The Wind Singer. William Nicholson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the family ratings were displayed; and facing it, across the plaza where the statue of Emperor Creoth the First stood, the many-windowed College of Examiners, home of the Board of Examiners, the supreme governing body of Aramanth.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ