothing be done?’

Her warm heart roused the fat man from his sobs.

‘Good lady,’ he said. ‘It will be an act of mercy. I’ve been so afraid, for so long.’

As he spoke, a peculiar smile began to crease his plump cheeks. Then he gave a rich chuckle. The tears still rolled down his face. If anything this smile and this chuckle were even more unnerving that the earlier mute grief.

‘But Captain,’ said Mrs Chirish, ‘how could you do it?’

‘They would have died anyway, dear lady.’ With that, he burst into outright laughter. ‘What is life but one long agony, ended by death?’ He roared with laughter, rocking from side to side. ‘At least I spare them that. Those that I kill die happy.’

‘They die of happiness,’ said Bowman.

‘Yes! He’s so right! They die of happiness!’ He laughed and laughed, and wept and wept.

‘It’s the poison,’ said Bowman to the others. ‘Whatever it is, it makes you so happy you die.’

‘He’s right! He’s the clever one! Look at me – doomed, but happy! Give me a bowlful! Best stew I ever made in my life! Just a few leaves from one special little plant to give it that extra something. Who is as happy as me, eh? Eat it myself? Makes me happy to do so!’

He rocked with laughter.

‘All I ever wanted was my own chance of happiness.’ He reached out one hand towards Mrs Chirish. ‘You, good lady, would have made me happy. Fatness is happiness! Hurrah!’

His great body shuddered as if he had been hit. Then he recovered, and his rich laugh boomed out once more.

Who is as happy as me-ee-ee?
he sang.

Who is as happy as I?

Happy as happy can be-ee-ee

Hippy-de
. . .
happy-de
. . .
hi
. . .

His voice trailed away into silence. His eyes closed. The smile on his face spread wider and wider. He drew a long last breath of deep contentment, and fell into a profound sleep.

An hour later, he was dead.

It took nine of them to lift that great body, and lay it out on the deck of his ship. They covered him with sail-cloths, and weighed the cloths down with stones. They could do no more.