Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  Blood filled him.

  Sacrifice.

  Endless sacrifice.

  That was the true purpose. All was to be laid on the altar, His altar, in blood and terror, so that…

  Something tore Vredech away before he could form the scream that he must utter in the presence of what was emerging.

  He was wide awake and upright. His hand shot out and struck a small bedside lantern into life, but even before its dawning glimmers had reached into the dark corners of the room, his senses had desperately drawn in the realities of everything around him, and wrapped them about him like a shield wall.

  Yet, washing behind him, in the wake of his desperate flight, came the gaping, bloodstained images that reflected the fate of all that had been chosen for…

  He put his hands to his head in denial as the images beat themselves against him. Then he tore back the sheets, swung himself off the bed and doused the lantern in a single move. The darkness in the room was only momentary, for the daylight immediately made its presence felt even through the drawn curtains. He yanked them open roughly and stood, arms outstretched, in the cleansing light.

  Where had he been? Into what abomination had he just stumbled?

  He was allowed no time for further thought, however, for even as he stood there, bustling footsteps along the passageway alerted him to another, more benign assault. There was a faint knock on the door, which then opened before he could give a reply.

  ‘Brother Vredech, are you all right? I thought I heard something fall over.’

  Vredech turned, thankful that the bright daylight was at his back. ‘I’m fine, thank you, House. Surprisingly well-rested. What time is it?’

  ‘A little before noon,’ House replied.

  Vredech raised a mildly admonitory finger as he saw her preparing more questions. ‘I think I’ll get changed then,’ he said firmly. House looked him up and down, dithered for a moment, then muttering something vaguely apologetic, left.

  He moved over to the bed and, sitting, looked down at his hands. They were shaking. And his mind was still full of the images from which he had just fled, their cruel intensity scarcely diminished. He needed to talk to Nertha. But he could not show her what he had seen, recount all that he had heard, somehow pass to her his certain knowledge. He could give her only words. She would only see her brother – he stumbled over the word – rambling. Having a recurrence of his ‘brain fever’.

  And perhaps, after all, he was… No!

  Vredech thrust the thought away. While he could judge his conduct to be rational, he would cling to his intention of watching and listening. The ghost of his father would sustain him for quite a while yet. As, too, would his faith.

  But these conclusions did not lessen the unease that formed in the pit of his stomach as his hands had stopped trembling. Except for the fundamental doctrines of the church, change was the way of all things, he knew, but too much was happening too quickly and he could not avoid a feeling of pattern, of shape, to events, though what it was, how it had come about, and where it would lead, he could not begin to fathom. So far there had been the crisis in the Heindral looming suddenly out of what was, after all, no more than a tragic drunken brawl in a foreign country; two terrible murders; and now this disaster in the PlasHein Square which had left some people dead and others massively injured, and must surely leave many more scarred and distressed for a long time, perhaps even for the rest of their lives. And twisting through all this upheaval, like the winding robe from an unclean corpse, were the Sheets, particularly Privv’s, with their lying, their thoughtless, callous rhetoric, their bigotry and complete disregard for the duty that it was originally claimed they would perform: the informing of the people of events that were occurring in and about Troidmallos. They were a desperately dangerous force, Vredech realized suddenly, spreading ignorance and intolerance where they should spread knowledge and compassion, and spreading them with the peculiar vividness of the printed word. They should be restrained. Their very presence changed the things they wrote about. Such power should not be allowed in the hands of people so blatantly irresponsible.

  Yet how could they be restrained, and by whom?

  Vredech put his hand to his head. It was just another thread among the many that were tangling in his mind. And the Sheets were merely on the surface of what was happening, a scrofulous rash caused by a deeper, more serious inner affliction of the body.

  His mind swung back to yet another change that had occurred over the last few months: Cassraw. Was his old friend just playing some game of church politics, or was he in reality slipping slowly into insanity? A coldness came over Vredech. There was a third alternative. Perhaps indeed something had possessed Cassraw. Certainly something more profound than the changing of a fruit juice into water had happened yesterday at the Haven Meeting House, though that in itself he still found deeply disturbing, despite Nertha’s scornful dismissal. Something had entered that room. Something corrupt and awful, yet enthrallingly powerful. Something that had passed through and over him, awakening…

  Awakening what?

  Perhaps no more than your sluggish wits, he tried to tell himself half-jocularly. But the jibe did nothing.

  ‘I heard Him as I travelled the dreamways. He walks among us again… Ahmral.’ Jarry’s words returned to him. Mad Jarry, driven into drink and violence, yet made suddenly eloquent by whatever it was he had seen, or felt. Was that what he was doing now, travelling the dreamways? Or was his mind softening, like Jarry’s? Before he could pursue the question, other words came, keen and penetrating: the Whistler’s.

  ‘He is evil personified…

  ‘Out of the heat of the Great Creation…

  ‘He wanders the worlds… A predator… A parasite, in search of a host…’

  A host.

  Vredech could feel unwelcome thoughts rolling towards him. Thoughts that would lead him into who could say what future.

  As if to stay their arrival, his body lifted him off the bed and began changing him into his formal day clothes.

  ‘He carries with Him the essence of all that is dark and foul in the human spirit, all that wallows in ignorance.’

  The image of the Sheets flitted briefly through Vredech’s mind again.

  Ahmral does not exist, Vredech forced himself to think. He is merely a representation of the wicked aspects of mankind as a whole; those traits that should be resisted and controlled. But he was on unsure ground, he knew. Ishryth was accepted by the church as a real and sentient force, albeit beyond physical encompassing by any resource in this world. Why not then Ahmral? Could He not be accorded the benefit of the same faith?

  Old, old arguments. Arguments that, amongst others, had once been fought over bloodily. Arguments that were not aided by the Santyth, awkwardly ambiguous on the matter. And now the Whistler’s scornful words had cleaved through Vredech’s ill-judged complacency like a shining axe, cutting into the heart of his world. ‘There is nothing supernatural, Priest. There is only the darkness where your ability to measure the natural ends.’

  Vredech stepped out of his room. Emerging from a room opposite was Nertha. She looked at him intently. ‘You should have slept longer,’ she announced.

  ‘And you shouldn’t?’ he retorted as they walked down the broad stairway.

  ‘My job, looking after sick people,’ Nertha replied.

  ‘Not like that,’ Vredech stated unequivocally.

  ‘I’ve been involved in the aftermath of some large accidents before,’ she replied, though almost immediately conceding, ‘But never anything like that, I’ll admit.’ She took Vredech’s arm. Her face was concerned. ‘It’ll linger with you, Allyn,’ she said. ‘Suddenly you’ll be in the middle of it again. That’s the way it is with things like that. Don’t be afraid. Just tell me if it happens.’

  Vredech laid his hand over hers. ‘I’m getting well used to finding myself other than where I think I am,’ he said, smiling.

  Nertha gave him a sidelong look. ‘You don�
�t seem to be too concerned about it any more.’

  ‘I’m trying not to keep gnawing at it, that’s all,’ he replied. ‘But I’m more concerned about what’s happening now than I was even yesterday.’ He took both her hands. ‘Whatever changed Cassraw on the mountain has changed me, too, though I don’t know how, or even in what way. I seem to have found a strength from somewhere.’ He gripped her hands tightly and held them against his chest. ‘But no matter what happens, I’ll tell you, Nertha. Trust me in that. I need you and your cruel, clear vision. You must be ruthless in your observations about what I say and do. But conclude nothing until you’ve debated it with me. And you must open your mind as never before. Will you promise me that?’

  ‘I will,’ Nertha replied quietly.

  * * * *

  The following day they set out to attend Cassraw’s service. The fine, sunny weather continued, and a lively wind had blown up, keeping the streets bright and airy. By contrast, however, Vredech began to feel an oppression about him as he and Nertha neared the Haven Meeting House. He glanced at Nertha riding beside him. She looked uncomfortable.

  ‘The breeze doesn’t seem to be helping here, does it?’ he said casually. She shook her head but did not speak and they rode on in silence.

  As they had two days earlier, they found themselves part of a dense flow of people moving in the same direction. The comparison set Vredech on edge and once or twice he was seriously inclined to turn about and go home. Finally, they rounded the last bend before the climb up to the Meeting House.

  ‘Ye gods!’ Nertha exclaimed.

  Even though it was still some way to the Meeting House, they could see that a huge crowd surrounded it, filling much of the grounds and spilling out to block the street for some distance. And though he could feel the breeze on his face, Vredech felt the oppression increase. Something drew his eye up towards the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. Despite the bright sunlight, there seemed to be a haze hanging about it. He blinked to clear his eyes, but the haze remained.

  ‘Brother Vredech.’

  He looked down. A young man wearing a bright red sash and a dark green tunic had taken his horse’s bridle. His eyes were alight with fervour, though his manner was quiet and pleasant. ‘Brother Cassraw gave orders that you were to be escorted through the crowd,’ he said.

  Orders? Vredech thought, but he said, ‘Thank you, that will be most helpful. I hadn’t expected to see so many people.’

  ‘Great is the power of the Lord. Praise Him,’ the young man exclaimed.

  ‘I suppose I’m to be escorted, too,’ Nertha intruded.

  The young man hesitated for a moment before replying, then, ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘Follow me, both of you.’

  As they moved after him, Nertha brought her horse next to Vredech’s. ‘Who are these people?’ she asked. ‘They were everywhere at his last service.’

  ‘They’re Cassraw’s Knights of Ishryth,’ Vredech explained. ‘It’s some kind of organization that he’s started for the young men of the area. It seems to be very popular.’

  ‘Grudging praise,’ Nertha observed.

  Vredech shrugged a little guiltily. ‘Maybe I’m seeing shadows where none exist, but I feel uneasy about them – for no good reason,’ he admitted. ‘Even Skynner concedes that he seems to have done fine work with one or two particularly disaffected young men.’

  ‘They’re rather… martial,’ Nertha commented.

  ‘Indeed,’ Vredech agreed. They had reached the edge of the crowd and several other Knights of Ishryth had appeared and were forcing a pathway through it. ‘But it’s the look on their faces that disconcerts me most.’

  ‘Fanatical,’ Nertha said bluntly.

  Vredech grimaced. He had not wanted to hear the word, but he could only agree with it. There were a few such individuals in every parish. They were difficult people to deal with and such extreme devotion was discouraged by the church. In fact, part of every Preaching Brother’s training included learning how to deal with it gently. If Cassraw was encouraging it, then…

  He chose not to pursue the idea, but concentrated on keeping a close rein on his horse as it threaded its way through the crowd. Gradually they moved into single file, Nertha moving ahead. For the first time he noticed that she was indeed riding very easily, and was much more relaxed than she used to be. Knew a cavalryman, did you? he thought, but there was a edge to his observation that made him frown.

  Then they were passing through the gates. Inside the grounds, the Knights were everywhere, briskly marshalling people into separate areas. Their guide led them to a hastily-rigged tethering rail where they left their horses, in the company of a great many others, before following him towards the Meeting House. Once again the crowd parted before them.

  ‘I’m afraid there are no seats left,’ the young man said, his enthusiasm mounting as they walked up the steps to the main door. ‘People have been arriving all day – praise Him. But we’ve managed to keep some space free at the back for special worshippers such as yourself.’

  As they reached the doorway, their guide entered into a brief negotiation with someone just inside that Vredech could not see. Then two red-sashed Knights emerged and, with much apologizing, he and Nertha were ushered into the places they had been occupying.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Vredech said, as the young man stood to one side to let him squeeze past.

  ‘You are friends of the Chosen One; to serve is our honour,’ came the reply. Vredech was shocked by this bizarre reply, but he was drawn into the building before he could say anything. Inside, the oppression that had been unsettling Vredech was magnified manifold. It struck him like a blast from a furnace. Even Nertha let out a breathy gasp. The Meeting House was indeed completely full. Not only was there not a seat to be seen, but there was virtually nowhere to stand, so crowded were the aisles. People were even sitting and standing in the deep window recesses, thereby making the hall still darker. Instinctively, Vredech put his arm out to protect Nertha. Memories of the stampede returned to him. If this crowd should panic…

  He felt sweat forming on his brow as he struggled to dismiss the thought, and he glanced over his shoulder to confirm the nearness of the door. Not that that would necessarily avail them much, being as crowded as the rest of the hall.

  This is awful, he thought. Meeting Houses by their very construction were usually bitterly cold in winter, but pleasantly cool in this kind of weather.

  Yet the airlessness here was not simply due to the heat generated by the crowd. There was something else. Was it his imagination, or was there lingering in the atmosphere here, faint hints of the foulness he had felt on the mountain, and in Cassraw’s room as his old friend had worked his petty but chilling miracle?

  This was more than awful, he decided. It was ghastly, and frightening. He had come here in the hope of listening to what Cassraw had to say in some semblance of peace and tranquillity so that he could decide what to do next. Now he felt as though he was being bound before the mythical domain of Ahmral as some kind of sacrifice.

  The word brought back the final encounter he had had before he had woken the previous day. That cold, blood-lusting dream. He trembled as he recalled it. Whose mind could have formed such a creation? Then he realized that there had been an elusive familiarity about it. His trembling increased.

  ‘Breathe very slowly, very gently.’

  It was Nertha. She was looking at him carefully. ‘Keep your mind quiet. Relax your shoulders. Relax everything. If you don’t, you’re going to pass out in this heat.’

  Her voice cut into the battle that was beginning to rage in his mind.

  ‘It’s like the other day, in the street,’ he said, immediately ashamed of the slight tremor in his voice.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s worse. The temperature’s higher and the crowd’s more dense.’

  ‘Some comforter, physician,’ Vredech retorted weakly.

  Nertha was undeterred. ‘There’s also much less room
in which to move. The pews and the narrow aisles will prevent any mass movement, and at least these Knights of Cassraw’s are keeping a watch on things.’

  ‘I still don’t like it,’ Vredech replied.

  ‘Ah, that’s a different matter,’ Nertha said. She was grinning slightly, but her face was flushed and Vredech could see alarm in her eyes. The exchange had made him feel calmer, however, which was presumably the object of the exercise. He looked at Nertha surreptitiously. She had always been an interesting, self-sufficient person, but now he was beginning to suspect that she had developed into a truly remarkable woman.

  He was given no time to ponder this discovery as the atmosphere in the hall suddenly changed. The muffled hubbub became expectant. Unable to see the front of the hall over the intervening crowd, Vredech presumed that one of Cassraw’s lay helpers, or perhaps a novice, had entered to test the congregation. Testing was a relic of the church’s most ancient days, when Preaching Brothers had reputedly been warrior princes and lords trying to drag their people out of the ways of war, and when more than one had been treacherously slain as he entered to address his flock. In those days, the tester was said to have been a bodyguard who, dressed as his lord, would pause in the shadow of the doorway before entering the hall. Later, the tester’s task became the carrying beneath his robes of a ceremonial sword which he would conspicuously lay upon a table on safely reaching the pulpit. Now, the sword had been replaced by a copy of the Santyth.

  A gasp came from the front of the hall. Vredech and Nertha, in common with their immediate neighbours, craned up, but were unable to see what had happened. Then the word ‘Sword’ hissed through the congregation. Cries of ‘Praise Him!’ and ‘Thus let it be!’ rose up from several places as it reached them, and Vredech was aware of considerable agitation about him as people circled their hands about their hearts.

  Primitive, he thought, though not in condemnation of those so moved, but as a description of the mood that he felt developing around him. And had Cassraw indeed reverted to the long-abandoned practice of carrying the sword at testing? More noise came from the front of the hall at this point, and suddenly a black form rose up out of the raised pulpit. In common with almost everyone else in the congregation, Vredech caught his breath. For a moment, the figure, hooded and motionless, became one of the shadows that had inhabited the strange twilight world where he had met the Whistler. His mind told him otherwise immediately; told him that it was only Cassraw pursuing whatever design it was that he had chosen to follow, but that did not stop his knees from shaking and his already moist forehead from becoming clammy.