Seeker

by William Nicholson

  "Help me! He's got me!"

  Seeker heard her cry just as he cut away enough of the net to release the Wildman's arms. But already the tribute trader in the water had scrambled into the canoe, and his companion was dragging Morning Star off the raft. Once they had her in the canoe, they bundled her under a heavy blanket and seized the paddles. Before Seeker could reach them, the canoe was knifing away upriver and round the bend, out of sight. Morning Star was beyond help.

  Seeker and the Wildman stood still, looking after her, still panting from the struggle. For a few moments, appalled by what had happened, they neither met each other's eyes nor spoke. The ferry banged at last against the riverbank and lurched to a stop.

  "What did she do that for?" burst out the Wildman at last. "Now the trib traders have got her! She should have kept away from them!" He seemed more angry with Morning Star than with her captors. "Now they'll throw her off the rock! What did she have to do that for?"

  Seeker spoke more quietly.

  "We'll find her."

  "How? How? You tell me how! She should have watched out for herself! If she'd looked after herself, she wouldn't be trussed up like a chicken now!"

  "She did it for you, Wildman."

  "I never asked! Did I ask her to help me? Did I?"

  "No."

  "So what did she have to do that for?"

  The rest of the convoy now arrived and were told of the attack. There was much shaking of heads at the news.

  "She's as good as dead," they said. "No tribute ever came out of Radiance alive."

  In a silence that was very like mourning, the people and the bullock wagons got onto the ferry, and the ferry carried them over to the far bank. From here they continued on their way to the city. The canoe was long gone. Seeker was filled with bitter thoughts. He went over the struggle on the raft again and again in his mind, looking to see what he could have done to save Morning Star, but it had all happened too quickly. The Wildman was right. She should never have taken the risk. But she had done so for the same reason he had done so, an instinctive act of assistance to a friend in trouble.

  Only, the Wildman was hardly a friend. He shared none of their beliefs. They weren't kin. They didn't think alike on anything. Their only point of contact was their admiration for the Nomana, and their hope that they might one day become Nomana themselves. A common goal was hardly the basis for friendship. So why had they both risked their life for him?

  He glanced at him, striding along, golden hair blowing in the wind. The Wildman caught the glance.

  "I'll find her," he said.

  "Yes," said Seeker.

  "I'll set her free."

  "Yes," said Seeker.

  The dream of joining the Nomana would have to wait. Morning Star must be saved.

  The Wildman said no more, but he was seething with a confusion of thoughts. He wanted to say to Seeker: she did what she did without asking me, let her take the consequences, I don't care if she lives or dies. But he did care. It was as if by coming to his rescue, she had put a collar and chain on him, and now he had no choice but to be dragged towards her, wherever she was.

  "What did she have to go and do that for?" he repeated angrily to himself as he strode up the road towards Radiance. "Did I ever ask her to help me?"

  24. The Mother Bear

  WORK IN THE CORNFIELDS BEGAN AGAIN AT DAWN. The gangmaster and his three burly associates settled down to eat a substantial breakfast in full view of the hungry workers.

  "Work hard," said the gangmaster between mouthfuls, "make money, and you too can eat when you please."

  By mid-morning two more workers had fainted in the corn rows, and been sent home with nothing.

  "More injustice," said Soren Similin. "At this rate, by the end of the week there'll be nobody left to pay."

  Blaze let his eyes linger on the men who walked away, and the anger in them grew deeper and stronger all the time.

  "My name is Blaze of Justice," he said softly to himself. "I can't stand by and see injustice done."

  He was repeating the words Similin had planted in him.

  "Sing!" cried the gangmaster.

  The workers began to sing. The plantation owner's wagonette was approaching down the track, this time carrying only the lady of the house. The workers sang and smiled, and when she waved, they all waved back.

  "O-ho! O-ho! A-harvesting we go!

  The sky is blue and the corn is high

  The sun shines down and the hours fly by ..."

  Only Blaze did not sing or smile or wave.

  "Blaze!" whispered Similin. "They're watching you."

  Blaze seemed not to hear him. His eyes were fixed on the lady in white, who sat smiling and waving in the carriage. As it came close, he stepped out of the corn rows directly into its path, forcing it to stop.

  "No!" cried Similin. "Come back!"

  But Blaze never even heard him. He had learned his lesson all too well. He was burning for justice.

  "Lady," he said, "your workers are not happy."

  The lady stared at him, her smile fading.

  "Your workers are cheated and beaten and starved," he said.

  The lady turned round, as if for help.

  "What's that he says?"

  The gangmaster came running, beckoning to his associates.

  "A troublemaker, madam," he cried. "Out of the road, i" you!

  "Now they'll beat me," said Blaze, "and send me away with no pay. But I can't stand by and see injustice done."

  "Can this be so?" said the lady.

  She looked round at the other workers, all of whom had stopped work and were watching her every move. There was something in their cowed faces that told her it was true. The associates hesitated, unsure what to do. Soren Similin also watched Blaze, as caught by surprise as the rest.

  "We'll deal with this, madam," said the gangmaster, putting one hand on Blaze's arm. "I'm sorry you've been troubled."

  Blaze made no move. His steady gaze remained fixed on the lady. She looked back at him and saw how the gangmaster tugged at him and how he remained still and firm. It was his stillness that convinced her.

  "Come with me," she said, patting the empty seat beside her. "Tell me all about it."

  Obediently, Blaze climbed up on the seat beside her.

  "Back to the house!" said the lady to the driver.

  "Madam!" protested the gangmaster. "This man's a liar and a troublemaker!"

  But the lady had already told the driver to drive on, and the wagonette was rolling away down the track.

  The gangmaster turned to the staring workers and spoke with thwarted fury.

  "Any of you want to join him? You're free to go! Go now! I can get a hundred more for every one of you! There's always men ready to do honest work for honest pay. So if you don't like work, go now. I don't want you!"

  Nobody went. Similin returned to the rows of corn and resumed picking cobs along with the others. He worked away, his hands moving automatically, his mind on this unplanned and aggravating turn of events. He had done his work too well. Now he must find a way to rejoin Blaze and carry out his interrupted plan.

  The solution came shortly. A house servant arrived to tell the gangmaster he was wanted at the plantation house. Similin at once put himself forward.

  "Sir," he said. "I know the man who went away with the lady. I know why he spoke as he did."

  "You do?" The gangmaster glared at him suspiciously.

  "He's filled with anger, sir. That's what makes him tell such lies."

  "Lies is the word for it." The gangmaster turned to the house servant. "You hear that? All lies!"

  "Would you like me to tell the lady of the house?" said Similin.

  "I can take care of my own concerns," growled the gangmaster. Then, as if it were an afterthought, "Come along, then, if you want to come."

  So Similin followed the gangmaster and the house servant down the track to the house. As he went, he thought through his plan. Blaze would make some con
fused half-understood accusations. Similin would be called on to deny them. Instead, he would speak up for Blaze. Both he and Blaze would be dismissed, he was sure of that. Then they could get away from this miserable place, and Similin could disclose to him there was a far greater battle ahead, in which the source of injustice could be destroyed once and for all.

  The plantation house was set in a grove of trees, and not visible from the fields. As they passed between the trees, and the house came into view, Soren Similin forgot his schemes for a few moments and was lost in admiration. It was the most beautiful house he had ever seen. The building was long and low, made of timber and clapboard and painted a soft chalky white. Its shallow-pitched roofs were shingled with beech tiles that had faded to gray in the sun. All along its front face there stretched a deep veranda, over which climbed a green-leafed vine, the long deck broken by supporting posts into a series of bays. Within each bay, in cool shade, were open doors and open windows, where white muslin curtains swayed and bellied in the breeze. Everything about the house was simple, generous, and refreshing. The secretary had seen the royal temple in Radiance and knew it was far more magnificent, but this was a house you would want to live in.

  He followed the gangmaster and the house servant onto the veranda and through a door at one end, which was evidently the servants' entrance. They passed down an internal corridor into a room the width of the house, with windows on either side, where two children were sitting at their lessons with their governess. Like the exterior of the house, all the interior walls were made of timber boards, painted chalk white. The floor was a pale gray, the color of the ash wood from which it was made. The curtains that filtered the sunlight were a fine white gauze. The two children, a boy and a girl, wore white. Only the governess wore gray, but her face was bright and young. She looked up as the three men passed by, and threw a questioning look at them, but did not speak.

  They passed on, crossing the main hall. Ahead was another wide, light room from which voices came.

  "Never fear, my dear," boomed a man's voice. "We'll get to the bottom of this. There'll be no injustice on my land."

  They entered the room. The master of the plantation stood by one window, his arms folded over his chest, his bald head nodding to emphasize his words.

  "We all work together, and the Mother Bear feeds us all."

  He was a large man, in his sixties, with a rich, creamy voice and a face now mottled by the years. Before him sat his wife, the lady of the house. And beside her stood Blaze.

  "Aha! Here is my overseer! Come in, Pelican, come in!"

  Blaze never even looked round. If he was surprised that Similin had come too, he didn't show it. The lady of the house looked up, her beautiful face shaded by sadness. Her skin was very pale, and she seemed almost fragile; an impression that was enhanced by the finely woven material of her white dress. In the white room, where even the daylight was turned white by the curtains, she was lost in the light and slipped away into nothing.

  The master addressed his overseer.

  "Now you listen to me!" he boomed. "I won't have trouble on the plantation. What's this about cheating and beating?"

  "It's lies, sir," said the gangmaster. "Your workers are happy in their work. And those who aren't happy, sir, why, they're free to leave."

  The lady turned to Blaze.

  "Speak," she said.

  "The workers are not happy," said Blaze, speaking as if by rote. "They're starving."

  "Starving?" barked the master. "Aren't they fed?"

  "Two good meals a day, sir," said the gangmaster.

  "I really don't see the problem." The master addressed his lady. "You have only to walk through the fields at harvest time to see that the men are happy. It gladdens my heart to hear them sing as they work."

  "Your workers are not happy," said Blaze, doggedly repeating his simple refrain. "They work too hard for too little pay. They only sing because if they don't sing they're dismissed with no pay."

  "My men are paid the proper wage for the work. I insist on it."

  "And how is that decided?" asked the lady.

  The master turned to his overseer for an answer.

  "Pelican! Explain."

  "Well, madam, that sorts itself out in the natural way of things. If we were to pay too little, we wouldn't get the men to do the work. And then again, if we were to pay too much, the plantation would be ruined, and there would be no work for anybody. So in the natural way of things, we fall into the middle way."

  "Exactly!" said the master. "The middle way."

  "This is no more than a trick, sir, to win the lady's sympathy, in the hope of getting more money for less work. We get his sort from time to time. They're lazy, sir, and envious, and they do their best to stir up dissatisfaction among the men. The only solution is to let them go."

  "I believe you're right." He turned to Blaze. "If you're not happy here, my good man, you'd better go elsewhere. We're a happy team at the Mother Bear. If I've learned one thing in my life, it's that happiness promotes prosperity."

  "And, sir," said the gangmaster, drawing Similin forward, "if you have any remaining uncertainty—"

  "No, no. I've heard enough. Away you go, all of you."

  The gangmaster gestured to Blaze.

  "Come along. You've had your say."

  He led Similin and Blaze out of the room. As they went, the master could be heard saying to his lady,

  "Well, my dear, I hope you realize now. Affairs of business are best left to men, who have minds adapted for such complex matters."

  As they passed through the hall, there was the pretty governess, now on her own. She jumped up and took a step towards them, but as she did so the house servant appeared, and she shrank back again.

  Once they were back on the road to the cornfields, the gangmaster said to Blaze, with great satisfaction,

  "So you've had your say. You've done your best to ruin me. And you've failed."

  Blaze said nothing.

  "This fellow here"—the gangmaster nodded at Similin—"was ready to call you a liar to your face. But I was pretty sure I could handle the situation. I understand these ladies and gentlemen pretty well. What you didn't reckon with is that they have good hearts, the best hearts in the world, but when it comes to the details, they don't want to know. They pay me to look after the details. And do you know what? That's where the money is. In the details."

  He was extremely pleased with himself. Soren Similin, on the other hand, found himself in entirely the wrong position. Now Blaze would assume he had followed him to betray him.

  "He's not a liar," he said. "Every word was true."

  "Oh?" The gangmaster was very surprised. "So you're in league with him, are you? Is this some kind of plot?"

  "I wanted to back him up," said Similin.

  "You'll get your chance to back him up," said the gangmaster. "You can back each other up. Because I mean to teach you what happens to troublemakers."

  They had rejoined the work group in the cornfields. Pelican now beckoned to his associates to come forward.

  "Hold on to these two," he said. "And call all the men out to hear me. I've something to say."

  The burly associates seized Blaze and Similin. Blaze offered no resistance. The secretary found his arms were pinned behind his back, and he was unable to resist even had he chosen to do so. The workers trooped in from the long rows of corn, curious to know what had happened and grateful for a break from the hard labor.

  "You see this man?" cried Pelican, pointing to Blaze. "He went to the master to say he wasn't happy in his work. He said I cheated him. And you know what the master said? He said, If he's not happy, let him go. And I will. And this one here"—he pointed to Similin—"he's not happy either. So I'll let him go, too. Is there anyone else who's not happy?"

  No one said a word.

  "Do I take it that means you are happy?"

  There came a mumbling, nodding response.

  "I can't hear you."

 
; "Yes," said the men. "Yes. Yes."

  "Very good."

  He clenched his fist and nodded to the man who held Blaze, and he called out to the crowd of workers.

  "When a man calls me a cheat, I say—"

  He struck hard with his fist, straight into Blaze's stomach. Blaze gasped and bent over, but the associates holding him jerked him upright again. Similin knew he would be next. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the coming pain. But Pelican wasn't yet done with Blaze. His fist was jabbing forward again, this time at Blaze's face. The blow brought bright blood streaming from Blaze's nose.

  Blaze groaned aloud. Then he howled. Then he roared. And suddenly, like a giant awakening, he flexed his upper arms, and shook himself free. At once, roaring ever louder as he did so, he turned on the two associates, and using his right forearm like a club, smashed them to the ground. The men were more powerfully built than Blaze, but Blaze was driven by an uncontrolled rage that was like a madness, and they fell before him. The gangmaster had barely taken in what was happening when Blaze seized him by the shoulders and hurled him to the ground with such force that he rolled away in the dirt. Blaze chased after him, roaring.

  "You bad man! You bad, bad man!"

  As the gangmaster cowered on the ground, Blaze pummelled him with his fists, knocking him from one side to the other. The men holding Similin released their grip, to go to their master's aid. But the workers, astonished and excited, now began to shout, too.

  "Kill him!" they cried. "Trample him! Crush him!"

  The associates backed away.

  "Kill them all!" cried the workers.

  The associates turned and ran.

  Blaze was roaring more quietly now. The terrified gangmaster made no attempt to oppose him. The blows came more slowly, and then they stopped. Shaking with the violence of the tempest that had possessed him, bewildered, like one emerging from a trance, Blaze walked away and stood by himself, the blood still flowing from his nose.