The Wind on Fire Trilogy: Firesong. William Nicholson

      Albard lay undiscovered among the ruins for three days and nights. All this time he remained in a half sleep, a waking dream, too weak to move or call out. He saw the sun pass overhead, and then the stars. He grew cold, and colder. The flesh dwindled on his great body as he starved. He knew he was dying, and knew there was nothing he could do now to save himself; nor did he wish to. He was only puzzled that it was taking so long, and a little afraid about what would happen in that mysterious final moment when the dying, which is after all a kind of living, came to an end. So at last he composed his mind and prepared himself to sing the song all Singer people sing at the end, for the release of their spirit. Unlike most of the Singer people’s songs, this one had words. Albard’s lips did not move. No sound came from him. But in his mind, he sang:

       Joy of my days, let me go

       Days of my life, let me go

       Life of my heart, let me go

       Let me go, let me go, far away . . .

      His own voice sounded sweet to him, and peaceful, and he thought he would sleep soon. The pain was all gone, and the ruined city around him was silent. He had no idea what time of day it was any more, or what time of year. It was for him the end time.

       Heart of my life, let me go

       Life of my days, let me go

       Days of my joy, let me go

       Let me go, let me go, far away . . .

      Then as the song came ever fainter in his fading mind, he heard a new sound: the sound of footsteps approaching. They came in bursts, as if this unseen visitor was hopping and stopping, hopping and stopping. Through the fog of his own dying Albard heard a voice, a shrill chirpy voice that talked to itself.

      ‘Bounce on, Jumper!’ the voice said.

      Leave me alone, said Albard in his mind. Leave me to die.

      But it was no use. The newcomer couldn’t hear him, and would have paid no attention even if he had. He was getting closer. Any moment now he would stumble right onto Albard’s body.

      ‘He’s here somewhere, and I’m here, so when his here meets my here, I’ll find him. Bounce on, Jumper!’

      No! cried Albard, deep within his fading mind. Not him! Not the jolly one! Now, death, now! Come quickly!

      It was too late. Though his body was cold and his eyes long closed, stubborn life lingered in his core: and so the one who called himself Jumper found him, and cried out in joy.

      ‘Oh happy day! Albard! My dear companion, I have found you!’

       Go away.

      ‘You don’t look at all well.’

       I’m almost dead, you clot.

      ‘Never mind! We’ll soon have you up and smiling, eh?’

       Drown yourself, moonface.

      ‘That’s the spirit! You know you can do it! Who’s let himself get cold? Dear oh dear! Rub-a-dub-dub! We’ll soon have you warm again.’

      The little fellow set himself hammering over the dying man’s great starved wreck of a body, beating heat back into the icy limbs. Albard felt the tiny spark of life within him flicker and grow stronger.

      His eyes opened.

      ‘Well, hello, stranger!’ beamed Jumper. ‘Welcome back to this wonderful world!’

      Albard did not speak. He let his great grey eyes stare his outrage and his contempt.

      ‘You don’t have to thank me,’ said Jumper. ‘Making people happy is my reward.’

      What a moonface clot it is, thought Albard to himself, as Jumper chafed his limbs. He felt the first painful thrill of returning sensation. And what sort of thing is he anyway? Is he man or woman? Or something else altogether, for which we need a new name?

      You’re a blob, he decided. A silly smiling blob.

      The creature was certainly human, though smaller and more short-legged and round-bodied than the usual sort. He was equipped with the standard number of limbs and eyes and ears, and had hair on the top of his round moonish head. But was the hair fair or dark? Long or short? The odd thing about Jumper was you couldn’t quite get a fix on any part of him, except perhaps for his ever-cheerful voice. Sometimes he looked like a little middle-aged man, sometimes like a ten-year-old girl. He was known as Jumper not only because of his bouncing, hopping manner of getting about: there was something jumpish about him altogether. No part of him ever came to rest, but was always changing, becoming something else. It was no use asking Jumper himself who or what he was, because he would only reply, with his eager-to-please smile,

      ‘What would you like me to be?’

      To children he was an indulgent grandfather, to women he was a playful child, to men a willing friend. To Albard now, he was saviour, servant, and nurse. He scavenged food and drink for him among the ruins, and in the chill night he slept pressed tight to Albard’s body, warming him with his own life’s heat.

      It was hard to complain. Above all, Jumper was so good-tempered. He was relentlessly, unstoppably good-tempered. As Albard returned to strength, he lay and plotted remarks that would offend him, but never with any success.

      ‘Believe me, Jumper, I would rather die than have to endure one more day of your baseless optimism.’

      ‘Oh, would you rather I was gloomy? I can be gloomy if you like.’

      He hung his round head and turned down the corners of his mouth and shuffled about sighing to himself,

      ‘Sad and lonely, sad and lonely.’

      ‘And short and ugly,’ said Albard.

      ‘Sad and lonely, short and ugly,’ echoed Jumper.

      ‘And dull and fat.’

      ‘Sad and lonely, short and ugly, dull and fat,’ said Jumper, beating his breast. But then he spoiled it all by looking up with a radiant smile and asking, ‘Did you like that? Did I do it right?’

      Very much against his will, and due entirely to Jumper’s devoted care, Albard recovered.

      ‘Thank you, Jumper,’ he said bitterly. ‘Thanks to you, my life, which has no purpose left to it, nor any prospect of happiness, will now drag on a little while longer.’

      ‘Oh no,’ said Jumper. ‘You’re entirely wrong. Your life does have a purpose. You’re to train the boy.’

      ‘What boy?’

      However, Albard knew well enough. There was only one boy who mattered: the boy who was to rule after him. Of course he must be taught. The boy he hated and loved, the boy that was his enemy, his rival who had taken from him all his power, his successor who would be his inheritor. Albard envied him his youth and his future. He hated him for his victory over him. He loved him like the child he never had. He felt a wild pride in him. He longed with a burning desire to see him again, and just once, before the end, to hold him in his arms. So many emotions, and all so violent: and all because this moonface spoke to him about the boy.

      Jumper, apparently knowing none of this, answered simply,

      ‘His name is Bowman Hath.’

      ‘And what am I to train this boy to do?’

      ‘To carry out his new duties.’

      ‘And why am I to do this?’

      ‘Because,’ said Jumper, beaming,