‘If only we had a weapon,’ said Bert, standing up and kicking a stone across the cave.
‘Don’t you think it’s odd,’ said Daisy, ‘that all we’ve seen the Ickabog eat is mushrooms? Don’t you feel as though it’s pretending to be fiercer than it really is?’
‘It eats sheep,’ said Martha. ‘Where did all this wool come from, if it hasn’t eaten sheep?’
‘Maybe it just saved up wisps of wool caught on brambles?’ suggested Daisy, picking up a bit of the soft, white fluff. ‘I still don’t understand why there aren’t any bones in here, if it’s in the habit of eating creatures.’
‘What about that song it sings every night?’ said Bert. ‘It gives me the creeps. If you ask me, that’s a battle song.’
‘It scares me too,’ agreed Martha.
‘I wonder what it means?’ said Daisy.
A few minutes later, the giant boulder at the mouth of the cave shifted again, and the Ickabog reappeared with its two baskets, one full of mushrooms as usual, and the other packed with frozen Kurdsburg cheeses.
Everyone ate without talking, as they always did, and after the Ickabog had tidied away its baskets and poked up the fire, it moved, as the sun was setting, to the mouth of the cave, ready to sing its strange song, in the language the humans couldn’t understand.
Daisy stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ whispered Bert, grabbing her ankle. ‘Sit down!’
‘No,’ said Daisy, pulling herself free. ‘I want to talk to it.’
So she walked boldly to the mouth of the cave, and sat down beside the Ickabog.
Chapter 54
The Song of the Ickabog
The Ickabog had just drawn breath, with its usual sound of an inflating bagpipe, when Daisy said:
‘What language do you sing in, Ickabog?’
The Ickabog looked down at her, startled to find Daisy so close. At first, Daisy thought it wasn’t going to answer, but at last it said in its slow, deep voice:
‘Ickerish.’
‘And what’s the song about?’
‘It’s the story of Ickabogs – and of your kind, too.’
‘You mean, people?’ asked Daisy.
‘People, yes,’ said the Ickabog. ‘The two stories are one story, because people were Bornded out of Ickabogs.’
It drew in its breath to sing again, but Daisy asked: ‘What does “Bornded” mean? Is it the same as born?’
‘No,’ said the Ickabog, looking down at her, ‘Bornded is very different from being born. It’s how new Ickabogs come to be.’
Daisy wanted to be polite, seeing how enormous the Ickabog was, so she said cautiously:
‘That does sound a bit like being born.’
‘Well, it isn’t,’ said the Ickabog, in its deep voice. ‘Born and Bornded are very different things. When babies are Bornded, we who have Bornded them die.’
‘Always?’ asked Daisy, noticing how the Ickabog absent-mindedly rubbed its tummy as it spoke.
‘Always,’ said the Ickabog. ‘That is the way of the Ickabog. To live with your children is one of the strangenesses of people.’
‘But that’s so sad,’ said Daisy slowly. ‘To die when your children are born.’
‘It isn’t sad at all,’ said the Ickabog. ‘The Bornding is a glorious thing! Our whole lives lead up to the Bornding. What we’re doing and what we’re feeling when our babies are Bornded gives them their natures. It is very important to have a good Bornding.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Daisy.
‘If I die sad and hopeless,’ explained the Ickabog, ‘my babies won’t survive. I’ve watched my fellow Ickabogs die in despair, one by one, and their babies survived them only by seconds. An Ickabog can’t live without hope. I’m the last Ickabog left, and my Bornding will be the most important Bornding in history, because if my Bornding goes well, our species will survive, and if not, Ickabogs will be gone forever…
‘All our troubles began from a bad Bornding, you know.’
‘Is that what your song’s about?’ asked Daisy. ‘The bad Bornding?’
The Ickabog nodded, its eyes fixed on the darkening, snowy marsh. Then it took yet another deep bagpipe breath, and began to sing, and this time it sang in words that the humans could understand.
‘At the dawn of time, when only
Ickabogs existed, stony
Man was not created, with his
Cold, flint-hearted ways,
Then the world in its perfection
Was like heaven’s bright reflection.
No one hunted us or harmed us
In those lost, beloved days.
Oh Ickabogs, come Bornding back,
Come Bornding back, my Ickabogs.
Oh Ickabogs, come Bornding back,
Come Bornding back, my own.
Then tragedy! One stormy night
Came Bitterness, Bornded of Fright,
And Bitterness, so tall and stout,
Was different from its fellows.
Its voice was rough, its ways were mean,
The likes of it had not been seen
Before, and so they drove it out
With angry blows and bellows.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded wise,
Be Bornded wise, my Ickabogs.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded wise,
Be Bornded wise, my own.
A thousand miles from its old home,
Its Bornding time arrived, alone
In darkness, Bitterness expired
And Hatred came to being.
A hairless Ickabog, this last,
A beast sworn to avenge the past.
With bloodlust was the creature fired,
Its evil eye far-seeing.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded kind,
Be Bornded kind, my Ickabogs.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded kind,
Be Bornded kind, my own.
Then Hatred spawned the race of man,
’Twas from ourselves that man began,
From Bitterness and Hate they swelled
To armies, raised to smite us.
In hundreds, Ickabogs were slain,
Our blood poured on the land like rain.
Our ancestors like trees were felled,
And still men came to fight us.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded brave,
Be Bornded brave, my Ickabogs.
Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded brave,
Be Bornded brave, my own.
Men forced us from our sunlit home,
Away from grass to mud and stone,
Into the endless fog and rain.
And here we stayed and dwindled,
’Til of our race there’s only one
Survivor of the spear and gun
Whose children must begin again
With hate and fury kindled.
Oh Ickabogs, now kill the men,
Now kill the men, my Ickabogs.
Oh Ickabogs, now kill the men,
Now kill the men, my own.’
Daisy and the Ickabog sat in silence for a while after the Ickabog had finished singing. The stars were coming out now. Daisy fixed her eyes on the moon as she said: