Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  As they walked, Farnor finally identified something that had been troubling him; the sound that mingled with the wind-stirred branches and birdsong was the sound of human voices; many voices.

  He looked upward. ‘How many people are there up there?’ he asked.

  Edrien followed his gaze and frowned. ‘I haven't the faintest idea,’ she said irritably. ‘You ask the strangest questions. You'll be wanting to know how many birds are up there next.'

  Farnor let the matter lie. Perhaps it had not been the most sensible of questions. Nevertheless, he was drawn to look up again. His eyes narrowed as he listened intently. Although individual voices came and went, shouting, laughing, there was a steady continuous hubbub. And too, there were other sounds: footfalls along the wooden platforms, a door slamming, a dog barking? And sounds that he could not identify. It might have been a silly question, he mused, but he would have liked an answer to it even so. There were a great many people up in that dense green canopy.

  'Come on.’ Edrien's shout brought him out of his reverie. He began running towards her, until his legs reminded him that they had had more than enough vigorous exercise recently, and reduced him rapidly to a leisurely and cumbersome walk.

  A little further on, they came to an area where the trunks of the trees were seamlessly joined together with bark-covered walls such as Farnor had seen on the lodges, except that here they reached down to ground level. A faint smell of stables reached him, suddenly bringing back an unexpectedly vivid and not particularly welcome memory of the farmyard at home.

  Edrien however, walked on past these walls and towards a large, rounded hillock that welled up out of the Forest floor. It was covered with dense shrubbery through which rose a widely spaced cluster of particularly tall trees.

  Farnor gazed up at them giddily. ‘No one lives up these, then?’ he asked.

  Edrien was regretting her brusque dismissal of his previous question a little and, remembering her father's injunction to watch her tongue, she answered as pleasantly as she could. ‘No one lives up most of the trees. I don't suppose your lodges at home cover absolutely everywhere.'

  Farnor conceded the point with a nod.

  'Most of the lodges are where they are because they're where they are,’ she went on unhelpfully, with a disclaiming shrug. ‘They've always been there. I don't suppose anyone knows exactly why.’ She paused and nodded to herself reflectively. ‘I'd never thought about it before, to be honest,’ she announced, after a moment, giving Farnor a puzzled, slightly surprised, look.

  'I expect some trees are more suitable than others,’ Farnor offered vaguely.

  'Oh yes,’ Edrien replied. ‘I don't know much about it myself, but choosing a tree for a lodge is quite a performance.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘There's an awful lot of talk goes on amongst the gnarls before any decisions are made,’ she said, slightly disdainfully.

  'The gnarls?’ Farnor echoed.

  Edrien pondered the question for a moment. ‘The Congresim,’ she answered, pursing her lips severely and screwing up her face by way of explanation. ‘The old folks. Father, EmRan, you know, all our wise and revered parents and ...'

  She stopped suddenly and her hand leapt to her mouth. ‘I'm sorry, Farnor,’ she said desperately, her eyes widening. ‘I forgot. I didn't think ... I ...’ She bit her bottom lip and looked up into the trees as if to call the words back.

  'It's all right,’ Farnor said. ‘No amount of words, thoughtless or otherwise, is going to have any effect on me now. Finish telling me how the trees are chosen for the lodges.'

  'Well,’ she stammered awkwardly, ‘it seems to be mainly talk, as I said.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘Marken has a big say in what happens, of course, because a tree can't be built in without their goodwill. But after that, it's all, how big should this be? how big should that be? should this branch be trimmed? should that? I don't understand much about it really. And the Climbers make most of those decisions anyway, as far as I can gather.’ Recalling something, she clapped her hands. ‘If you were staying, you'd be able to see a first climb,’ she said excitedly, her confusion evaporated. ‘I'd forgotten in all this upheaval.'

  Farnor looked bewildered.

  'One of my cousins is starting his own lodge,’ Edrien went on. ‘All the talking's finished and the first climb will be in a few days. As soon as all the local Climbers are here.'

  Farnor raised his hands to stop this sudden flow. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

  'The first climb,’ Edrien said again. ‘It's ... it's ... a celebration to start the building of a new lodge.’ She waved her hands up and down rapidly. ‘There's the drums—and the race. You must stay and see it ...'

  'I can't stay,’ Farnor said, cutting across her enthusiasm none too gently. ‘I have to go.'

  Edrien looked at him expectantly for a moment and then sagged a little. ‘If you must, I suppose you must,’ she said. ‘I'm sorry I got excited, it's just that ...'

  'It's all right,’ Farnor said. ‘I shouldn't ask so many silly questions.'

  'Not very silly, I suppose,’ Edrien said. ‘I'm sure I'd ask a lot of strange questions if I suddenly found myself in the open lands with lodges all piled up on top of one another.'

  Farnor looked at her uncertainly, and then gave a little laugh. ‘They're not piled up on top of one another,’ he said. ‘They're next to each other, side by side, with spaces in between—big spaces.’ He demonstrated.

  'Oh,’ Edrien replied, flatly, her eyes flicking from one moving hand to the other. ‘Are you sure that everywhere isn't covered with lodges?'

  'I'm certain,’ Farnor replied.

  Edrien looked at him. ‘You look a lot less grim when you smile,’ she said. ‘And I don't think I've heard you laugh since we found you.'

  But the laugh was already echoing reproachfully through Farnor. It mingled with the residue of the excitement that Edrien's enthusiasm for the first climb had created, to fill him with a bitter sense of betrayal. Laughter and celebration were not his to enjoy now. They were for other people; people whose slaughtered parents were not crying for revenge. Guilt welled up, foul, inside him.

  His face darkened. ‘I thought we were nearly there,’ he said starkly.

  A slight spasm of pain passed over Edrien's thin face, but it was gone on the instant. ‘Yes,’ she said, pointing. ‘They're just here.'

  Farnor found himself following her down a wide pathway that had been cut into the hillock. Neatly trimmed embankments rose up steeply on each side of the path, and an almost vertical face sealed the end of the artificial chasm. Set well into this face was a large double doorway. Edrien swung expertly on one of the doors and dragged it open, then stepped inside. Farnor glanced dubiously at the embankment lowering ominously above him before following her.

  He did not know what he had expected to find in this underground chamber, but images of cold and damp and darkness had predominated. He was thus considerably surprised to find himself in a huge space which, despite the pervasive smell of horses, contrived to be light, airy and dry. It was also very high and, at seemingly random intervals, great irregular pillars swelled up from the floor and shouldered themselves purposefully under the unevenly curved roof. Farnor gave a soft ejaculation of surprise. ‘This is amazing,’ he said, staring around.

  Edrien glanced at him. ‘It's only another root worn,’ she said, though had Farnor been listening carefully enough, he would have heard no small amount of proprietorial pride in the casualness she affected.

  Inquisitively, Farnor walked over to one of the large pillars and examined it closely. It had a rough-hewn appearance, giving the impression that it was simply a column of earth or rock that had been left by the excavators of the chamber, but as he looked at the surface carefully he saw that it was an irregular and complicated weave of what he took to be tiny roots. His eyes drawn inexorably upwards, he saw that the roof was similar to that in the room in which he had first awakened, though here the twisting timber
s were both bigger and more numerous. And the place was filled with light, he realized. Further, it seemed to be daylight. He looked around for lanterns and lamps, but though there were one or two illuminating odd corners there were none that could account for the general brightness. ‘Is there a hole in the roof?’ he asked in bewilderment.

  With a concerned frown, Edrien looked upwards urgently. ‘Of course not, no,’ she said, with some indignation, after a brief inspection.

  'Where's the daylight coming from, then?’ Farnor retorted.

  'Mirror stones, of course,’ Edrien replied. ‘How else could we get the daylight into here?'

  Farnor was tempted to pursue this intriguing answer, but part of him foresaw an endless tangled skein of inquiries ensuing about these strange people, and little profit to be gained from it in the end if he was going to be leaving shortly.

  He nodded, as if the answer had been adequate, and then turned his attention to the lower reaches of the chamber. Around the edge were stalls in which the horses were kept. Some were small rooms cut into the sides of the main chamber, others were just fenced areas. In the distance, there was a large corral in which several horses were grazing quietly, bathed in a brilliant sunlight. Looking up, Farnor saw that the brightness came from a great swathe of tiny lights, sprinkled almost like stars across the broad, uneven dome of the roof. The mirror stones, he deduced in some awe, though the sight told him nothing about them, and again he deliberately chose not to pursue the matter.

  Edrien was talking to him. ‘I said, your horse is over here,’ she repeated, pointing to one of the stalls. ‘It's been groomed and tended and, unlike you, doesn't seem to be much the worse for wear after its journey, apart from being hungry and tired. What's it called?'

  'Called?’ Farnor echoed vaguely. ‘I've no idea. It's just one of the inn horses. It doesn't have a name.'

  Edrien's forehead furrowed. ‘I've never heard of an inhorse,’ she said. ‘Do you have outhorses as well?'

  Farnor paused as his mind teetered abruptly sideways in search of a meaning to this remark. ‘No, no,’ he said, hastily, as he discovered it. ‘It's not an inhorse, it's an inn horse.'

  Edrien looked at him blankly.

  'The horse belongs to the inn,’ Farnor explained. ‘It's the innkeeper's in a manner of speaking. Everyone provides food for it and the others that are kept there, and the innkeeper tends them. Although actually, he usually gets some of the children to do all the hard work.'

  Edrien nodded sagely at this last remark; perhaps after all there was not a great deal of difference between the Valderen and these outsiders, but she could not forebear asking, ‘What's an inn?’ as they reached the stall which held Farnor's horse.

  'Just a place where people sit and drink, and talk, after they've finished their work,’ Farnor answered.

  'What, everyone?’ Edrien exclaimed. ‘All together? Like a great communal hall?'

  Farnor felt the bounds of normality slipping away from him again. ‘No,’ he said, with a hint of desperation. ‘It's just a ... house ... a lodge ... where people can go and ... drink and talk,’ he repeated, adding weakly, ‘If they feel like it.'

  'A meeting house,’ Edrien decided. ‘Where community matters are decided.'

  Farnor shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, rather than risk becoming entangled in any further discussion.

  'It sounds like one of our ale-lodges,’ Edrien said.

  The distinct note of disapproval in her voice however, encouraged Farnor not to pursue the topic further.

  They entered the stall, and Farnor began to examine his horse. There were some cuts on its legs and flanks, obviously caused by the undergrowth through which it had careened, but he could find no serious injuries. ‘You've looked after it very well,’ he said. ‘Thank you.'

  'You're welcome,’ Edrien said, patting the horse's nose gently. ‘It's a nice animal, even if its colour does make it look grim.’ She looked at Farnor's hair. ‘Does everything have black hair, out there?’ she asked, frowning.

  Farnor reached tentatively to run his hand through his hair but stopped halfway and gesticulated vaguely. ‘No,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Horses—and heads—come in all sorts of different colours.'

  Edrien looked relieved. ‘I thought everyone couldn't be quite so fierce-looking,’ she said. ‘It'd be awfully depressing.'

  Farnor looked at her helplessly. ‘The horse is fine,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I'll pack my things and be on my way, then. Unless your father's found anything he wants me to do.'

  Edrien looked at him enigmatically. ‘Your horse isn't fine yet, Farnor. You can see that. It's still tired. A day or two more will make a big difference to it. And to you. And ...’ She stopped.

  'And?’ Farnor prompted.

  Edrien turned away from him as if gathering up courage. Then she looked squarely at him. ‘You don't know what a disturbance your coming here has caused,’ she said, calmly, though Farnor could see that her whole body was tense. ‘You really don't. Outsiders just don't come here. Not to the lodges of the Koyden-dae. It's something that hardly ever happens even in our great tales. If they come to the Forest at all they come from the north and the east, to the Koyden-ushav and Koyden-d'ryne. But we're the deepest dwellers of the Valderen, the oldest of the old. No one ever comes here.'

  Farnor looked at her, held by her quietness far more than he could have been by any amount of impassioned urging.

  'We have Marken bursting in, half fearing for his sanity, so vivid was the Hearing he had. Telling us we had to find something ... something that was disturbing them ... in the south, of all directions, when our ranges are all to the north. And then we find you, lying there. Black-headed and black-horsed, like something out of a dark dream. There's something very special about all of this; about you, and your being here. You're here for a reason. You must stay.'

  Farnor began to look about him, as if for escape. ‘I just rode here by accident, that's all,’ he said, with a helpless gesture. ‘Or rather, the horse carried me here. The last thing I remember is ...’ He faltered as the horror of the pursuing creature returned to him. ‘... is hanging on to the horse and then ... blackness.’ Taking a deep and shaking breath, he reached up and began patting the horse's neck nervously. ‘There's nothing special about me. Nothing at all. I'm just an ordinary person. Just as you never leave your forest, so no one from my village ever went over the hill—out of our valley—until ...'

  Edrien snatched at a passing thought. ‘Until someone from the outside came to you, and drove you out,’ she said, eyes wide with realization. ‘And now you've come from the outside to us.'

  'No,’ Farnor said defensively, moving round to the other side of the horse to hide his face.

  'Yes,’ Edrien insisted, following him. She seized his arm and swung him round. Again, despite his confusion, he was surprised at the strength of her grip. ‘They came from the outside to destroy your life, and now you've come from the outside to us. What for? You've got to stay and help us find out what it all means.’ She was almost shouting. ‘They've never let an outsider in before. Not ever. They want you here. You must ...'

  Farnor yanked his arm free. ‘Must! Must! Must!’ he shouted full in her face. ‘I don't have to do anything, girl. And I certainly don't have to listen to this foolishness about them any more.’ He waved his arms about wildly. ‘They're trees out there. Just trees. Plants, like flowers and grasses, just bigger and older that's all. Things you climb in and lie under and chop down. They're not gods, thinking creatures, they're ... they're just lumps of wood, for pity's sake.’ He snatched out the knife from his belt and drove it several times into the side of the stall, prizing out great splinters of wood. ‘Look. That's all they are. Plain old wood. For making planks and beams, or bowls and knives and forks, and whatever else you people make of the damned stuff.'

  Edrien backed away from him, her face a mixture of alarm and anger.

  Suddenly Farnor felt as if he were being borne away on the echo of hi
s own ranting voice. He seemed to be looking at the great root chamber from some other place, a pounding mixture of fear and rage swirling through him, possessing him. To the heart of his being he knew that he must destroy the cause of all this pain and horror. He must return to the valley and destroy Rannick utterly, and if needs be, any who stood before him or espoused his cause, no matter what the cost to himself. As his fury consumed him, he felt his will rise up like a screaming wind. Then it was moving across the Forest, towards the mountains that lay to the south, time and distance set at naught. Angry, malevolent. Seeking, searching. Hideously intent.

  Abruptly, he was overwhelmed. Some greater power rose up and engulfed him; returned him brutally to his body in the great root room.

  For an instant, he found himself staring again into the pale, fearful face of Edrien, then he plunged into darkness.

  As he fell, a deep, powerful voice rang through his entire being. ‘No, Mover. Not until more is understood of your true purpose.'

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Farnor opened his eyes abruptly; suddenly wide awake. He was greeted by the sight and sound of Bildar, starting away from him violently with an agitated cry. ‘You frightened me to death,’ the old man gasped, patting his chest vigorously. ‘I thought you were unconscious.'

  Farnor found that he was sitting on the ground, leaning against the uneven wall of the stables. He looked around. Derwyn, Angwen, Edrien, and several other people had formed a loose semi-circle about him. Like Bildar, they all looked startled. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked. ‘What's happened? What are you all doing here?'

  Edrien stepped forward and knelt down by him. ‘You fainted,’ she said. ‘You were shouting at me, then all of a sudden your eyes rolled up and you fell over.'

  'Fainted,’ Farnor blustered, as he leaned ungallantly on her to struggle to his feet. ‘Nonsense. I've never fainted in my life. I must have slipped on something.'