by Roger Taylor
How long had it all taken? Perhaps only seconds, she thought.
And how was it possible that so much could change so quickly? For many things had changed. For one, her carefully planned journey to the capital was in ruins. She was a practical woman. She had allowed for fatigue and discomfort, for hunger and thirst, for weather, bad and good, but she had not allowed for events such as this; dangers from other people who were not Rannick’s people. Such people would have been friendly and helpful, because that’s the way people were. Now it came to her that Nilsson’s band might perhaps be no more than the vanguard of a great army of such people, scattered all over the land.
And too, was gone her confidence in her own ability to complete her journey. That was the truly appalling loss, and the one that most of her tears mourned. Part of her knew her for a foolish young girl, whose reckless actions would probably bring great harm to her father and perhaps many others in the valley when Rannick found out that she had fled. And too, they had led her to the killing of a man.
And in her folly she had told Rannick what she was going to do! She drew in a sour breath through clenched teeth and looked up at the brightening sky. Was there no foolishness of which she was not capable? She should run back to her father, ask his forgiveness. Ask – no, beg – Rannick’s forgiveness. Be strong by remaining in the valley and being close to him. Whatever he did to her could be no worse than her two assailants had intended. There was at least some affection in him, and who could say how he might change under her influence?
Yet still, another part of her told her that she was alive; that she had fought back against greater strength and prevailed. And that not only could she complete this journey, she must. How else could Rannick be stopped? For stopped he must be. Affection or no, he was a murderer, and he drew his own kind to him, like an open sore drew infection.
As the word murderer came to her however, she looked down at the bloodstained knife in her hands. Again, her response was disturbingly confused. She should throw the hideous, life-stopping thing away. Yet she knew that it was no more than an artefact. She was the life-stopping thing, not it. And she might well need a good knife again on this journey.
Her mind cleared quite suddenly, as if a cloud had moved from in front of the sun. And indeed, as her way ahead formed itself anew, long, bright shafts of sunlight began to cut through the wooded gloom, transforming it into a myriad greens and browns, shot through with the yellows and reds of countless woodland flowers. She began to hear the birds singing.
She looked down at the dead body. She could not leave it lying there; it was unthinkable. The forest creatures would…
She turned away from the thought.
Yet she could do no other than leave it.
Her resolution finally determined, she was about to stand up when a noise made her turn. She drew in a long, trembling breath, and the knife slipped from her hand.
Moving slowly towards her, ominous and long-shadowed in the dusty, leaf-dappled rays of the rising sun, were four riders.
Chapter 18
‘Of the true beginning, the beginning of the time that was before this time, nothing is truly known, though we sense that the world that was then is remembered, albeit dimly, at the heart of our knowledge. And too, by some others, though they are strange, and elsewhere.
‘But from the forming of this time, from the time of the fading of the Great Heat and the great remaking, we remember much.
‘The shaping of the valleys and the mountains by those who were formed of the essence of the beginning, we remember. The filling of the rivers and the lakes and the oceans, we remember. The coming of the Movers in their many forms, we remember.
‘And the Great Evil, we remember. For that, too, was of the essence of the beginning.’
There was a long silence. Many of the words that came to Farnor were so hung about with such subtle shades of meaning that he could scarcely begin to grasp them. He could grasp the pain and distress permeating them, however, and he made no interruption.
‘And there was great suffering. Amongst ourselves, and the Movers of every form. Even the land itself was torn and racked. And the air and the seas and all the waters. All were tainted and foul. But perhaps above all, the greatest suffering was among the vast tribes of Movers such as yourselves, for such was the form that the Great Evil had chosen in which to exercise Its will.’
‘Because that was Its true form from the time before the beginning,’ Farnor said. It was part statement and part question and he could not have said from where the idea came.
There was a pause, heavy with shock and wonder which gradually turned into awe. ‘You Hear further into our meanings than we could have believed possible, Far-nor.’
Farnor did not reply, but simply waited for the tale to continue. He stroked his horse’s head gently, still remorseful at having struck it in his angry frustration and fear. His first act on returning down the mountain had been to ask the animal’s forgiveness.
The voice continued. ‘That is indeed a most ancient belief, though it is not truly known, and what we speak of here, is truly known.
‘And it is known that the Great Evil was overcome. Overcome utterly by a Great Alliance of many powers. Overcome for ever, it was thought, though Its taint was spread wide and deep, touching all things, and ever to be seen by those who chose to look.
‘Now, what had been little more than a suggestion of dark happenings far away, a deep unease, has been revealed to us as a terrible truth. The Great Evil has come again, even within the span of your brief life, Farnor. Come, and been confronted, and overcome again.’
Farnor frowned, there was such fear in the voice that he had no wish to make light of this revelation, but he could ask no other than, ‘If It’s been overcome, why are you concerned?’
The fear flooded into his mind, primordial and terrible. It forced a sharp breath into his lungs, and his hands came to his ears as if in some way that would end this silent distress. And there was another fear, deeper yet, far deeper. ‘What was that?’ he gasped, horrified.
The fear vanished, to be replaced by regret and dismay. But there was no reply. Then he sensed again a debate being held somewhere away from him. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, intruding into it forcefully. ‘Share this with me. Or do you now consider ignorance to be preferable to knowledge?’
The debate ended, though there was great reluctance in the voice when it spoke again. ‘You must understand, Far-nor, this is not known. It is… sensed… felt. But deeply, for all that.’
Farnor waited.
‘It is thought that that which ended the time before and formed this one was… flawed. That in the remaking of that which had been, an error was wrought, an error so deep that it may doom us all unless some great wisdom is found to repair it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Farnor said.
‘Nor do we. But thus we feel, and thus we have now told you.’ The voice became almost casual, anxious to return to matters of more pressing moment. ‘And until we know, then there can be no righting such an error, so we should not concern ourselves with it.’
‘But…’
‘No, Far-nor. You asked and we answered. But this… fear… this great doubt… may be no more than idle fancy, for all it is deep-rooted and ancient.’ Farnor made to interrupt again, but the voice overrode him. ‘And if it were not idle fancy but cruel truth, then it would be a task well beyond your means to undertake, sapling. Or, for that matter, ours, unaided.’ The voice faded a little, suddenly pensive. ‘Though, perhaps indeed we are already undertaking it. Perhaps as we each tend to that which confronts us, we are fulfilling some greater need.’
For an instant Farnor felt a sense of revelation all about him, and indeed, there were tinges of excitement in the voice when it spoke again. ‘But, whatever the reason, we must face what we must face, here and now, with what allies come our way. We must survive the moment if we are to survive the whole, mustn’t we?’
Farnor however, was given no time to answer.
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br /> ‘And the moment we face is grim enough,’ the voice continued, sweeping on now. ‘You ask why are we concerned that the Great Evil came again if It has once again been overcome. True, whatever happened was far away, and, by our lights, brief.’ The voice became grim and dark with meaning. ‘But we cannot begin to give you the true measure of what the Great Evil was, Far-nor, nor what Its defeat cost. Nor would we wish to. But you have had some small measure already in Hearing of our darkest fears. Long-forgotten fears, brought anew to us by the merest hint of Its being amongst us again.
‘And Its recent defeat is perhaps not as certain as has been believed. That which pursued you here is ancient and of Its making, beyond a doubt. But there is another. A Mover. As you are, powerful, but, unlike you, deeply tainted with Its touch.
‘Touched by Its spawn, he has arisen from nothing-ness, like a ringing echo, crying out in faithful copy of the terrible sound it has heard.’
‘Rannick,’ Farnor said simply.
‘He is beyond all help that we can give. But he must be… restrained.’
Farnor did not reply for a moment as a reproach formed in his mind: that’s what I was going to do when you brought me here. But he left it unspoken. It was a lie. His intention had not been restraint, it had been mindless murder; an act perhaps worse than Rannick’s in that, had he succeeded, it would have betrayed all that his parents had meant to him.
Now, though he could not deny that a strand of bloody vengeance still rose from some dark source deep within him, to weave, serpentine, through his thoughts, it was but one of the many that formed the pattern of his present intentions. They were far from clear, but he knew that, if possible, Rannick should be confronted and defeated so that he could be brought to account for what he had done before some ordered forum of law. He should be allowed the opportunity to speak for himself, to turn away from his present course, to make some attempt at righting that which he had marred.
In that need however, Farnor’s intentions came full circle. For he knew Rannick too well. Touched as he had been by his appalling familiar, Rannick could no more be returned to his old self than a full-blooming flower could be made a solitary bud again. His malice and desire came from the same dark depths as Farnor’s bloodlust, but they were wholly unfettered and ruled him utterly.
‘Rannick can neither be restrained nor contained,’ he said. ‘He must be given choice, but I fear his very nature determines his destruction.’
‘He is your kind. That knowledge lies beyond us. The power is yours. The judgement is yours.’
Farnor looked up at the silent trees. ‘Yes,’ he said, tears coming to his eyes unexpectedly. ‘I couldn’t protect my parents as they had protected me. But to honour them I must try to restrain him, or at least protect those who lie across his future path.’
His lust had become his duty. It was no joyous reali-zation.
‘But I know nothing of this power I have; neither what it is nor how to use it. Will you help me?’ he asked, almost plaintively.
‘We cannot,’ came the stark reply. ‘It is a power, a gift, close to the heart of a Mover. Like the knowledge that orders your judgement in this, it is beyond us.’
Desperation began to seep into the quiet euphoria that Farnor had brought with him down the mountain. ‘Then who can?’ he asked.
‘None here,’ the voice answered, though Farnor caught a fleeting glimpse of Uldaneth in the words. It vanished instantly however, leaving him knowing only that, in some way, Uldaneth’s task was more important even than his. And it lay elsewhere.
‘Then what can I do?’ he asked, memories returning to him of his frantic dash across the fields towards his destroyed home, and his terrified flight through the forest. ‘Rannick and the creature are far more skilled in the use of their power than I am.’
‘Not so. Not now. You are not what you were. Much of the darkness is gone from you. You are freer than you were, and your true self can guide you more now. And you are indeed well rooted. Mar-ken judged you well, and we were right to aid you.’
Farnor left his considerable doubts unspoken, and mounted his horse. He looked about him, and then began searching through his pockets for his lodespur.
‘We will guide your Mover,’ the voice said.
There was a strangeness in the word Mover that made Farnor frown in puzzlement until he sensed an image of his horse in it. ‘Oh, the horse is a Mover too, is it?’ he said. ‘I thought it was just people you called Movers.’
Amusement filled him. ‘Your separateness breeds such arrogance, Far-nor. There are many Movers, large and small. They fly, they crawl, they walk. Where we are here, they live in us, on us, under us. They feed off us, they serve us. They protect us, and sometimes they destroy us, but that is the way of this place and they do this to return us to ourselves. We touch each in different ways. People, as you call them, are but one such.’
The perspective disturbed Farnor. ‘Brighter than most, I hope,’ he said defensively.
‘Oh yes. And darker than most too. As you yourself saw, perhaps your form is the true form of the Great Evil.’
Suitably diminished, Farnor urged his horse for-ward. Without any further instruction from him, and to his considerable surprise, it set off at a gentle trot.
Riding the horse thus was a strange experience and it took Farnor some time to get used to it. After a short while, however, he reined the horse to a halt and dismounted. He gazed around at the great trees towering above him. Their majestic, silent stillness permeated him, making him, for a timeless interval, one of them. One and many, and truly vast. And without end, through all time. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, as he gradually became himself again.
‘Thank you, Farnor,’ the voice replied. ‘It has been so long since such as you has moved amongst us. You awaken memories that should not have slept, and you have renewed and deepened our insight into the nature of what it is to be a Mover. And other things.’ A great sorrow came into the voice. ‘We understand better now your own darkness – your pain at the felling of those who made and nurtured you.’ Then, with a poignancy that Farnor could hardly bear, ‘Your separateness is truly a terrible thing. It is little mystery that at times your kind are so demented.’
The voice did not speak again for a long time. The horse, guided by commands that Farnor could not hear, carried him steadily south, sometimes walking, sometimes cantering, but most of the time just trotting. With some considerable regret Farnor moved away from the place where the trees were most ancient, passing over the knoll where he and Uldaneth had parted, and thence the small clearing where he had been camping when they met.
He frowned as he remembered that encounter. Amongst other things, he had forgotten to find out how she had managed to throw him so far so effortlessly. He remembered her chuckle. ‘I didn’t. You did,’ she had said. He swore to himself. He had missed something important there. He should have asked. But then he should have asked Uldaneth many questions, he realized. Still, that was a long time ago. And something that happened to a different person. Even so, he’d have to think about that throw. And he wished she were here now.
As he was carried through the Forest, Farnor began to see for the first time the true splendour of the place. Not only the trees which, though lacking that quality that marked the most ancient, were nonetheless huge and majestic in their own right, but also the countless flowering shrubs and the rich, teeming undergrowth, the whole shot through with bright dappling sunshine, dancing to the endless rhythm of the wind-stirred branches.
And he could do no other than stop and gaze in wonder at the flower-lined banks and clearings which burst upon him from time to time. He remembered Gryss’s gentle reproaches about the yellow Sun’s Eyes that bloomed outside his cottage. ‘How many petals do the flowers have? What shape are the leaves?’ and so on, concluding with, ‘Not looked at them as much as you’d thought, have you?’ It was such a long time ago. And so true.
‘No,’ Farnor mouthed softly to himself. ‘But I’m
beginning to now.’
Although the horse was making no great haste, Farnor knew that his progress was quicker by far than when he had been travelling northwards. There were fewer places where he had to dismount and walk the horses, fewer detours around heavily overgrown areas, fewer places full of cold, dank shadows.
It came as little surprise to him therefore when, the following day, he found himself riding into the lodge that had greeted him so sullenly on his outward journey.
Somewhat to his alarm however, there was a large crowd waiting to greet him this time. He reined his horse to a halt and looked at them uncertainly.
A figure detached itself from the group and came towards him, an elderly, frail-looking man. ‘I am Marrin Beechstock, Hearer to this lodge,’ he said, as he reached Farnor. He held out both hands.
Farnor nodded an acknowledgement, still warily eyeing the crowd blocking his way.
Marrin shrugged apologetically. Farnor looked at him carefully. His eyes were bright with exhilaration. Farnor smiled as he recognized the expression. ‘They’ve spoken to you about me, haven’t they?’ he said.
Marrin’s head came forward and his hands shook excitedly. ‘As never before,’ he said, briefly a young man again. ‘Marken’s messages hinted at it, but…’ He waved his hands ecstatically and made no effort to finish what he was saying.
‘What do you – they – want of me?’ Farnor asked, indicating the waiting crowd.
Marrin looked a little guilty. ‘Just to offer you food, and anything else you might need for your journey. And our apologies for the way we greeted you when you passed through before.’
Farnor nodded. ‘It was a wise greeting, I fear. I wasn’t fit company for any civilized hearth.’
He dismounted and gripped Marrin’s arms. The Hearer returned the gesture. Farnor remembered just in time to tense his arms to resist the inevitably powerful grip. There was some applause and cheering from the crowd, which immediately surged forward and sur-rounded them both. Marrin, however, smiling broadly, beat them back. ‘We must remember that our guest is on an important journey,’ he shouted. ‘We mustn’t delay him. Give him your gifts and let him be on his way.’
