Valderen [The Second Part of Farnor's Tale]

by Roger Taylor

  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.

  '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 nothingness, 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 realization.

  '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 forward. 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 surrounded 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.'

  Before he could offer any resistance to this suggestion, Farnor found himself the recipient of several baskets laden with bread, pies and fruit, and bottles.

  'Just water,’ Marrin said paternally. ‘We know you'll be needing your wits about you. And you're already quite a faller from what we've heard.'

  Farnor could do no other than laugh at the old man's tone. The action felt strange to him, almost hurting his face. ‘I'm afraid I am,’ he agreed, as he turned to the packhorse and began searching for space for the gifts.

  The crowd, happy and smiling, milled around him, holding things for him, offering him things, and generally making his task last twice as long as it would have if he had been left alone. Several times he had to pause while he was introduced to various people, whose strange names he immediately forgot, and several times, too, he had to bend low in order to let young children touch his black hair before they ran away giggling.

  Eventually, however, he finished. The crowd parted as he mounted, but just as he was about to move off, Marrin emerged again. He was holding a staff. ‘Take this, Farnor,’ he said. ‘It's good ash. Tight, straight grain. Very strong. Very old. It might even have come from ...’ He left the sentence unfinished, but inclined his head significantly towards the north. ‘It's been in my family for years.'

  The last remark made Farnor withdraw his hand from the offered staff. ‘You've all been very generous to me,’ he said. ‘But I can't take this if it's precious to you. I may never be back here.'

  Marrin shook his head, and thrust the staff under a strap on the packhorse's back. ‘Take it,’ he said briskly, slapping the pack. ‘Let's have no foolishness, sapling. It's only a good sturdy staff. And you being such a faller and all ...’ He pursed his lips and looked knowingly at Farnor. ‘Besides,’ he said. ‘You'll be back. Without a doubt.'

  His manner allowed no argument, and Farnor gave a rather self-conscious nod of acceptance. Then, as he was searching for the words with which to make an appropriate farewell, his horse set off without any command, obliging Farnor to grab the reins hastily and bring it to a halt. ‘A moment, if you don't mind,’ he said indignantly, but silently, to the trees. A faint air of apology surrounded him and the horse became still again. He turned to Marrin. ‘They're anxious for me to be on my way,’ he said.

  'Yes, I can feel it,’ Marrin replied, excited again. ‘I'm sorry you can't stay. I've so many questions to ask you.’ A look of sadness passed briefly over his face but with a little shake he transformed it into a smile. ‘But there'll be some other time, I'm sure.’ He slapped Farnor's horse. ‘Travel well, Hearer. As Uldaneth would say, light be with you.'

  The horse set off again, walking for a little way, then breaking into a trot. Farnor turned in the saddle and waved to the watching crowd.

  As he rode through the lodge, many other people appeared out of the trees to encourage him on his way, some of the younger ones running alongside him for a while. The crowd around Marrin, however, remained stationary, as if waiting for something.

  Farnor had scarcely disappeared from view when Marrin's smiling face sobered. Nodding grimly to himself he raised his hand and beckoned. Several riders emerged from the trees. They were all heavily armed. At another signal from Marrin, they turned and rode in the direction that Farnor had taken.

  * * * *

  Spared much of the effort of his journey by the silent guidance being given to his mount, Farnor found himself almost hypnotized by the steady drumming of its hooves over the forest turf. The release he had found on the mountain was still with him, but though much of his inner torment had gone, the way ahead remained ominous and forbidding, and he was reluctant to dwell on it too deeply.

  But it could not be avoided. Each step of the horse took him nearer to whatever destiny lay in wait for him and when he considered his position it gave him no comfort. Now, despite the pain he felt at the loss of his parents, and his determination to see that some kind of justice was done, he had no desire to die at Rannick's hands—and still less at the jaws of that fearful creature—as a result of some reckless confrontation. The lofty declarations he had made when he returned down the mountain seemed to be increasingly hollow as vivid memories of his beating by Nilsson and his pursuit by the creature ret
urned to give him a measure of his skill as a fighter. It was a measure that turned his stomach to lead.

  'You must help me,’ he said eventually to the trees. ‘Tell me what you do know about the power that Rannick has, that I have. You speak of worlds between worlds, but I've had only giddy visions of what you mean. Tell me clearly.'

  There was an amused despair in the voice that answered. ‘I would if we could, Farnor,’ it said. Despite his grim preoccupation, Farnor smiled as he noted the return of the confusion between the one and the many now that he was some distance from the place of the most ancient.

  'What are these worlds of yours that I ... walk in, then?’ he asked.

  'They are what they are,’ came the unhelpful, but apologetic reply. ‘You are there now. They lie at the edges of the world where we are many. And because we are many, and there, we have the strength to reach them to become one. But how you reach them to be with us, is beyond us.'

  At the edges of the world? Farnor frowned. The words made no sense to him, nor did the strange, flickering images that hung about them. He returned to his first question. ‘The worlds between the worlds. What are they?’ he insisted. ‘And why are you so afraid of them?'

  'This you know.'

  Farnor felt the power of the most ancient reaching out to him in this reply. The words drew from his mind his memories of the wrongness he had felt in his contact with Rannick and the creature. The wrongness of something brought to this world from another place: something that did not belong here and which, by virtue of that alone, could be ferociously destructive. There were also fleeting images of a terrible imbalance and appalling chaos, but they were torn from his mind with such force that his hand came to his head as if he had been struck. He knew that to pursue this would be futile.

  'The worlds lie between the worlds. Lie in the infinite spaces between the ...’ Farnor strained for the word. Again a strange flickering pervaded it. Was it heartbeats? ‘... of this world. As we lie between the ...’ Again the word eluded him. ‘... of theirs. And they are beyond number. But they do not belong here, nor our world there.'