Nondula (The Waifs of Duldred Book 2) Page 16

  Bominata wiped her chin. It was a signal for the feast to start. The guests fitted their mouths with the tearing teeth and called for service. Gritty took an order: bull’s nethers and boar’s cheek. Oh for the scholars who fed on flowers and air. This was brutal food. The trestles were filled with kill so fresh it steamed. Gritty heard the creak of limbs being wrenched out of sockets. She watched thin blue membranes stretch and break. The separated limbs were dunked in salt. A woman chomped the bloody underside of a horse’s mane as though it were a slice of melon. Ijaw lifted a Lynx’s paw to his mouth and sucked out the pads. A claw dug into his lip. He ripped it out. Gritty climbed the steps to the top table. She stood beside Ijaw’s chair, stretched her hand stealthily over his arm, and retrieved the plate with the cat’s paw lying on it like a big empty glove. He dug his hand into his next course: a dish of glossy livers and twitching hearts. Gritty covered her mouth and ran down the steps. The hunt horn sounded. The main event was about to begin.

  A sour sharpness flooded Oy’s cheeks making them water, and then an apple sweetness. Sourjacks: he could feel the sugar crust on the roof of his mouth. He imagined the taste as well as he could, but he couldn’t hold onto it. His cage was bumped down on the edge of the rough. He could see the mophead grasses stretching out before him. The sniffers were coming to take his scent. These hounds had tough, tanned skin; dried to their bones like overcooked bacon. Their mouths were black barking holes. A long hollow muzzle thrust towards Oy. The end of the nose was snail-coloured and slimy. All the hound’s nerves fed into its nose; it’s very eyes were crossed towards its nose. Its eyes and ears were tiny. Its body was incidental to its great overdeveloped nose. It breathed him, in deep never-forgetting breaths. But the ripper dogs crowding the pens behind wanted to taste him before they would be satisfied. The handlers hauled the sniffers back.

  The door of Oy’s cage swung open. A crook curved round his neck and hooked him out. He looked around fearfully.

  ‘Run!’ shouted the children in the waiting cages. ‘Run for your life!’

  The man with the crook gave him a push. ‘I’d take their advice if I were you.’

  Oy began trotting away.

  ‘Faster,’ the Chee shouted.

  Oy ran. His legs wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do. He hadn’t eaten in a long time and there was no strength in him. He was all head and no body. He heard his own breath and watched his feet strike the uneven ground. All the world’s attention was on him, waiting. The Chee had told him to make for the tent on his way out, cut away over the banks, loop so the bogs were on his left, then back to the pen. He should dive over the gate for speed.

  He stumbled towards the tent. The nobles jostled for viewpoints.

  ‘Slow as a lame turtle,’ said one.

  ‘This will be no sport at all,’ said another.

  Oy heard their jeers as he ran towards a bank of coarse grass. The shift swung loosely about his body as he laboured up and down amongst the banks. Far off he heard a flurry of yelping. The hounds were free. The barking poured towards him. He scrambled the steepest bank on all fours, pulling himself up by grass like cheese wire. He ran down the bank, his body out of control and fell with his hands in the thistles. He almost gave up then, but he got to his feet and began looping towards the marshes. How far it looked. The bumpy ground was sapping. He had to change his stride so as not to turn his ankles. The tall thistles slowed him even more. The hounds were already rolling down the bank behind him: a chaotic ball of dog, a jumble of ears and tails and baying throats. For the second time he fell flat. There was no time to get up again. He crouched, his hands linked over the back of his head. But the hounds had stopped; they pressed at the air as at some invisible wall.

  It was not the season for violets and yet the Nondulan woods were full of them. Beside every tree was a pair of violet eyes. From a distance the woods had the copper glow of autumn. It was not leaves, it was hair. The entire forest edge was lined with Nonduls. The scholar’s hum rose in a wave; it whipped and curled with obstructive energy. It caught the dogs like a rope around their legs. But it couldn’t hold for long. The distance was too great. The dogs whined. Oy looked through his hands. He saw the struggling dogs; he saw and knew the glow in the woods. He got up and began to run again, this time with hope. The battle went three ways now. Oy was slow and exhausted. The hounds, for want of something to bite, bit each other. As their anger grew so did their strength. The Nonduls hummed but the humming was losing its force and the waves were missing their mark. Oy was still a long way from safety when the smallest, angriest nipper broke free of the invisible bonds, dodged towards him and latched to his ankle like a thorn in a wheel. Oy tried to prise its jaw apart but the barbed teeth hooked deeper as he pulled.

  Then a high, joyful yipping seared the air. It was light, scornful, and to the ears of the hounds deeply insulting. Oy looked around. The hounds were swerving away from him. A boy was running from the Nondulan side, running and yipping with explosive delight.

  The huntsmen tried to head the hounds back towards Oy but the dogs were maddened beyond control.

  Alas skimmed the bumpy ground effortlessly. He played with and taunted the hounds. He stopped suddenly and faced them until their noses were filled with him, then he leapt away, making ground easily.

  Alas was risking his life to save Oy, so Oy had better save himself. He made a desperate run for the pen.

  Bominata saw blurs. She knew that one of the blurs was special. It was the fastest blur she had ever seen. A blur like that could win many prizes for her. She leant on Meccanee who told her what was happening: the dogs now followed the boy who ran like a hare. The other child limped towards the pen. Bominata no longer cared about the other. She wanted the hare-boy. The hare-boy was running away from the hounds towards the pen. Bominata relaxed. Once in the pen he was hers.

  ‘He’s coming close, Fellona,’ said Meccanee. Fix your eye on him now and you’ll see him come in.’

  The eating and drinking stopped as Alas arrowed towards the finish. Gritty watched from the top table as her friends converged on the pen. They would reach safety together.

  From behind Gritty came the sound of rattling chains and a musky smell. The curtain billowed out. A trestle toppled spilling its load of offal. Gritty was thrown to the floor. Beside her, on its back, was a massive bear.

  A slorterchef came towards them, knife in hand. The bear raised itself. The chef backed away, skating in blood. The bear made for Ijaw. Its chest opened out and its nose pleated into a snarl. One blow took Ijaw down; he did not get up again. The Felluns made way for the bear like storm-flattened grass. It lumbered down the steps.

  The husbeaus gathered around Bominata. Ijaw had passed from husbind to husbeen in record time. The husbeaus were ready. What would Her Density have them do? Bruin was moving with surprising speed across the scrub. Should they catch him for her and make him pay with terrible torments? Bominata didn’t care about Ijaw or the bear. There were plenty of husbeaus and plenty of bears, but only one hare-boy. Everyone looked towards the pen. Meccanee had to inform the Fellona that it was empty. Bominata’s eye vibrated. She was livid.

  Amid the chaos Lil had been the only one cool enough to watch the boys. ‘They’re in the marshes,’ she muttered to Gritty.

  The husbeaus scrambled to bring in the new quarry. The hounds wove around the edge of the marsh whimpering. The reeds shaved their sides and made ribbons of their ears. They hated the stink and sting of the mud. It clung to their paws and burned them. For men it was death to enter the marshes. Hidden sucking pools collapsed at the lightest footfall. They were not passable.

  21 The Oldest Bird

  The leaves were rough as cat’s tongues. The sharp edges cut the boys’ hands as they pushed through. As they went on the reeds grew tougher and denser.

  ‘We need a scythe to get through this,’ said Alas, trying and failing to break the stems. ‘These stalks are tough as prison bars. All I’ve got is my whittling knife.’


  ‘Lift me up,’ said Oy. Alas hoisted him overhead. Oy looked for the fresher green of young growth. It was easier to break through. And so they moved. It was slow and tiring, but behind them there was no sound.

  Tiny, far-seeing eyes watched the movement in the reeds and the path that broke and closed behind the boys.

  Gritty wiped the tables with half closed eyes and wide open ears. She didn’t want to see meat ever again, but she listened as only a sharp-eared Porian can.

  Ijaw had been cleared away with the leftovers. Bominata had forgotten him already. She wanted the hare-boy. The hare-boy was all she wanted. She put a price on his head so big that all of Fellund would be tempted to make suicide runs into the marshes. But the husbeaus were not heroes. They sat in huddles with their followers and made their plans.

  The Chee were already weaving stories. Their heads were close as they cleared the trestles.

  ‘The hareboy leapt out of a bullbush.’

  ‘No he didn’t. He was hid in a loper scrape.’

  ‘He’s a hare spirit and the Nondul boy conjured him.’

  ‘The Bom don’t care what he is. He’s the fastest quarry anybody ever saw. They say he’ll have to run with drag weights else no one will bet against him.’

  ‘I’ll make a bet: that he’s already drowned. Nobody gets very far in the marshes.’

  ‘The Nondul kid’s got special powers. He can walk on mud.’

  ‘Hear that – Rocjaw just said he’s pulling our people from the Oogin dam so’s they can build bridges across the marsh.’

  Gritty sifted the truth. It was bleak.

  Crossing the marshes was like trying to walk blindfold over a lattice without stepping on the holes. All Alas’s senses were bent on survival which is how he liked it. His concentration was total. There was more mud than ground, yet somehow the sucking pools lay beside and not beneath their feet as they passed deeper into the watery world. A spongy island gave Alas relief from the hacking and breaking but distant voices made them push on through the reeds.

  ‘They’re on our tails,’ said Alas. ‘We need to step it up.’ He began smashing at the reeds with his arms.

  ‘Alas, stop!’ said Oy. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

  ‘It’s alright. It’s opening out. I can see space ahead.’

  The reeds thinned and they broke through to a muddy field with trees at the far side. They tested the ground but every step welled and filled with water, and with each step they sank further into mud. ‘Back,’ said Alas, ‘it’s a sinking field.’

  The shouting grew louder.

  ‘They’re moving faster ’n us,’ said Oy.

  ‘We ain’t moving at all,’ said Alas. ‘I could try cutting another path out but...’ He opened his palms. They were shredded and caked with blood.

  ‘They’re near cut to the bone,’ said Oy. ‘They must be burning sore. You can’t go on like that. It’s time... time to...’ Oy fell down in the mud.He had barely eaten or slept for days, and then the hunt and this; it was all too much for him. Alas laid him flat and shook him gently but Oy did not revive. Even if he had to carry Oy, Alas would have kept on, but it was hopeless. The hunters were closing and there was nowhere left to go.

  Chee serfs led the hunt. They followed the path cut by Oy and Alas, widening it with scythes, exposing the sucking pools. One wrong step and the men were sucked away. The survivors lay planks along the paths and over the pools. When all was safe the Felluns followed.

  The Chee had hit a rhythm. With their large, keen blades they moved quickly.

  Alas waited with Oy until the distant shouts became distinct voices and he could see movement between the reeds. ‘Shall I put up a fight, Oy? What do you say?’

  Oy did not respond.

  The men had stopped no more than five thighs away. Their faces were barred by reeds. Alas looked into the eyes of friends. ‘We’re waiting for planks,’ the leader called. ‘We’re doing our best not to catch you, but the Felluns are behind us. Hide if you can.’

  ‘He ain’t got strength,’ said Alas. ‘I can’t cut through this and carry him.’

  Oy opened his eyes peacefully and watched the sky. A fuzz of tiny birds appeared above the field. They were like a cloud of insects, no bigger than dragonflies. The cloud moved out over the mud, making sharp changes in direction. The birds aligned over the mud, tails pointing down and wings beating forward.

  Oy raised himself. Alas crouched beside his friend and smoothed his muddy hair. ‘The Chee are here,’ he said. ‘They’re friendly but the Felluns aren’t far behind. This is it.’ He helped Oy to stand.

  ‘It’s not it,’ said Oy. ‘Not yet. Alas, we’ve got to follow the birds.’

  ‘If I could fly I would,’ said Alas.

  ‘No, I mean it. They’re showing us the way.’ Oy edged past Alas, and stepped out into the sinking field. He was up to his shins in mud but he stood firm. Immediately the birds moved to a new spot and waited. Oy followed. ‘There’s a hard path under the mud,’ said Oy. ‘Come on, we got to trust.’

  ‘Trust don’t work for me.’ Alas cut a reed and probed, testing the mud with each step. Oy was right, there was a path, and the birds were showing them the way.

  Deep in the cyana woods beyond the reach of any man, sat the eldest kingfisher. All summer skies were in his feathers, all winter suns in his breast, all brooding in his eyes. This stand of ancient trees was fenced by reeds. Beneath the water was a mess of choking water plants. The eldest kingfisher used the bark of the oldest tree as a strop for his beak. He drew it slowly along one side and then the other as the sun passed across the sky. Over and over he did this till his beak made the finest taper; it shone silvery smooth under the blue stain of cyana. Sometimes, as he looked through the reeds towards Fellund, a great indignation would rise within him. The years were like a strop to his feelings making them ever sharper. Then his actions would grow faster and faster. His beak would flash on either side of the wood till the wood grew so hot it would glow and even burst into blue flames at times. Then he would test its point. It entered the wood like butter. He would fly the waterways spearing fish; he could take eight in a single flashing swoop. Back on his perch with the silver, brown and rainbow fish threaded on his beak, he lost his appetite for their meat. Miniature kingfishers would gather on the branches below him. They were his great great grandchildren’s great grandchildren. They waited for him to sleep, then, one by one, the fish would come slithering down to them.

  The eldest bird and the ancient tree were legend in Fellund. Bominata sent parties of egg-hunters into the marshes. The most determined lay bloating in the waters, bound in ropes of mallow. The fabled place remained unsullied. Alas and Oy came to it the only way they could, by invitation.

  The birds scattered before them as if to say, ‘Here it is’.

  ‘I know this place,’ said Alas. ‘I read about it in a story book. That tree there, same colour, shape and everything.’

  The boys approached the oldest tree. It was the colour of distant hills; close up the bark had slitty pores outlined in deeper blue. Where the bark had peeled the wood was blue as the sky’s blood. Its pattern was the pattern of life. Every swirl was made up of identical smaller swirls and so on and on.

  ‘Look up there,’ said Alas. The oldest kingfisher bore his wings like a cloak and his head feathers like a crown. He was aloof and knowing. It wasn’t a human knowing in his eyes; it was, thought Oy, something simpler but deeper.

  Alas took bread from his pocket and held it up to the bird. The bird did not move. ‘Well, do you mind if we do?’ Alas felt the ground under the tree, but Oy thought they had better sit somewhere else out of respect. They sat nearby and shared the bread. Then, while Oy bathed Alas’s hands and wrapped them in cooling leaves, they told each other what had happened while they were apart. Oy made Alas tell the tale of Linnet and the Kith three times over. ‘Anyway,’ Alas said, ‘That made me closer to Linnet. I sit with her, and when she’s too tired to talk she asks me to read
. Her favourite story is all about a place like this. It starts with a rhyme:

  ‘Where fisher feathers fall in waters long

  The time till ponds are full and flood begun.

  And leaching blue on bleachen skies

  Does change their hue.

  Then yolks that grew in groves of blue

  Did bloom like suns and ink the dew.

  We drink the dew,

  And nothing dies but starts anew.

  ‘It sounds like nonsense but the story makes it clearer. There’s a great flood and it washes all the colour out of the world. Only the kingfishers keep their colour. They live in a grove and there’s so many of them that their feathers colour the water blue. Then the ponds overflow and the colour leaks into the trees and turns them blue, and the trees brush the sky and paint it blue. And the orange feathers of the breast, there’s not so many of them, but they fall into the waters and the trees blossom them as this yellow fungus with red gills, and out of these three colours: blue, yellow and red, all the colours in the world are remade.

  ‘Linnet loves that story. I must have read it to her twenty times. She says to me, “Do you think my family got left out when the colour came back into the world?”

  Funny ideas she has. Another one is that she’s made herself ill. By wishing so hard for some colour she’s turned herself blue. Anyway, underneath the rhyme there’s a picture. You’d swear it was this spot, except in the picture there’s fungus all around the trees, and someone’s made a note in the margin. It says Cyana alcyon – that’s the tree, and Lellick airyfluss – that’s the mushroom. Linnet sees the picture and says, ‘That’s my yellow, the one in my head’ and then she remembers where she’s seen it before.’

  ‘Where?’ said Oy.

  ‘Near Bram’s house in the woods, down by the stream.’