Valderen ft-2

by Roger Taylor

  Farnor gently laid the plate on the table and watched Marken intently. Outside, lights and tree tops swayed gently, and night hunting birds glided silently through the glistening darkness.

  Farnor waited.

  And waited.

  The soft soughing of the trees seeped slowly into the deepening silence of the room.

  And with it, came a voice.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Mover,’ the voice said. Though it filled Farnor’s mind totally, it was soft and very tentative. Yet too, it was hung about with many meanings, subtle and indefin-able. Briefly, Farnor felt that he was watching himself, a child again, with Marna and his other friends, carefully dipping toes into the chilly lake where they would sometimes play; tensed and ready to snatch away should the trial be too fearful.

  The long forgotten memory vanished.

  ‘Mover.’ Again the hesitancy.

  ‘What do you want?’ Farnor spoke the words out loud.

  Marken, sitting opposite, started. Farnor raised a hand for silence before he could speak.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked again. Marken drew a finger across his closed mouth and tapped his forehead then sagged theatrically in his chair.

  Farnor looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and, frowning with concentration, thought, ‘What do you want?’ very loudly.

  Marken shook his head, mouthed the word, ‘Relax,’ and sagged into his chair again.

  Farnor scowled irritably then rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, closed his eyes and dropped his head on to his hand. ‘How in Murral’s name am I supposed to do this?’ he thought to himself, in some despair.

  A sound like a sigh pervaded him. It was laden with many emotions, not least among which was a sudden alarm. ‘Not His name,’ he thought he heard faintly. Then there was bewilderment, and excitement and even relief. Slowly, imperceptibly, it became the question, ‘What are you, Mover?’

  It was still anxious and tentative though, Farnor noted. Far removed from the stern purposefulness of the voice that had forced itself upon him in the stables. As this thought occurred to him, a confused clamour of images formed in his mind: trees bending and straining against a powerful wind, being torn from the ground by crashing rock slides and flooding rivers; being scorched into black ash and nothingness by fearful wind-blown fires. Involuntarily, he lifted his hands to his head, but even as he did so, the images, and the fear and panic that pervaded them, were fading, or rather, changing; twisting and swirling until they fashioned themselves into a rich weave that once again became a single voice.

  ‘You ran amok, Mover. There was no choice. You brought great turmoil. You… frightened us. We had to stop you somehow.’

  An apology formed in Farnor’s mind, but he knew that he was not being listened to. The voice went on. ‘The judgement of the Mover, Mar-ken, is that you are a sapling and no more tainted than any other Mover.’

  Farnor opened his eyes. Marken was leaning for-ward, watching him intently. ‘Do you Hear them?’ the old Hearer asked. His voice was soft, but it sounded laboured, coarse, and inadequate in Farnor’s ears. He nodded and, without thinking, reached out a branch to take Marken’s hand.

  A branch?

  No, no. It was a hand.

  And Marken’s hand closed about it, firm and sup-portive, before Farnor had time to consider this eerie illusion. He shut his eyes again.

  A sigh returned to fill his mind once more, though this time it was one of realization. And behind it, many voices debated.

  ‘He is powerful…’

  ‘He is strange…

  ‘He is dangerous…’

  ‘And the seed of the Evil came in his wake…’

  ‘He Hears, he Hears…’

  A wilful silence descended.

  The voice returned. ‘But you are not as Mar-ken. He…’ Farnor strained. Was the word sees? knows? understands? It was all three, and much more. ‘… that part of you which lies in his world. Yet we… see… you in our worlds, where he cannot reach. And you are not as he. Nor any Mover. You pass through our worlds without constraint. It has not been known before.’

  The debate broke out again, loudly, but stopped almost immediately. ‘It has not been known in many ages,’ came the correction, with a faint tinge of injured dignity.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Farnor said silently. He clung to his oft-voiced vision of himself. ‘I’m a person. A farmer. I know nothing about you, or your worlds, or why I can Hear you, and speak to you like this.’

  There was a long pause, as if the reply were being considered. When the voice spoke, the caution that had pervaded it hitherto was a little less. ‘This too, Mar-ken has told us. And we have Heard ourselves. Perhaps he is deceived, though he is many-ringed and not foolish – for a Mover. And perhaps we are deceived.’

  Silence.

  ‘But it was evil that came in your wake. The floating seed of the Great Evil that we had thought long passed away. Until…’

  The silence came again, though it was full of a sense of unwanted change, and doubts and fears. Terrible images that Farnor could not begin to interpret hung about the words Great Evil. He remembered Marken’s words earlier: ‘as if something had happened some-where that had unsettled the entire Forest.’

  The voice did not pursue its reservation. ‘And great was the… pain… of turning It from you.’ It faltered.

  Farnor waited, unexpectedly patient now. Though he made no conscious effort, he felt the strains and tensions in his body slipping away. As they did so, the sounds of the debate reached him again, or rather, he had the impression that he was reaching them. The hubbub stopped abruptly amid a leaf-rustling hiss of alarm and surprise. ‘He is here. He is here.’

  ‘Perhaps you are as you seem,’ the voice said, much clearer now. ‘A sapling. And thus ignorant. Or perhaps indeed you deceive us all. Perhaps you do not flee from the Evil, but come as Its vanguard, as in the…’ Ancient days? For the second time Farnor had a fleeting but giddying sensation of looking at aeons of time stretch-ing back through shifting light and darkness, into… brightness? heat?…

  It was gone.

  ‘I deceive no one knowingly,’ he replied. ‘I want only to return to my home. The… evil… that pursued me here has done me great hurt and I must return to destroy It.’

  Consternation broke around him. Around the word, home, images formed of well-rooted security and safety. But following them came great waves of fear; unmistak-able fear.

  And denial!

  Farnor felt anger stirring within him. ‘I must go back,’ he said,’ determinedly. ‘I shall go back.’

  ‘No!’ The voice was nervous, but definite.

  Farnor felt both of Marken’s hands now gripping his, willing both strength and support to him.

  ‘There is darkness within you, Far-nor. Darkness hidden from us and from Mar-ken. Perhaps hidden from you, too. Darkness that the Evil could possess, if It does not do so already. We cannot let you return until light has come to that darkness.’

  ‘You cannot stop me,’ Farnor said angrily.

  There was a nervous pause. Farnor sensed the de-bate being renewed.

  ‘We can. We will,’ the voice replied. It was quiet and undemonstrative and it bore both grim determination and fear in equal parts.

  Farnor felt his will begin to yield before the naked openness of this revelation.

  ‘I do not belong here,’ he said, more quietly. ‘Please let me go.’

  ‘You belong in many places,’ came the unhesitant reply. ‘Many places. Until you learn, you are too dangerous.’

  There was another long silence.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Farnor asked eventually.

  ‘Go to the mountains at our heart. Speak to us where we are most ancient,’ the voice replied.

  ‘And will you be able to see into this darkness – this ignorance you fancy you see within me, at this place?’ Farnor asked sarcastically.

  ‘Perhaps. It is our best hope. But the darknes
s is the darkness. It may well be beyond us. We do not know.’ The voice seemed reluctant to pursue the matter. Its tone changed. ‘The ignorance is something else entirely. It is the ignorance of the sapling. Unlike stupidity, it is a curable condition.’

  Was there a hint of humour in that answer? Distant parental laughter? Farnor frowned. ‘And if I defy you?’

  No humour now. Just reluctant, fearful determina-tion. ‘We have told you. We will oppose you, strong though you be. No matter what the cost. We have harmony with the Movers. It is not our way to touch their strange, brief lives, except where they touch ours. But you are more than a Mover.’ There was another long silence, then Farnor sensed a decision being made. ‘We…’ Once again the word evaded Farnor. Was it feel? fear? know? Or all three, and more? ‘… that within perhaps a mere Mover’s span past, there has been a stirring of the Great Evil once more, somewhere in this, His home world, and also, as ever, in the worlds between the worlds. It is seemingly ended, but, too, there is doubt.’ Farnor had a momentary impression of consequence upon consequence flowing ever outwards, like ripples from a casually thrown stone spreading inexorably to lap at the farthest shores of a great, silent lake. ‘We are afraid. And while the spawn of the Great Evil prowls at the boundary, and you, with your power, bear the darkness at your heart, you must remain here.’

  ‘You have no right…’

  ‘We have the right to be, Far-nor. All knowing things have the right to be. And your darkness, and the Evil beyond, threaten that right. If you oppose us then you leave us no alternative but to stand against you.’

  Farnor opened his eyes. The voice slipped away from him, and Marken’s spartan room closed about him, half welcomingly, half menacingly.

  Marken was staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘I Heard. I Heard,’ he said, almost wildly. ‘Such clarity. Such freedom…’ He waved his hands excitedly then, catching Farnor’s expression, clenched them guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, Farnor,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to – I wasn’t excited about your problems – but a lifetime, you see, listening, but never truly Hearing.’

  Several times, he put his hands to his chest, and then to his head, made to stand up, then sat down again. Eventually he forced himself back into his chair, though he was still full of a restless excitement.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, with a very deliberate calmness in his voice. ‘I think I Heard most of what was said, and I know it’s serious, and even desperate for you, but…’ He tapped his hands on the arms of his chair until he gained control of himself again. ‘But… to Hear like that. I can scarcely believe it. What happened the other day was almost unbelievable, but this…’

  He shook his head.

  His own mind whirling, Farnor watched him si-lently, growing increasingly irritated by his apparently unquenchable exhilaration. Then a smell reached him. He wrinkled his nose and said peevishly, ‘Your soup’s boiling over.’

  Marken’s rapture vanished. He swore and dashed unceremoniously into the other room. There was a considerable clattering and hissing accompanied by yet more swearing, but eventually Marken emerged bearing a steaming bowl and more chunks of bread.

  ‘Here,’ he said, dropping both bowl and bread on to the table, and blowing on his singed fingers. ‘Eat.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, I can’t eat now,’ Farnor said, exas-perated.

  Marken levelled a finger at him. ‘Just eat,’ he com-manded, with unexpected force. ‘While I think. Whatever happens, you’re going to need your strength.’

  Farnor’s appetite and his wiser nature bowed to Marken’s authority and he did as he was told. The soup was very hot, and for the next few minutes, the tumbling confusion in his mind receded as, under Marken’s stern supervision, he struggled to eat without burning himself.

  ‘You’ve made it clear enough what you want to do,’ Marken said, as Farnor spooned up the last of the soup. ‘But what are you going to do?’

  Farnor looked at him over the top of the bowl. Marken’s food glowed through him, vying with his inner confusion for mastery of his mood. ‘Do I have a choice?’ he asked.

  ‘Always,’ Marken replied.

  Farnor thought of the times when his mind had reached out to touch the creature, unbidden. And of the wind in the courtyard that had crashed the wicket door shut on his arm. And of Nilsson, casually beating him, tossing him to and fro as if he had been nothing more than some disobedient dog. He shook his head in denial. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not always.’ Then he banged his clenched fist on the arm of the chair in frustration. ‘If only I knew more about these things! About what they can do about… oh, anything! Or, for that matter, what I can do, that makes them so nervous of me.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Marken said, with some regret. ‘It’s generally thought that they can reach into the mind and turn it to whatever ends they wish. Our old stories are full of such tales. And there’s no doubt that outsiders tend to wander about only in the fringes and then leave. They rarely come in deep, and they never set up home.’

  Farnor looked at him. ‘And what will you do?’ he asked. ‘You and Derwyn and the others?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed there. We’ll help you to travel whichever way you choose insofar as we’re able,’ Marken replied without hesitation.

  ‘But?’ Farnor prompted, catching at the doubt in his voice.

  ‘But if they’re opposing you, I don’t know what value we’d be to you,’ Marken said flatly.

  Rage rose up in Farnor again, bringing with it im-ages of his slaughtered parents and the triumphant faces of Rannick and Nilsson. He felt like a caged animal.

  He would not be restrained thus!

  Yet, what could he do?

  Then, like a crafty wheedling child, an unexpected and dark thought came to him. A small, baleful light to illuminate his position. He could, after all, choose, as Marken had said. The trees – the Forest – understood this power of his that so disturbed them while he could neither understand nor control it. Thus they were the only ones from whom he could learn about it. The logic was inexorable. He must do as they wished, but he would study them as they studied him, and secretly ferret knowledge about the power from them. And once he had that, could they then restrain him? And could Rannick and the creature stand against him?

  The long-cherished image of Rannick, dead at his feet, returned. More than ever before, now, he must cling to that to sustain him through whatever was about to follow. It would be his lodestar; his guiding light. While he held fast to that, nothing, nothing, could truly stand in the way of his bringing it about.

  ‘I’ll do as they ask,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘I’ll go to these mountains and do whatever they wish. It’s not what I want to do, but it seems it’ll cause a great many difficulties for everyone if I try to leave.’

  Marken’s eyes widened at this abrupt change and he looked at him uncertainly. Then he nodded slowly. ‘It’s probably the wisest decision,’ he said.

  ‘Will you help me?’ Farnor asked, working up some enthusiasm for this new idea. ‘Show me the way? Tell me where I can get food and supplies?’

  ‘Of course,’ Marken replied, relief showing on his face. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone who could act as a guide for you.’ He hesitated. ‘At least for most of the journey, anyway.’

  Farnor looked at him questioningly. ‘Most of it?’ he asked.

  Marken looked a little uneasy. ‘The place they refer to near the central mountains is very special to them. No people live there, nor even go there to hunt, to gather fruits, barks, anything.’

  ‘Why not? Is it dangerous?’ Farnor asked in some alarm, seeing his new scheme foundering already.

  Marken shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that it’s their place. There are many such that they keep to themselves, but that place above all is their most precious, revered. There might be dangers, I suppose, to someone who wasn’t invited.’ His face brightened. ‘But that obviously doesn’t apply to you, does it?’

&nbs
p; His intentions righted again, Farnor pondered Marken’s offer. A guide would be very useful; he knew nothing of this land and very little of its people. Yet perhaps, too, a guide would hinder him if he was to discover the nature of his power and then use it to escape.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Farnor replied. ‘I don’t know whether I want company or not.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Marken said.

  A noisy, uncontrollable yawn seized Farnor. He clamped his hand to his mouth, guiltily, as the spasm finished. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, colouring.

  Marken smiled indulgently. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘And it’s been a long day, not to say a long two days. Almost a lifetime in fact. I think we’ll both find our thoughts clearer after a good night’s rest.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll take you back to Derwyn’s if you want,’ he said, adding rhetorically, ‘I presume you can’t find your way back on your own, yet?’

  * * * *

  As they stepped outside, the contrast between Marken’s small and tidily functional room with its wholly masculine ambience, and the vast cool space above the tree tops struck Farnor forcefully. The stars strewn across the sky were dimmed by the brightness of the glittering sea of sunstones beneath, but they were still brilliant, and Farnor felt as though he were floating high in the night sky, calm and at peace.

  On the city in the clouds, he thought, as the memory of one of Yonas’s tales came back to him. For a moment it seemed to him that the perspective he had of himself, now, here, had a rightness about it by which he should measure all his future actions. He dashed the thought aside. It was heretical. His future actions were already determined. Or at least, the end to which they must lead him. ‘What is the Great Evil?’ he heard himself asking.

  Marken stared out into the night. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever Heard before. It had a bad feeling to it.’

  Farnor nodded. Bad feeling was a substantial under-statement for the sensations that had hung about the phrase.

  Marken turned to him, his face hidden in the shadow of an overhanging branch, save for the light of the sunstones reflecting in his eyes. ‘I think you know something of it already. I know you haven’t fully told us why and by whom – or what – you were pursued here, and I won’t press you, much as I’d like to. That’s your choice. But understand this; there has been some great disturbance somewhere, several years ago. Something that’s unsettled the entire Forest. It’s true it only began to dawn on me yesterday but I’ve been seeing it more and more clearly with each minute that passes – just in the new perspective I have of what I’ve Heard over the years and independent of what we’ve Heard tonight. But you’re caught up in it, Farnor. Perhaps we all are. It’s not something we’re going to be able to avoid.’