Free Tears of the Salamander by Peter Dickinson Page B

the bow, pattering on a drum in his lap while he sang in a high nasal wail, rapid repetitive notes tailing away into longer ones sung with a curious gargling tremolo. Alfredo didn’t think Morocco was anywhere near Persia, and the sailor’s song wouldn’t have fitted the notes he’d been staring at, but he could see at once that if he’d needed to write that song down this was how he’d have tried to do it. It was the same kind of music.
    Tentatively he tried it out,
la-la-la,
feeling foolish, knowing he was nowhere near the music he was supposed to be singing, or anyone would want to listen to, let alone anything he could believe he could conjure the Angels ofFire with. When the choir had been learning something new, singing it
la-la-la,
the music had never seemed to come alive for him till they’d started to fit the words in. Even these impossible words might be better than
la-la-las
. Without any hope at all he gave it a go.
    The notes slid smoothly out of his throat and his mouth shaped them into something like the mysterious syllables. And in a moment they were there, the Angels of Fire, visible presences, soaring like hawks in the steadily rising air. Their bodies were great embers, rippling with inner heat. They had the faces of lions, maned around with flame, and their wings were plumed with flame. Their glances were the lightning that sparks the drought-parched hills ablaze.
    Terrified, remembering what had almost happened when he had sung the fire psalm on the crater of Etna, Alfredo closed his lips and clamped both hands across them. Instantly the breeze was once again empty air. Shuddering despite the heat, he retreated into the room. What had he done? Was it too late to undo it? Uncle Giorgio would know, but…did he dare face that cold anger, and tell him? Yes, he decided, he must.
    When he reached the study he had to force his hand to scratch at the door. Uncle Giorgio called, and he pushed it open. It was just as bad as he’d feared.
    “What is this? I said I would send for you.”
    “Please, Uncle…I may have…I saw them…the Angels of Fire…when I sang the words…”
    The anger vanished, leaving only the coldness, the aloneness.
    “You have learned the chant already?”
    “Only the first line. It was there. In my mouth. In my head. I don’t know what the words mean, but the music…I once heard this sailor…the ship was from Tangier…”
    Uncle Giorgio cut him short with a gesture.
    “Some there have the Knowledge,” he said, “though theirs is of the sea. Tell me what you did and what you saw.”
    “I was sitting at my window trying to learn the music, but I couldn’t, not without the words, though I wasn’t sure I could even say them. But when I tried I could, and then I saw the Angels. They were gliding on the wind. Like burning birds. I stopped as soon as I saw them. I remembered…”
    “I had not thought the chant would be effective without my presence. Never mind. Sing what you have learned so far. You may read it if you wish. Is there anything you wish to ask me first?”
    “Yes, please. How do I say this—you’ve written it
g, h, z
—and this…?”
    “Come here. Give me the paper.”
    With Alfredo looking over his shoulder, Uncle Giorgio read the whole chant slowly through while Alfredo silently mouthed the words behind him.
    He handed the paper back and Alfredo sang the first line, hesitantly, stumbling so that he barely held the chant. Mouth and throat had forgotten most of what they’d seemed to know up at his window. The line was repeated and he managed better second time through. Uncle Giorgio seemed to be only half listening. His face was set, his eyes half closed, and once or twice he whispered a few words beneath his breath. As the last long note faded Alfredoglanced out the window, half expecting to see the Angels of Fire sweeping past on the wind, but nothing stirred except the leaves of the trees, not one burning feather or flake of flame.
    “Yes,” said