by Roger Taylor
A branch?
No, no. It was a hand.
And Marken's hand closed about it, firm and supportive, 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 somewhere 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 stretching 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; unmistakable 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 debate 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 darkness 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 determination. ‘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 silently, 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 s
ake, I can't eat now,’ Farnor said, exasperated.
Marken levelled a finger at him. ‘Just eat,’ he commanded, 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 images 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?'
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 understatement 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.'
Farnor twisted his hand nervously around the rail that he was holding, but made no reply.
Marken shivered and folded his arms about himself. ‘Come on,’ he said, moving past Farnor. ‘The night's chilly.'
* * * *
The following morning, old habits asserted themselves and Farnor woke as soon as light began to filter into his room. There was a faint sound of distant activity in the lodge, and the smell of cooking. For a heart-rending moment he thought that he was back in his own room at the farmhouse. As realization dawned, he clenched his teeth and his fists, and stiffened his entire body in bitter rage. ‘Rannick, Rannick, Rannick,’ he muttered: a dark litany of hatred and in
tended vengeance, accompanied by the image of his enemy, slain, that he had chosen to guide himself by.
Dressed and brutally scrubbed, he eventually found his way to the kitchen where, somewhat to his surprise, he found a bleary-eyed Derwyn cooking.
'A good riser, I see,’ Derwyn greeted him, smiling. ‘Anxious to be off?'
'Marken told you, then?’ Farnor replied.
Derwyn nodded. ‘He certainly did. I've not seen him so excited in years. No ...’ He corrected himself. ‘I've never seen him so excited, ever.’ A stifled yawn twisted his face. ‘He was here half the night, rambling on and on.’ He became thoughtful. ‘But no excitement for you though, was there?’ he said, swinging out a chair from the table and motioning Farnor to sit down. ‘Have you thought any more about what you want to do?'
'What did Marken tell you?’ Farnor asked, bluntly.
Derwyn sat down opposite him, and began eating. ‘That you're a Hearer,’ he replied. ‘A remarkable one at that, to put it mildly, judging by the way he was going on. And that perhaps you're something else, something that even you don't understand.'
'And that they're afraid of me?’ Farnor said.
Derwyn nodded.
'And are you, now? Knowing what you know?’ Farnor asked.
The lines in Derwyn's face deepened as he scrutinized his questioner. ‘No,’ he said dismissively, returning to his food. ‘But then what do I know about such things? I just see a young man in pain. And even Marken doesn't know what they see.’ He indicated a large bowl of fruit and cereal grains. ‘Help yourself. There's no ceremony here. I just advise you to start before Edrien gets down, unless you're good at close-quarter fighting.'
Hesitantly Farnor filled his plate. The simplicity of the action and Derwyn's casual openness stirred uneasily within him.
'You've all been very kind and patient with me,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry if I've been difficult. Caused you such trouble.'
Derwyn shook his head, his face thoughtful. ‘There's change in the air, Farnor,’ he said. ‘I don't know what, or when, but it's there, I can feel it.’ He looked at Farnor and began eating again. ‘But I doubt you're the cause of it. I suspect you've just been caught up in it more than we have so far.'
