by Chris Walley
“All of them, my good and respected father. I believe in economy of words.”
“I can’t think where you got that from!” interjected his mother with a chortle.
His father smiled with good humor. “Thank you, my dear. Vero’s bright, highly thought of, and just finished well above average in his tests. Incidentally, Merral, I have been hearing excellent things about your plans for the northeastern forest advance. Oh yes—economy of words—so I won’t tell what I heard. Anyway, as I understood it, old Brenito said that there was something that needed looking at in Farholme—or words to that effect—and so out he comes and here he is.”
“Well, I wonder what needs looking at?”
His father shrugged his shoulders. “On that I have no idea.”
“Still,” Merral said, “I suppose that answers a little bit more of my questions.”
“The rest you will have to ask him. And if he is so minded he may give you an answer. Now let me make some coffee.”
They had coffee sitting round the table and, after a brief and unsuccessful attempt by his father to try to interest them in the detailed scope of the planned new workshops, his mother spoke. “Merral, your father and I had a lovely meal with George and Hania Danol. . . .”
Ah, I wondered when that was going to come up.
“I used to know George years ago,” his father said. “Funnily enough, he was an engineer on the first of the workshops. I suppose we shall soon have to call them the old workshops. . . . Sorry, my dear, I digress.”
She patted his hand, cleared her throat, and started again. “And, of course, the conversation soon turned to you and Isabella. Did we approve? Did we consider that your relationship should be approved, so that you could proceed to making a commitment to each other? Well, it was a very long series of conversations.”
His father coughed slightly. “There was a lot of appreciation of your talents. . . .”
“In fact, Merral, that was the only problem.” His mother paused. “Oh dear, really, I’m not doing this well. Problem isn’t the word. You see, at the end of it all, both we and George and Hania felt . . . well . . . undecided. Isabella is a super girl and very solid and stable. She has such a gift with children, and it’s no wonder Education rates her highly. If your life were to lie here in Ynysmant or even just in eastern Menaya alone then she would be just the person. And yet we all felt that your path may run, as it were, higher and steeper. To Isterrane. Or beyond.”
Or to the south, Merral thought, trying to take in what his mother was saying. “Well I suppose that’s true,” he answered. “I am happy enough here, but I do not know what is in store for me.”
“Quite so,” answered his father, sipping his coffee and staring at his son.
“So,” his mother said slowly, “there was much to discuss. For ourselves, we would love nothing more than to have you and Isabella commit to each other and to have you married and living near us, especially with the girls so far away. But we are very concerned that the path that is yours to tread may be too much for Isabella to bear. Perhaps in a year the way will be clearer; after all, she is only twenty-three. And she is changing.” She sighed and looked at his father.
His father nodded. “So, Merral, to come to the point. Rather unusually, not one of the four of us felt it right to take any steps in that direction. At least, not at the moment. We decided to review things again next summer. I hope that isn’t too disappointing.”
Merral felt shaken by a confusion of emotions. So, they are not going to approve that Isabella and I make a commitment to each other. We stay as close friends but not—at least not yet—exclusively committed to each other. How strange. I had somehow assumed that they would approve.
I see the reasoning, and I suppose, reluctantly, I approve it. Commitments and engagements are always with parental approval; that is how things always have been.
His father was talking again, thoughtfully and with a soft intensity. “You see, Merral—and it’s a funny thing to say about Ynysmant—we have become here a place on the edge of maturity, perhaps, you might even say, of stability. The weather’s not as predictable as it could be, and there’s always the odd earthquake and ice storm, but it’s as safe and cozy a place as anywhere in the Made Worlds now. Why, I was hearing only today that the engineers say the Gulder Swamps are now stable enough that they can begin the new monorail route to Halmacent City next year. No more twenty-hour bus trips on bad roads. Anyway. . . . Oh yes, this,” he waved his arms around, “is Isabella’s world. But we are not convinced it is yours. You see—oh, how can I express it?”
He put his cup down, got to his feet in agitation, and paced over to the end of the room. There he swung round to face them and leaned stiffly back against the wall, his face a picture of concentration. Merral saw his mother’s eyes following him with understanding.
“I’ve never said this to you before, Merral, for fear I was misreading the signs. Son, you’re a rare breed. At times I wonder if you really are my offspring. Of course you are, and if I search hard within me I can see bits of you in me. Or the other way about. Something like that. But in you everything has come right. You have the vision, the energy, the drive. You can lead men and women too. The youngest forestry team leader ever in Menaya, I gather. I have no idea where you will end up. But I doubt, very much, you will stay a forester here for long.”
There was an expectant silence. Merral bowed his head to signify acceptance. I am surprised and yet unsurprised.
“Father and Mother,” he replied, choosing his words carefully, “I thank you for the care and consideration that has gone into your decision. I am both honored and humbled by the confidence you have in my abilities. I trust that I will not disappoint you. With regard to Isabella, while a part of me might wish otherwise, I appreciate both your judgment and your motives.”
His mother grasped his hand with great warmth. That gesture seemed to close the matter, and after some minutes of general conversation, Merral, feeling suddenly tired, decided to go to bed. After kissing his father and mother good night, he went upstairs to his bedroom.
His head was reeling with a hundred thoughts, most of them contradictory, centering on Isabella and on his future. But he felt that, in some strange way, things had worked out. The message from Ingrida about his pending appointment had prepared his mind for his father’s views on his career. Equally, being with Vero had aroused within him a renewed desire to see beyond the horizons of this one infant world. No, he could indeed see the wisdom in what they had said. He would have to talk more with Isabella; there was time, and you didn’t rush into any of the stages that lead to marriage. From those thoughts he drifted into thinking about what it would be like to work in the tropical ecosystems and whether they were as hot as everyone said.
However, as he was undressing for bed, a strange, unsettling notion came to him about something else. It was so unnerving that he stopped still, his shirt half on and half off, trying to deal with it. Two things had come together. First, Vero had said that the only task of the sentinels was to search for a return of evil and had implied that he had been hastily summoned. Second, according to his father, Brenito had called for someone, saying there was something that needed looking at on Farholme. Now, if you put the two ideas together you got—the fear that evil was breaking out on Farholme.
His mind rebelled at the thought. It was too staggering for words. After eleven thousand years the sentinels were still looking for evil. And surely now and here wasn’t likely to be the time or place. No, the obvious answer was simple but sad. Brenito was old and failing in his wisdom, and Vero had been brought here on a wasted journey. After all, if it had been seriously thought on Ancient Earth that evil was breaking out in Farholme, then they wouldn’t have sent out someone so young and inexperienced.
Would they?
5
Next morning Merral awoke to the clamor of trumpets and drums. He lay in bed for some moments listening to the fanfares rolling down from Congregatio
n Hall and echoing over the rooftops, streets, and courtyards of Ynysmant. Then, as every year, there came the answering trumpet blasts and drumrolls from the Gate House and the flag stand on the promontory. “Nativity Morn,” he whispered to himself, quietly rejoicing in both the meaning and the familiarity of the day.
As the fanfares echoed and counter-echoed across the town, Merral rose, drew aside the thick insulating curtain, and opened the window. He shivered briefly in the fresh air and then leaned his head out. The winter’s sun was shining obliquely out of a clear sky over the orange-and-brown-tiled roofs, turrets, and copper green spires, leaving the narrow, winding streets below in shadow. From the highest towers and spires, flags—mostly of scarlet and gold—fluttered gently in the breeze and, as he watched, others were raised to join them. Down beyond the roofs, Merral could see the wave-rippled dull gray waters of Ynysmere Lake, with white gulls wheeling over it and catching the sun. Far beyond, still hazy in the weak morning light, lay the grays and greens of the rolling hills that stretched northward.
Merral stared into the distance, hearing the fanfares and drumrolls rise to passionate ringing climax and then die away. After a few moments’ silence, from down by the promontory the tolling of bells great and small began, sending pigeons flying skyward. As the sound swept through the town, other bells of different pitches and timbres joined in, until Ynysmant seemed awash with their joyful pealing. Slowly, one by one, the trumpets and percussion sounded, adding new levels and colors of sound. Intoxicated by the music, Merral just stood and immersed himself in the surging and swelling of the melody until, slowly and irresistibly, the music built itself through a series of crescendos up to a final culmination of exultant blasts of trumpets over a thunderous echoing roar of drums and tolling bells. Slowly, the music died away in ebbing ripples of sound until finally the silence was broken only by the gentle flapping of the flags in the breeze.
Merral stood savoring the dying echoes of music and the cries of the gulls as they swung over the rooftops until he was suddenly aware that, even in his night-suit, he was cold. He closed the window and returned to his bed. There he knelt and spent time in praise for all that the festival meant. The tradition of missing breakfast on Nativity Morn to spend time in private worship meant that he was in no need of haste.
Indeed it was more than half an hour later that, dressed in his best brown jacket and red trousers, Merral went downstairs. He took the stairs so silently that none of the three people in the general room heard him, and he paused on the landing to look at them. His father, looking splendid in the primrose-and-silver tunic of the neighborhood band, was polishing his trombone. His mother, dressed in an ample dress of a rich purple fabric, was pacing the room, staring at a vocal score she held and silently mouthing words. Vero, dressed in a rather drab gray suit in which he seemed ill at ease, was seated at the table running a finger under some words in the old family Bible.
As he came down, they shared Nativity greetings among each other, and his mother put her score down on a table and came over and kissed him. His father, for once with immaculately groomed hair and tidy beard, beamed affectionately. “Very nice, Merral. Very nice, you look. Are you singing this morning?”
“Not in the choir. Being up north meant that I had to miss the rehearsals; next year maybe.”
“A pity, but anyway, we need someone to accompany Vero up to the hall.”
Vero glanced at Merral with an apologetic grin. “The kind people of Ynysmant have asked me to do one of the readings. I’ve pleaded shyness and an uncouth accent. But it’s no good.”
Merral caught sight of the badge on the suit: a gold circle around a stone tower rising up against a blue sky.
Merral’s mother caught his eye. “He’s doing the Luke 2. It’s very appropriate, son. About the shepherds watching their flocks. Just like sentinels.”
Vero wagged a finger theatrically. “Ah, but I trust you note, Lena Miria, that what the shepherds were watching for, was not what actually happened.” He paused thoughtfully. “In other words, they were watching for the wrong thing. It is indeed appropriate, for it is a humbling passage for sentinels.”
Merral’s father spoke quietly, his words slow. “Well, I must say, things do have a way of catching us all out. Talking of which, Merral, your mother and I must be down at the Lower Square in ten minutes. So you two follow on down. I’ve made sure that they are reserving a place for both of you up near the front of the hall. It’s easier for Vero to get up and read.”
When his parents had gone, Merral sat down facing his guest.
Vero grinned happily at him and stretched out his legs in a gesture of relaxation. “Your parents have made me very welcome.”
“Of course. Now tell me, did you have a pleasant time last night?”
“Ah yes. Everyone was so busy wanting to talk to me that I didn’t have to eat anything. I had no idea that merely being from Ancient Earth was enough to make me a celebrity.”
“Well, we are a long way out.”
“Yes, so I realize. The end of the line. I feel there should be a big sign out there in space. ‘You are now leaving the Assembly. May the angels go with you!’” He smiled. “So, my stomach and I have been finally reunited. What about you? Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
“Good, although I had an interesting discussion with my parents that I’m thinking through.”
Vero leaned back in his chair, his face attentive. “Really? May I ask what about?”
“By all means. I was expecting them to approve that my friendship with a girl named Isabella Hania Danol go to commitment. But rather to my surprise, they feel that—at the moment—they cannot make any such decision. So, it’s all up in the air for six months.”
“Oh?” There was a look of sharp inquiry. “Have they changed their mind about the girl?”
“No. It’s that . . . well, it’s odd. . . . They think that I may be moving on from here and that she may not be so well suited to such a move. They see me as a frontiersman or something.”
“I like that!” Vero smiled. “I think of everyone here as a frontier person. But are you?”
“A frontiersman? Well, I’m happy in my job. I could want nothing more. But we shall see. I am open to the will of the Most High.”
Vero nodded. “Well said. Incidentally, everyone speaks highly of you. Or they did last night.”
My reputation again. How can I escape it? Or should I even try?
“Anyway,” Vero continued, “there’s no approval about you and this young lady. Not unheard of. But how do you feel about it?”
“Well, odd, Vero. You see, it raises all sorts of issues. But I suppose they have a point. I am fond of Isabella; we have a close friendship, and I would have liked it to have gone deeper. But I accept their views.”
“Of course. Is she in Forestry or Forward Planning?”
“Isabella? No, she’s an educational advisor. She monitors the progress of twelve- to fourteen-year-olds against Assembly standards. You know the sort of thing?”
“Indeed. I find it a very interesting subject.”
“Well, I’m not sure I do. But it hardly has anything to do with being a sentinel, does it?”
Vero gave a brief smile and uttered the faintest of sighs. “Moshe Adlen said that sentinels were never to overlook anything. Which is fine in principle, but tough in practice. But one model for how we think is this: Imagine the Assembly as being a complex but beautifully balanced mechanical machine going at a vast speed. Like, say, a hydrogen turbine. Now if, within that machine, one part was to suddenly grow even slightly larger, what would happen?”
Merral threw his hands apart. “Explosive disintegration.”
“Exactly. So it is with the Assembly: Stability and balance are vital. And the Assembly has within it a number of mechanisms for ensuring that no part gets larger than it should. One of those mechanisms is education. Through it the Assembly tries to make sure that no world gets unbalanced, perhaps by becoming all artistic or all
scientific. It’s hard, but things like this are partly our concern too. On one model, as the Assembly grows, the more probability there is that a minor imbalance could become catastrophic. Hence a sentinel’s interest in all stabilizing mechanisms.”
“I see. Well, you may have a chance to meet Isabella.”
“I hope so. But take heart. I’m sure it will all work out.” He smiled sympathetically. “Of course, I can say this because we sentinels normally never marry before our early thirties. So, I have all this ahead of me.” He furrowed his forehead. “Although that too is something that I have asked questions about.”
“Do you like being a sentinel?”
There was a pause. “My likes are immaterial. I was born to the job, as was my father and so on before him.”
“Do you question it?”
Merral caught a sharp, thoughtful glance from his companion. “Yes, I do sometimes.” He paused. “Not seriously, of course. That would be akin to the sin of grumbling and worthy of investigation itself. But I do ask questions. One of my lecturers said to me: ‘Verofaza, as someone committed to preventing rebellion, you do a very good job of imitating a rebel.’ I have a reputation. If it was not a disrespectful thought, I would say they had sent me to tame me. You can imagine it, can’t you? ‘What shall we do with Verofaza Enand?’ ‘Oh, I know—let’s ship him off to Worlds’ End.’ ”
Merral laughed. “But what do you question?”
There was a delicate, almost embarrassed, laugh. “I thought it was me who was supposed to ask the searching questions! But . . . ” Vero seemed to choose his words carefully. “You see, in all our time, now nearly four hundred generations of sentinels, we have sat and watched and listened and—”
“Found nothing?”
Vero’s head seemed to nod almost imperceptibly in agreement. “More or less. Some argue that evil was trying to break through in the trouble on The Vellant in 12985. It was certainly a very odd malaise, a whole community seized by paranoia and delusions. But we alerted the Council of High Stewards in time.”
