Jango

by William Nicholson

After that she removed the halter. They walked on, side by side, like two companions. Echo felt as if Kell had chosen her, and this made her feel glad and proud.

  The army was now out of sight. The Jahan trusted her to follow alone. Only she wasn't alone. She had Kell.

  The pale cloud-dimmed sun was high above when Echo saw a barge approaching on the river, riding low in the water, carried swiftly downstream by the current. It was crowded with people—men, women, and children. Seeing the girl with the horse plodding northward, they called out to her, waving their arms.

  "Turn back! Killers ahead!"

  "No, look! She's one of them! That's one of their beasts!"

  "Then, curse you! May you rot and die in pain!"

  They spat and made hateful gestures at her as they were swept on down the river.

  Echo was shocked by their anger and wanted them to know she was not one of the invading army; but they were beyond the reach of her voice. Looking ahead, now fearful of what she would find, she saw thin trails of smoke climbing up into the winter sky. Then she saw a column of slow-moving people approaching down the river path. As they came nearer, she saw they were women and children. Some of the women were carrying babies.

  The women avoided her eyes when they met. She knew it was because of Kell.

  "So you'll be dancing now," hissed one woman, holding her baby close. "Now your killers have murdered our menfolk and burned our homes."

  "No," said Echo, a sick feeling forming in her stomach. "I'm not one of them. I'm a—"

  She was going to say "prisoner" but stopped herself in time. She was no prisoner.

  "She's only young," said another of the women.

  "And wasn't my boy young?" cried the one with the baby. "And did they show him mercy?" She spat furiously on the ground before Echo. "Murderers! Go and dance on the ashes of our lives!"

  The sad little procession continued on its way. Echo stood still, her head bowed. Kell came up to her and nudged her chin with his nose. She put her arms round his neck and rested her cheek against his prickly-smooth hide and was grateful for his quietness.

  "I want to go home, Kell," she whispered. "Shall we run away home to the forest?"

  Kell turned his head round and butted her gently again.

  "No. You're right. We can't."

  They continued on their way.

  In a little while they came up with the rear guard of the Orlan army, which had stopped to rest men and horses. The lines of warriors were now in the process of forming up again for the onward march. The men and riders circling round her were agile and graceful, the men smiling, their teeth bright in their tawny faces, the horses lithe and strong. Echo, passing through their midst, found it hard to believe that these handsome laughing beings were responsible for killing and destruction.

  Then she reached the village.

  There was very little of it left. Smoke was still rising from the burned houses, now reduced to fallen timbers and piles of ash. Bodies lay here and there, some still clutching the scythes and hoes with which they had tried to defend themselves. The immense army was riding in formation through the scene of devastation without a downward glance, the horses picking their way over the limbs of dead men as if they were tree roots.

  Echo saw it all and felt a stinging in her eyes and thought: am I too a part of this?

  "So, there you are!"

  It was the Jahan, coming up behind her on horseback. She turned to him, and he saw the tears running down her cheeks.

  "Why, what's the matter?"

  She pointed silently at the burning houses and the dead men. The Jahan shrugged his broad shoulders and looked round with contemptuous indifference.

  "They shouldn't have fought back," he said. "Those that stand in my way, I destroy."

  "Did you have to burn the houses?"

  "Houses? What houses? There were only shacks and hovels here. We'll sweep this garbage away and build a real town. You'll see."

  His three sons came galloping up to their father, pretending not to race, but each one eager to be the first to come to a stop before him. The Jahan watched them, his face expressionless. His second son, Alva, was the winner, by a head. Sasha Jahan, his older brother, rode on past, as if to show he had been racing for a different goal, and so had not lost. He rode up to Echo.

  "Why do you walk?" he said to her. His face was still contorted with anger at his brother.

  "Because I haven't yet learned to ride," she replied.

  "I could ride when I was three years old. What's wrong with you?"

  He wheeled away and rejoined his father.

  The army was now moving through the burning village in three long columns, heading up the west bank of the river towards the bridge, which Echo could see ahead. It was a broad timber roadway, carried on heavy piles and braces, strong enough to bear the weight of a convoy of loaded bullock wagons. The vanguard of the Orlan riders would shortly be clop-clopping onto its stout boards.

  Echo felt sick and miserable. She would have turned away at once, and begun the long trudge home, but for this hateful itchy sensation that somehow she too was responsible for the killings and that she could not leave this monstrous army until—until what? There was nothing she could do. But still it persisted, this stubborn conviction.

  "I shall do something," she said to herself. "I will. You'll see."

  Voices called out from the far side of the river. She saw figures there, people from the village on the eastern bank. They were gathering at the end of the bridge, on the far bank, and shouting—though to what end it was impossible to see. If they tried to stop the Orlan army crossing the bridge, they would be slaughtered and their village burned.

  It was one thing to weep for those already dead. But these people were still living, and in immediate danger. Echo thought no more. She set off at a run, and Kell trotted by her side. She ran between the columns of mounted Orlans, trying to overtake the Jahan before he reached the bridge.

  The Jahan had now mounted his carriage, with its escort of drummers and trumpeters. The columns of riders in the vanguard had come to a standstill. Panting from her run, walking now, Echo passed through the ranks towards the Jahan. Round him she saw the mirror bearers taking up their positions, turning their gleaming discs this way and that to find the angle of the pale winter light. The drummers began to patter softly on their drums, creating the first rhythms of expectation that would soon burst forth as a driving martial beat. The Jahan swung a bright scarlet cape over his shoulders and, grasping the rail of the carriage, looked round with a proud gaze at the immense gathering mass of his men.

  From the far side of the bridge there went up a sudden cheer. The crowd of villagers had grown to a hundred or so. They carried farm implements and kitchen knives, and a few swords, which they now raised defiantly above their heads as they cheered. Then from their midst stepped two men, who walked out onto the bridge and came to a stop halfway across.

  They appeared not to be armed. They wore pale gray tunics and loose breeches, tied at the ankles, and they were barefoot. Over their heads they wore hoods of the same gray material. They stood quietly, side by side, their hands clasped before them, their gaze on the lead riders of the Orlan army. From the way in which they had positioned themselves, it seemed they meant to block the passage of the Orlans across the bridge—except that such a thing was clearly impossible. One mounted Orlan with his whip could lay them low without coming near them.

  Amroth Jahan did not consider them worth even this much effort. He sent one of his junior officers to order the two men to give way. Echo watched as the officer trotted onto the bridge and then returned. She was near the Jahan's carriage now and heard the officer's report.

  "They ask us not to cross the bridge unless we come in peace, Excellency."

  The Jahan frowned.

  "I will cross the bridge when and how I please. Tell them to give way immediately."

  The officer rode back to the two hooded men. He spoke a little more with them, then ret
urned.

  "They say the same as before, Excellency."

  The Jahan became angry.

  "Then seize them!" he ordered. "Drag them before me on their knees!"

  The officer beckoned to two of his men, and all three rode onto the bridge, unhitching their whips as they did so. Echo watched, dreading what would now follow. She saw the whips curl out, snapping in the air. But the two hooded men were just beyond the reach of the whips and were not touched. The three Orlans rode closer, and the whips cracked all round them but failed to connect with their targets. A murmur rose up from the ranks of mounted men, and some good-natured jibes were called out to the three on the bridge.

  "Open your eyes, soldiers!"

  But still the whips snapped harmlessly in midair.

  Now the riders could be seen to be close to the two hooded men and to be exchanging words with them. Then they turned and rode back. The Jahan glowered at them.

  "Why have you not done as I ordered?"

  "Why, Excellency?" The men seemed confused. "We thought—we thought—it seemed best to leave them alone."

  "Arrest these three!" said the Jahan, with an abrupt wave of one hand. The unfortunate men were led away.

  "Which company is in the van?"

  "The Sixteenth, Excellency."

  "Tell the captain of the Sixteenth to charge the bridge."

  "You wish them brought back alive, Excellency?"

  "No. Make an example of them."

  Echo watched as the company of twenty men and horses formed four lines, packed close, jostling and rubbing against one another. At the first command, the men drew their short curved swords. At the second command, falling into pace, the company set off at a canter towards the bridge.

  The horses rose and fell together as they moved, in a beautiful display. As they quickened their pace and hit full gallop, the twenty melted into a single thunderclap roaring over the land, their raised swords flashing like lightning as they went.

  The two barefoot hooded men on the bridge stood still and watched the charge sweep towards them and did not flinch. The villagers behind them fell silent with apprehension. As the horses' hooves struck the booming boards of the bridge, the riders let out wild howling cries and braced themselves for the impact and the kill.

  The two hooded men made a slight movement—the bridge shuddered—and the compact squad of Orlan warriors burst apart. They exploded outwards, horses rearing, twisting, leaping. Men were tossed from their mounts, some falling, some skidding sideways and toppling over the low parapet into the river, some turning about, spinning in confusion, until they were facing back the way they had come.

  When the cries of men and horses had faded, and the last of the bewildered Orlans had pulled themselves from the tangle of crashed riders and limped back off the bridge, there stood the two hooded men for all to see, as still as before, untouched. Each had one hand raised before him, with two fingers extended. But they had made no move. They had stood on the bridge like rocks in the river, and the charge of the Orlans had broken against them.

  Echo Kittle saw, and she felt the same awe that she saw on every face round her. She turned to look at the Great Jahan. He stood raised on his carriage, staring impassively at the bridge, his face giving away no emotion. His sons, riding just behind him, were exchanging glances. Then Sasha Jahan spoke.

  "Send me, Father!"

  Then Alva Jahan called out, more loudly.

  "Send me, Father!"

  Amroth Jahan shook his head. Moving slowly, he stepped down from the carriage and strode towards the bridge. He had given no orders to his sons or to the rest of his army, so no one moved. But Echo, who was not a warrior under his command, slipped forward through the frozen ranks and followed him to the start of the bridge.

  There she halted and watched as the Jahan strode over the boards to the two hooded men. The immense army behind her was silent, as were the villagers before her. She could hear every word that was spoken in that encounter.

  "I am the Jahan of Jahans. Who are you?"

  "We are Nomana."

  The hooded man replied in a low voice. He sounded weary.

  "What are Nomana? Are you devils? Are you spirits from the land of the dead?"

  "We're men like you."

  "Then let us pass."

  "If you come in peace."

  "Peace!" roared the Jahan, his caged fury breaking out. "I am peace! There is no peace without order, and I am the bringer of order! In all the lands I rule there is peace, because I enforce peace!"

  The taller of the two hooded men sighed, and he raised one hand.

  "You carry a heavy burden," he said. "Peace for all, but no peace for you."

  The Jahan was silent with surprise.

  "Ask forgiveness. Seek your own peace."

  He extended two fingers and touched the air before him. Amroth Jahan sank slowly to his knees. There, kneeling on the bridge, he bent his head, groaned, and wept. Echo saw it and heard the low sobs. The men of the army lined up behind her saw and heard also. The unthinkable was happening before their eyes. No one had ever seen the Great Jahan cry.

  The two hooded men then turned and padded away over the bridge. They linked arms as they went and leaned a little towards each other, as if overcome with exhaustion. Then they were lost to sight among the crowd of villagers.

  After a few moments the Jahan rose slowly to his feet, and without brushing the tears from his eyes, he returned to his army. All watched him, in fearful uncertainty. He gazed at the massed ranks of his warriors, his cheeks still glistening, and raising his silver-handled whip, he gave the sign for the army to advance over the bridge.

  The companies of mounted warriors began to file slowly across the river. The villagers on the far side parted to let them go by.

  Echo was watching the Jahan as he climbed with weary movements into his high-wheeled chariot. One impatient wave of his hand dismissed the mirror bearers and the music makers. He turned to his three sons, who were staring at him in utter confusion. Sasha spurred his horse to the chariot's side.

  "Father, command me!" he said. "Let me avenge you!"

  The Great Jahan fixed dull angry eyes on his son.

  "For what?"

  Sasha Jahan saw that he had said the wrong thing, and not wanting to anger his father further, he bowed his head and was silent.

  "We will cross the bridge," said the Jahan. "No one bars our way. There is nothing to avenge."

  "Yes, Father."

  The Jahan and his sons then crossed the bridge in the midst of the vast Orlan army. There was no sign of the hooded strangers on the far bank. The villagers offered no resistance. The army passed on down the road in silence.

  After a little while the Jahan sent for Echo and asked that she ride with him in his carriage.

  "You saw what happened," he said to her, not meeting her eyes.

  "Yes."

  "They call themselves Nomana. Do you know them?"

  "I've heard of them."

  "What have you heard?"

  "That they are the only good people who are also strong."

  "Good, and strong."

  He said no more for a while. She watched the muscles twitching on his swarthy face.

  "I'll not forget," he said at last, speaking more to himself than to her. "They did what no one has ever done before. They made me cry."

  "They wanted you to find peace."

  "Peace? Yes, I'll find peace."

  With this the Great Jahan's face distorted in a smile of passionate cruelty: the smile of one who inflicts great pain and finds great pleasure in it.

  "My peace will be in their destruction."

  Echo said no more. But she too knew she would not forget those silent figures in gray. She had no interest in the peace they spoke of; she was interested in their power. Here was her means of escape from the Jahan, without harm to the Glimmen; and here was her means of revenge. She would find her champion among the Nomana.

  5. Nothing Lasts

&nb
sp; ALONE AND WITHOUT OCCUPATION IN HIS CELL, SEEKER found the hours passed slowly and unmarked until they merged into a single unending moment. Food was brought to him by a silent meek, and his bucket was emptied. Day came with the brightening of the panel of glass in the roof above, then departed again with the fading of the panel into the night. For hours at a time he lay on the hard bed and watched the distant clouds above, finding in their many forms, and in the way they were forever changing, his only reminder of the world's variety and ceaseless activity. The silence and the emptiness were hard to bear, but he sensed that here, alone in his cell, he was being given a last chance. If he failed this test—whatever it was—he would follow the Wildman into exile from the Nom.

  So he looked for ways to occupy his mind.

  He studied his room, becoming familiar with the cracks and stains on its old plaster walls, imagining that they were rivers and roads and forests on a map of an unknown land. He chose not to eat his breakfast all at once, but to hold back the apple for later—breakfast was a slab of dark bread, an apple, and water—and to eat every part of the apple but for the pips. He kept the pips on his table in a row and played games with them, making them into warriors who went on adventures. He discovered that there was a very small spider living in a corner by the door and that close to the spider's web was a hole in the wall, no more than a pinprick, through which tiny crawling insects came and went. From time to time one of the little creatures became caught in the web.

  He did his physical exercises, as he had been taught on first entering the Nom, and afterwards the more important mental exercises. Standing upright, he focused his attention first on his outer extremities—fingers, toes, scalp—and so worked slowly in towards the pit of his stomach. At each stage he felt for and found the lir that tingled through his nervous system and drew it inwards, until he could feel the concentrated heat of its power throbbing in his belly. From here he shot it like a bouncing ball into his hand, or his eyes, or his foot, like an acrobat who can balance his entire weight on any part of his body.