Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  'Oh yes,’ Bildar said, without hesitation. ‘Tell him everything. After all, he's not EmRan, is he? He won't go charging about in a wild rage threatening anyone. But he'll want to know the full tale so that he can use it to some effect if need arises.’ He guided Edrien gently to a chair, then he sat down himself and looked at Farnor again. ‘Don't you worry about EmRan,’ he said. ‘He always shouts before he thinks. I'm sure you've got someone like him in your own lodge. And, unfortunately, your arrival has caused a bit of a stir. Derwyn will explain it to you.'

  Farnor made to speak, but Bildar, seemingly anxious not to be questioned further, continued hurriedly. ‘Derwyn's our Second, to answer one of your questions, a sort of—leader—a chief, I suppose.’ He made a vague gesture. ‘But not like a king, or a great war leader. Not someone that everyone follows blindly.'

  'Like a senior elder in our village council?’ Farnor offered, still trembling inside, and a little relieved to be returning to more mundane matters. ‘Someone that people turn to when they have disagreements or problems they can't sort out themselves?'

  Bildar smiled. ‘An elder,’ he mused. ‘A nice word that. A little more dignified than Second, too. Yes, I think that's as near as we'll get to answering your question without giving you a very long history lesson,’ he decided. ‘But you can see why EmRan's quite unsuitable for the job.'

  Farnor nodded and then lowered his head. ‘I'm sorry about the knife,’ he said. ‘I thought he was ... someone else. He gave me a bad fright.'

  'You gave both of us a fright, pulling out that knife like that,’ Edrien said. ‘My father said we should leave it with you, so that you'd feel safer. But ...’ Her voice faded.

  Bildar laid his hand over hers. ‘I gather that you thought it was this person, Nilsson; the one who beat you,’ he said to Farnor. ‘Presumably he too is a large and noisy man.'

  Farnor sat up and took a deep breath. His inner trembling fluttered into life again at the mention of Nilsson's name. ‘Large,’ he managed to say, ‘But not noisy. He ... menaces ... simply by looking, just by ... being there.’ He wrapped his arms about himself briefly, then he shook his head as if to dispel unwanted memories, and his hand drifted absently to his knife.

  Bildar let the subject go. There was an awkward silence until Farnor said, ‘I seem to be causing you a lot of problems.’ He looked from Bildar to Edrien. ‘If you'll let me know how I can repay you for your kindness, I'll be on my way as soon as I can.'

  Bildar took his hand from Edrien's and laid it on Farnor's arm. ‘You owe us nothing, Farnor. A little food and the use of an empty bed hardly burdens us. We'd have done no more and no less for one of our own.'

  Farnor nodded, uncertain what to say. ‘Even so,’ he replied eventually. ‘I must go back home—to my valley. But first, I must do some service for you, to thank you for your help.’ He paused, and then spoke as the thoughts were occurring to him. ‘If you hadn't found me, I'd probably have died. I had some supplies with me, but ...’ He stopped and turned abruptly to Edrien. ‘Where's my horse?’ he asked, wide eyed. ‘I'd completely forgotten about it.'

  Edrien laughed at this sudden change, dispelling the last remnants of EmRan's disturbing visit. ‘Your horse is fine,’ she said. ‘As are all the bits and pieces in your saddlebags.’ Her laughter died away and she looked at him seriously. ‘Judging by what you had with you, I gather that you were intending to live outdoors for some time when you left.'

  'You had a good look, then?’ Farnor said, with some indignation.

  'Oh yes,’ Edrien replied easily. ‘All of us. We thought there might be something in your bags to tell us where you came from, or what had happened to you.’ She tried unsuccessfully to avoid smiling as she spoke, then she gave up. ‘But mainly we were just curious,’ she admitted finally, grinning broadly and leaving Farnor even more indignant, yet incapable of offering her any reproach.

  'Why must you go back?’ Bildar asked casually.

  Farnor opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind. ‘The valley's where I belong,’ he said instead. ‘It's my home.'

  Bildar nodded. ‘I thought that your home had been destroyed,’ he said. ‘And that you'd been driven out by this ... Nilsson.'

  Farnor's jaw tautened. ‘I have to go back,’ he repeated. ‘I have matters to attend to. Family matters.'

  'Matters involving the use of that knife in your belt?’ Bildar said.

  Farnor turned away from him. ‘I have to go back,’ he said again, coldly. He stood up. ‘I'm grateful for the meal and all the kindness that you've shown me, Bildar. But the problems I've brought you will only be solved by my leaving. If my horse and my supplies are all safe, then I'll go as soon as possible.’ He turned to Edrien. ‘Will you take me back to your father's ... lodge? I'd like to thank him and at least offer to repay him for what he's done for me. Then you can show me where my horse is and how I can get on my way.'

  Edrien looked at Bildar for guidance. Bildar raised both hands and motioned Farnor to sit down again. Farnor however, remained standing where he was.

  'Farnor, you're free to go any time that you wish,’ the old man said. ‘I don't know what your people are like, but we place great value on each individual's personal freedom. There's no question of keeping you here any longer than you wish. You must see Derwyn, of course, but I imagine he'll answer you as I have with regard to any form of payment.'

  There was such a weight of qualification in his voice however, that Farnor sat down again.

  'But there are some problems about your leaving,’ Bildar went on. ‘Not the least of which is that we don't know where you came from.'

  Farnor frowned. ‘What do mean, you don't know where I came from?’ he asked.

  'Just what I said,’ Bildar replied. ‘We know where we found you, but how you came there ...’ He shrugged.

  Farnor looked flustered. ‘I rode north. Through the valley. You must know, surely ...'

  Bildar shook his head. ‘South of here lie the mountains. That's all we know. Doubtless there are many valleys there, but we never go near them. None of the Valderen go near the edges of the Forest, except in some extremity.'

  'But ...'

  'We're the most southerly of the Koyden-dae, Farnor, and our hunting ranges are northwards. South is an unknown country to us.'

  Farnor grimaced irritably. ‘Well, take me back to where you found me then,’ he said. ‘The way I was riding, I must have left tracks that a blind man could follow. I'll find my own way back.'

  'Quite possibly,’ Bildar agreed. ‘But ...’ He looked down briefly. ‘... there are other matters to be considered.'

  Farnor's eyes narrowed. ‘What other matters?’ he demanded suspiciously.

  Bildar rubbed his chin with his hand, a perplexed expression on his face. ‘You're an outsider, Farnor, but they let you in,’ he said after a long pause. ‘They must have had their reasons for it, and I suspect they won't let you out.'

  Farnor looked at him in bewilderment. ‘You said something about “they” to EmRan,’ he said. ‘Who are you talking about? Who are “they"?'

  Bildar looked at him uncertainly. ‘They,’ he said, as if stating the obvious, and waving his hand towards the window.

  'I don't understand,’ Farnor said, looking at the window, his brow furrowing. ‘Who do you mean?’ He searched for something familiar. ‘Are there—soldiers—armed men keeping you here, as well?'

  Bildar smiled and shook his head. ‘No, of course not,’ he replied. ‘I told you. We're a free people. No one constrains us.'

  Farnor put his hands to his temples. ‘If no one constrains you, then who are they, and why would they stop me leaving?’ he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

  'They,’ Bildar replied, pointing to the window again.

  Farnor took a slow breath and then looked at the window again. There was nothing to be seen beyond it however, except bright, gently waving foliage. He closed his eyes for a moment and his frown deepened. He w
as about to ask, ‘Who are they?’ once more when he changed his mind and turned to Edrien for assistance. Her light-brown eyes searched his for the source of the confusion that was leading him into this futile circular debate with Bildar.

  An impulse led her to it. ‘The trees, Farnor,’ she said. ‘The trees. They let you in. And if they did that then they want you here for some reason. Father thinks that's why they've taken Marken away. To find out what it's all about.'

  Farnor looked at her dubiously, a faint smile hovering uncertainly at the edges of his mouth. ‘The trees,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘They let me in?'

  Edrien nodded, her eyes fixed on his face.

  'Nothing to do with the fact that my horse was running fit to plough through a mountainside? The trees let me in?'

  Edrien nodded again and gestured at Bildar. ‘We think so,’ she said.

  Farnor's smile broadened, though it was not without some nervousness. ‘I'm sorry. If this is some kind of Valderen joke, I'm afraid it's beyond me.’ He stood up again. ‘I think I'd like to go now, unless you've got a real reason for wanting me to stay.'

  Edrien looked at Bildar, concerned. Bildar turned to Farnor.

  'It's so difficult,’ he said. ‘We really need Marken here. We need to know what they want.'

  Farnor's smile faded and he looked at the two of them uneasily.

  He opted for a further apology. ‘I'm sorry if I'm being slow,’ he said, ‘but I really don't know what you're talking about.’ Increasingly unsettled at this bizarre turn in events however, he endeavoured to be stern. ‘I'd like to leave now. I want to be on my way as soon as I've fulfilled whatever obligations I've incurred here.'

  He moved towards the door. Without comment, Edrien stood up and joined him, though she seemed bewildered by his manner.

  'We're not joking, Farnor,’ Bildar said as Edrien reached out to open the door. ‘It's as Edrien said. It never occurred to me—to any of us—that you wouldn't know.’ He gave a little, self-reproving smile. ‘You'd think I'd be aware of the obvious at my age, wouldn't you?’ he said, half to himself. Then he looked at Farnor, his expression open and his manner straightforward.

  'This is the Forest. The Great Forest. The place of the trees. The ancient place of the trees. Theirs is the power here, should they choose to use it. They allow us to live here. No one knows why, but they do, and we're thankful for it and we live in harmony with their needs, as best we can.'

  Farnor remained motionless while Bildar spoke. Then he looked from the old man to Edrien and back again. He could find no hint of mockery in either of them. Still less any hint of madness. ‘You really believe this, don't you?’ he said cautiously, after an awkward pause.

  Bildar smiled. ‘An odd word, believe,’ he said. ‘You might as well say that I believe in this table, or the sky, or Edrien here. But yes, I believe it. I believe it because it happens to be so. And it will remain so whether I, or you, believe in it or not.'

  Farnor glanced out of the window at the swaying branches. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked, self-consciously. ‘Do they ... talk ... to you?’ He cleared his throat, still fearful that he was being made the butt of some joke. ‘Do they ... walk about?’ He wiggled his first two fingers in demonstration.

  For a moment Bildar's face clouded angrily, but his voice was level and calm when he spoke. ‘No, of course not,’ he said, with wilful slowness. ‘At least, not in the way that we do.'

  'Then how can they prevent me from leaving?’ Farnor asked, a hesitant note of triumph in the question.

  Bildar, still making a deliberate effort to remain calm, touched his forehead. ‘They can reach into our minds if they wish,’ he said. ‘Make their thoughts yours. What you thought was left, will be right; what north, south; what up, down. And you'll wander back here. Or wherever they want you to go.'

  Farnor, just coming to terms with the idea of a people that lived in the trees, felt unreality closing about him. Desperately he wanted to laugh and pour scorn on this foolishness, but the old man's manner forbade it. As did Edrien's now sober presence. And, unbidden, came the memory of his last joining with the creature. How it was preparing to make its final leap when suddenly, he, the fleeing prey, was no longer there. ‘How can you know all this?’ he asked again, though speaking to reassure himself that he was not in some eerie dream, rather than to elicit an answer.

  Bildar relaxed a little. He shrugged. ‘It's the way we are, Farnor. We all know it. It's in our blood, in our history, in everything. It's ... obvious.’ He held up a hand to forestall Farnor's inevitable further questions. ‘But there are some among us who ... Hear ... what the trees say. They can tell us when a tree may be felled, or branches taken, bark stripped. When a tree may be used as a lodge; when not. Many, many things that we need to know if we're to stay here in peace with them.'

  Farnor looked at him uncertainly, his mood still teetering between scorn and fear. He remembered the word that EmRan had used. ‘Are you a Hearer?’ he asked.

  Bildar shook his head. ‘It's said that all the Valderen are Hearers to some extent, but no, I'm not. Not as we mean it.’ He looked at his hands. ‘I'm just an old journeyman Mender. More at home with flesh and bones and protesting people than bark and sap and the whispering leaves.’ His voice became low and pensive. ‘And the voices that sing in the mind between sleeping and waking.'

  Farnor clung to practicalities. ‘Is there someone here who is a Hearer, then?’ he asked. ‘Someone who can ...’ He tried to say, ‘ask the trees', but the words refused to form. ‘... find out whether I can go or not?’ he managed.

  Bildar shook his head again. ‘I'm afraid not,’ he said. ‘Marken was—is—our Hearer, but he's gone off in search of a quiet place.'

  'When will he be back?’ Farnor persisted.

  Bildar shrugged and looked at him sadly. ‘Today, next week, never. We don't know,’ he replied. ‘That's the trouble. That's what's caused all the stir. It's not good for a lodge to be without a Hearer.'

  Farnor put his hand to his head. He was about to ask why the Hearer had gone, but as it obviously involved him in some way he decided against it. ‘How can I find out what I'm supposed to do, then?’ he asked instead.

  Bildar looked at him squarely. ‘I don't know,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you should just saddle your horse and ride south. See what happens.'

  Farnor looked out of the window again. He was shaking inside.

  How could he believe all this nonsense? Yet there was no doubt that Bildar and Edrien believed it, and presumably everyone else around here did so as well. As he looked at the sunlit leaves and branches beyond the window, they seemed to take on a menacing, purposeful motion of their own, and he seemed to sense countless eyes peering at him, watching his every movement. And ears listening to him. Listening to the hidden discourses of his mind. Worse, the sensation was not unfamiliar.

  He looked away sharply. He must not allow Bildar and Edrien's strange beliefs, however sincere, to infect him. It would be at best discourteous and at worst perhaps downright dangerous to mock their ideas, but equally it would be madness to allow himself to be drawn into believing them himself. What he needed now was plain, simple common sense.

  But even as he reasoned thus, he remembered the distant voices that he himself had heard in the recent past; voices that were full of many emotions, and that seemed to belong to a great family; voices that he knew were from somewhere beyond him, just as surely as was his contact with the creature.

  Then he recalled the voices that had urged him to flee from the woods. And that had directed him away from the valley! Had directed him to the north! And in the wake of these exploded the memory of those he had heard as he lay half awake, half asleep, in the root room. Voices that had given him a fearful, giddying, perspective of countless ages gone and yet still present, as they judged him in some way.

  'He can Hear us even now.’ Such depths of meaning resonated in that word, Hear.

  '... never been s
uch a one before.’ Deeply puzzled, awe-stricken, almost.

  Dismissive. ‘... but a solitary Mover. And a sapling.'

  A sapling!

  'What's a Mover?’ he asked Bildar sharply.

  Bildar started at the unexpectedness of the question, and Farnor heard Edrien catch her breath.

  'Why?’ Bildar asked.

  'What's a Mover?’ Farnor repeated.

  'Where did you hear the word?'

  'What does it mean?’ Farnor insisted.

  There was a short silence in which Farnor and Bildar stared at one another.

  'It's what they call us.’ The answer came from Edrien.

  She echoed Bildar's question. ‘Where did you hear it?'

  Farnor could feel the blood mounting to his face. He blustered. ‘I ... I heard it from one ... one of the people we met when we were coming here.'

  Edrien and Bildar exchanged glances, then Edrien shook her head. ‘It's not a word we use,’ she said. ‘The only people who'd call us Movers are children in their games, and Hearers, when they're telling of some particularly significant Hearing.’ She stepped towards Farnor and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Where did you hear it?’ she demanded.

  Farnor was reminded of Marna's inexorable curiosity. This, he could contend with ... for some time, at least.

  He set his jaw. ‘I don't remember,’ he said defiantly. Edrien's jaw stiffened in imitation.

  'Leave him, Edrien,’ Bildar's voice came between them like a protective shield. ‘It's probably nothing.'

  Reluctantly, Edrien stepped away from him, though her eyes did not leave his face. As surreptitiously as he could, Farnor took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He shut out of his mind the clamouring implications of what he had just been told. He must get away from this place. There was too much strangeness beneath the seeming normality here. He must get back to the valley. The thought brought an acrid taste to his mouth, and his original resolve flooded through him, oddly warm and reassuring. There was nothing for him anywhere until he had won vengeance for his parents; until he had killed Rannick.