Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  His manner forced a smile out of Nertha. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He's packed me off.’ Vredech's false geniality faded and his eyes widened with surprise and pending indignation. ‘He said he'd taught me all he could and that I'd have to learn on my own now,’ she added. The indignation became open admiration.

  'A considerable teacher,’ Vredech said. ‘I wish I'd had some like that when I was a novice. Some of them still haven't let go. Still, there was no need for you to come all this way.'

  'Someone other than Ishryth has to keep an eye on you.'

  Vredech let out an exasperated breath. ‘Just like Father. As irreverent as ever, I see,’ he said.

  Nertha grinned. ‘You hear, you mean,’ she said, gently mocking again. ‘But I've most dutifully been to service today, haven't I? And respectfully dressed, too.’ She swirled her cloak.

  Vredech eyed her suspiciously.

  'Mind you, that was only because I was visiting the sick,’ she said.

  'As irredeemable as ever,’ he concluded.

  'I'm afraid so, Brother brother. I've not seen anything yet that will make me change my mind. In fact, after what I've just heard I'm not only even less enchanted with Ishrythan and your chosen vocation, I'm quite alarmed.'

  It was an old debate, long exhausted between them, and substantially free from rancour now. Nertha had been found abandoned as a baby and had been taken in and reared by Vredech's parents as one of their own. Though they knew of their true relationship, she and Vredech had grown up together as brother and sister and as friends—albeit at times stormy ones—an inevitable consequence of living under the influence of such a father. Only when Vredech had turned to the Church had there been any serious breach between them. Nertha, ironically taking more after her adoptive father than his true son, had taken much longer to come to terms with the decision. Subsequently she had gone to study medicine in Tirfelden under the aegis of a noted Felden physician.

  Vredech frowned. ‘That's not the church, Nertha, that's Cassraw. I don't know what's happening but ...’ He gesticulated vaguely. ‘I have the feeling that I'm on some huge wagon that's beginning to move, and which nothing will be able to stop until it comes to a terrible crashing end.'

  'Well, that's quite dramatic, but not very helpful,’ Nertha said. ‘You wouldn't care to be a little more specific, would you?'

  Vredech smiled faintly as he heard his father's voice yet again. ‘I'd be delighted to be more specific,’ he said acidly. ‘But unfortunately I can't be.'

  The top of the street opened out into a small square. Surrounded by buildings which were smaller than was typical in Troidmallos, the square had a pleasant, airy atmosphere, and offered an excellent view not only of the Ervrin Mallos, but also many of the neighbouring peaks. As was normal on Service Day, there were quite a few people ‘taking the air'. Some were sitting on benches, talking, reading, or dozing, while others strolled to and fro in a leisurely manner. Such children as were present were unnaturally stiff in their Service Day clothes and Service Day manners, and were patently unhappy.

  'Ah, the Madren at play,’ Nertha said.

  Vredech refused to rise to the bait. He felt suddenly as though a burden had been lifted from him.

  'I'm really glad to see you, Nertha,’ he said as the two of them instinctively slowed down to match the gait of the strollers. He looked at her intently. ‘You're probably the only person I can speak to about what's been happening, without you thinking I'm going mad.'

  Nertha smiled and did what she had been wanting to do since their first encounter. She reached up and touched his face. ‘You've lost weight,’ she said.

  Vredech did not argue. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But that's over with now. I told you, I'm through that.’ Briefly he became a small boy again. ‘Ask House, she'll tell you I'm eating and sleeping properly now.'

  'Well, apart from your chronic religious mania, which goes on undiminished, you seem alert enough,’ Nertha conceded. ‘And you're intriguing me with your hints and suggestions.’ She linked his arm. ‘Tell me everything.'

  And, as they walked on through the town, he did.

  Even as he talked, Vredech was more than a little surprised that his tale did not emerge into the daylight sounding awkward and embarrassed, a night phantom which shrivelled at the touch of the sun. As he had when young, he told her everything that he could recall. Not logically—for it was hardly a logical tale—but at least chronologically. Once and once only did she look at him narrowly to see whether this was some kind of a joke on his part. She did not look thus again, and on the few occasions afterwards when she seemed inclined to interrupt, she remained silent.

  As did they both for some time after he had finished. ‘I see what you mean about being thought mad,’ Nertha said eventually. ‘If it wasn't for the fact that I know you so well, and that you've no imagination worthy of the name, and if I hadn't heard Cassraw's bizarre sermon with my own ears, I'd probably have concluded you were.'

  'But?'

  'But I don't know,’ Nertha said. ‘My eyes tell me you've been ill without a doubt. My head tells me you've probably had some kind of a brain fever. But my heart ...'

  She looked around. They were walking along a tree-lined avenue, through one of the most prosperous parts of the Haven Parish. Stout timber balconies on corbelling stonework, ornate windows and decorated doors, steep roofs broken by ranks of delicate chimneys and occasional, seemingly random, turrets and spires, marked the houses of the area, both private and community, that stood with unassailable confidence amid their well-tended gardens. Now and then, an expensive carriage trotted past the two walkers. No fantasy could survive such conspicuous reality. Yet...

  'My heart tells me something else. Even here, there's something odd ... in the wind. I don't know what it is.’ Nertha suddenly pulled a wry face. ‘It's probably because I've been fretting about you for days, while I've been travelling, that's all. I can't, in all conscience, bring myself to believe in this Whistler character you've invented. It's just not possible.'

  'You know everything there is to know about reality then, do you?’ Vredech asked, immediately wishing he could bite back the words. Her familiar assertive tone had provoked him a little, but he didn't want to become involved in a pointless debate.

  'I know there's a difference between discussing interesting possibilities into the early hours of the morning with friends, and actually believing in them,’ she replied, more gently than he had expected, as if she, too, wanted to avoid one of their old arguments. ‘I must start from where I am.’ She held out both her hands, unbalancing Vredech slightly. ‘I must take these and what they can touch as real—philosophical considerations notwithstanding. I must fix a point to stand on even if I concede that it's arbitrary, you know that. That's why ...’ She waved her hand to end the remarks, and returned to her main concern.

  'It's odd that you've started to dream after all these years. Perhaps, as you say, it's some trick of your mind that's making you discuss problems with yourself that you can't otherwise face. I've known similar things in patients before, and we all do it to some extent. Whatever the cause, whatever the ... reality ... I can see no harm coming from just ... listening ... to such inner debates—thinking about them.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘If you're at ease with that.'

  Vredech smiled. ‘I am ... reasonably,’ he said. ‘Though it's taken its toll to get that far, as you can see. And don't worry, Cassraw might think that Ishryth spoke to him on the mountain, but I'm not mad enough to go telling anyone except you what's been happening to me.’ He laid his hand over hers, still linked through his arm. ‘But the Whistler was intensely real. Very different from a dream. Or at least the dreams I've been having—entering—anyway. I seized his wrist at one point—he felt very solid, and very strong—and I could still smell the evening flowers from that hillside when I ... came back. I have to follow father's advice—keep an open mind. Can you do that?'

  Nertha raised her eyebrows as though she had just been given
the benefit of the wisdom of a precocious four year old. ‘Me keep an open mind? I shan't even grace that with an answer, you shaman,’ she retorted with affected indignation.

  'You just dismissed it all out of hand a moment ago,’ Vredech reminded her.

  Nertha floundered. ‘Not completely. I said ...'

  'You dismissed it out of hand. “Just not possible", you said.'

  Nertha's mouth briefly became a straight peevish line. ‘That was just ...'

  'A manner of speaking?'

  'A first reaction to a very strange story,’ she replied sternly. ‘Which, you'll concede, it is. If one of your flock had brought it to you, what would you have done?'

  Vredech accepted the point.

  'I'll keep my mind open all right,’ Nertha went on, quite intense now, ‘because I trust you completely and because I trust that's the way through to the truth of what's going on. Speaking of which, if, as you say, you seem to be over whatever was troubling you, then I think perhaps you need to turn your mind to some serious practical problems.'

  'Cassraw, you mean?'

  'Cassraw indeed,’ Nertha replied. ‘The man's raving, and, with his talent for oratory, probably dangerous. Who knows what harm'll come of it if people start to believe him?'

  Vredech grimaced. ‘I'll have to go to the Witness House tomorrow. Talk with Mueran. Not that I think he's going to be much use, but it's church business and I can't do anything on my own.’ The grimace became a frown. ‘That wretched Sheeter Privv was there too. He must have smelt something in the wind. Cassraw's sermon was grotesque enough but I shudder to think of the version that will be all over Troidmallos tomorrow.’ He stopped suddenly and looked keenly at Nertha. ‘That's what you said, isn't it? Something in the wind.'

  Nertha returned his gaze with studious blandness. Vredech recognized the look.

  'My turn,’ he said knowingly. ‘What did you mean?'

  Nertha wrinkled her nose and made a vague gesture with her free hand. ‘Nothing,’ she said, after rather too long a pause. ‘It was just ...’ The hand waved again.

  'A manner of speaking?’ Vredech offered again.

  Nertha nodded. ‘In this case, yes,’ she agreed, now avoiding his gaze.

  'You were a little out of sorts with the travelling? Concern for your Brother brother?'

  'Yes, I ...’ She stopped and coloured a little.

  Vredech went on in the same helpful tone. ‘You thought you could fob me off with any old tale?'

  'All right, all right,’ Nertha said darkly. ‘I'm sorry. I should know better than to try to out-wriggle you, you worm.'

  Vredech became unexpectedly serious. ‘Open minds, Nertha,’ he said. ‘It's important.'

  'Why the concern over a trivial remark, Allyn?’ Nertha asked.

  'Nothing's trivial, Nertha, we both know that. Only from the least can come the greatest. You made the remark; it's come back to me, you're embarrassed by it. It's enough. Bear with me. Tell me why you said there was something odd in the wind.'

  'I don't really know,’ Nertha said, after a long pause. ‘It's just a feeling I have. It may be, as you said, the travelling, the worrying. I don't know.'

  Vredech waited. They had left the Haven Parish and were nearing his own Meeting House. The high clouds overhead were thickening, taking from the streets the faint wash of pleasant sunlight. A breeze had started to blow, bringing with it a slight chill.

  Nertha made a peculiar gesture. She ran her thumb across the tips of her fingers as though testing the delicacy of fine silk. ‘I have this feeling of ... difference ... all around,’ she said. ‘Almost as if something's actually in the air. I can't explain it. Something wicked coming. It's not nice, Allyn. It's a bad feeling.'

  Once he would have taunted her mercilessly for such a remark, and a fine quarrel would have ensued. Now, he simply pressed her hand.

  'A bad feeling,’ she repeated, almost talking to herself now. ‘That's why I didn't want to acknowledge it. I never do.’ She turned to Vredech. ‘They're not usually a good omen, my bad feelings. They frequently mean I can't help someone any further.'

  Vredech met the pain in her eyes. Dealing with suffering was ground common to them both.

  'But that's people you're talking about,’ he said. ‘Your own kind. Not a town.'

  Nertha shook her head. ‘It's me,’ she said. ‘Me, being open to whatever's around me. Picking up the signs too subtle for my eyes, my ears, my nose, my hands.'

  Vredech smiled slightly. ‘So you brought your reason to bear on your intuition in the end, did you?'

  Nertha shrugged. ‘They don't exclude one another. Besides, the whys and the wherefores aren't important. It's the trusting that matters. And I do trust these feelings. Even when they're wrong, the fault's usually mine—misunderstanding, doubting, failing to accept things as they are.’ She closed her eyes as if gathering courage. ‘Don't ask me to be specific, Allyn, but something has happened ... or is happening. Something bad.'

  Despite the grimness in her voice, the atmosphere between them had become very relaxed.

  'If I can't ask you anything specific about it, then that leaves us with quite a problem, doesn't it?’ Vredech said. ‘Namely, what is it that's happened, and what can we do about it?'

  Nertha smiled apologetically. ‘Just watch and listen, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Like you've already decided to do.'

  They finished the rest of their journey in silence, neither feeling the need or the urge to speak.

  * * * *

  Vredech held his own service in the early evening. As if fired by Cassraw's rhetoric, he laid passionate emphasis on those parts of the Santyth that counselled tolerance and compassion, that pointed to the similarities between all peoples rather than their differences, and that, above all, declared each individual to be responsible and accountable for his own deeds. He concluded with the faintly ominous quotation he had given the youth who accosted him at the gates to the Haven Meeting House, ‘"Follow no prophets, for I shall send ye none",’ but this time he gave it a massive and threatening ring.

  'Splendid stuff,’ Nertha commented afterwards. ‘You sounded almost as if you were drawing up battle lines. What a pity there were so few present to hear it.'

  'My fault, that. I've not been at my best these past few weeks. I'll start doing some repair work tomorrow. And yes, I think I was drawing up battle lines. I can't preach personal responsibility and then ignore it when I see something happen that shouldn't.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning that no matter why he did it, Cassraw was wrong to preach as he did today and I must convince Mueran to make a stand or it'll happen again. Like you, I'm far from happy about where such a thing might lead. There are a great many gullible people about who could be hurt as a consequence of such ranting.'

  Then he and Nertha, in contrast to the companionable silence they had maintained on the latter part of their walk from the Haven Meeting House, talked long and enthusiastically into the early hours of the morning. They reminisced, gossiped, philosophized, argued, and generally brought one another up to date with their respective affairs. It was a good time.

  That night Vredech neither dreamed nor entered the dreams of anyone else. Nor did he encounter the Whistler, though he was thinking of him as he slipped into sleep, softly whistling the three haunting notes to himself. He slept peacefully.

  He did not wake thus, however. Normally, House roused him gently with a delicate tapping on his door, but today she roused the whole house by slamming the main door as she returned from market.

  'Are we on fire?’ Vredech asked, sitting bolt upright as, following a single powerful knock and awaiting no invitation, House strode into his bedroom. She hurled a copy of Privv's Sheet on to the bed with the injunction, ‘Look at that!’ accompanied by, ‘And keep the ink off my sheets!'

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Privv's Sheet landed with unusual force on more than Vredech's bed that morning. Serjeant Skynner pored over a copy in his
office at the Keeperage. Like Vredech he had attended Cassraw's service anonymously to ensure that he had a true report, and, like Vredech, he had been deeply disturbed by what he had heard.

  Cassraw's actual sermon however, was an almost trifling affair compared with the version that appeared in Privv's Sheet. Here was written a call for Canol Madreth to make a stand against the moral and spiritual decay that was to be found throughout Gyronlandt; to begin the battle that would lead to a united Gyronlandt. The report was riddled with martial imagery—the word ‘crusade’ kept recurring, and there was Canol Madreth ‘besieged', the Church ‘taking arms against', and so on. Skynner shook his head in disbelief. How many drunken brawls had he seen broken up with the participants singing patriotic songs and bellowing for a united Gyronlandt? The whole notion invariably implied ‘dealing with’ those countries who were perceived as being the cause of the disunity, and great passions about it were easily roused even though there was no corresponding unity of opinion as to which countries these were. There were also some fairly direct references in the Sheet to the Heindral's hesitancy in dealing with the problem of compensation from the government of Tirfelden for the murdered merchant. Skynner did not even want to think about the prospect of the two ideas being thus linked.

  Further, a subtle menace pervaded the text. Not to be With, was to be Against. People should publicly demonstrate—prove—the renewal of their fidelity to the church and its doctrines. It was understated, but it was there beyond a doubt.

  It occurred to Skynner, not for the first time, that some restraint should be put on what was presented in the Sheets. Privv's writing was a travesty of the truth which, for mercy's sake, was serious enough in itself and well worthy of accurate reporting. Either Privv was appallingly incompetent or he was being wilfully malicious—though to what end, Skynner could not imagine. In any event, neither incompetence nor malice were acceptable in someone whose vocation was supposed to be that of informing the public of important affairs. It did not help Skynner's peace of mind that it was a brilliant piece of writing, as brilliant as Cassraw's sermon had been.