Seeker

by William Nicholson

  Then he moved slowly forward past the white pillars towards the dazzle of light that was the Garden. As always there were Nomana here, standing quiet and still. He could see two, but without doubt there would be more. Sometimes pilgrims became overexcited and tried to climb the silver screen and had to be removed. And always there was the threat that was told in the Legend, that had been present from the very first coming of the Lost Child, the threat of the Assassin. No one knew who or what the Assassin was, a man, or a band of men, or a god; but all knew that one day the Assassin would find his way into the Garden at last, because the dream of the First Brother had told them so.

  Seeker came close to the screen. The holes in the fine lace of silver were in the shapes of diamonds and stars. Through them he could see a bright riot of growth shaded by a canopy of leaves: wool-white blossom in nests of deep green, scarlet petals of weeds speckling the butter-yellow petals of flowers, golden creepers lying down to rest in blue grasses, a wild jungle untouched by any gardener for two hundred years. Here there were ancient rocks overgrown with moss, and a spring of clear water bubbling up into a pool where dragonflies danced in the sun. Here were places to walk and places to sit, and peaches hanging ripe on low branches, and plums rotting richly in the grass unpicked, and here was deep violet shade. Here too, sometimes, there flashed a shiver in the grass, and you could swear you saw someone slip by among the trees. For this was the actual living home of the being who had made the world and who knew why all things must be as they are, even the bad things, even loneliness, even feeling old when you are still young.

  Seeker heard a soft rustle nearby and, turning, saw one of the Nom meeks quietly sweeping between the pillars. The sound was comforting, like the gentle strokes of his mother's hand over his brow when he couldn't sleep. He slipped to his knees before the gleaming screen and sought comfort, not from the Loving Mother, not from the Wise Father, but from the Lost Child.

  "You too have been lost and alone," he said, whispering softly but aloud. "You know how I feel, without me telling you. Be my friend. Show me you hear me. I'm so tired of being alone."

  Now he slipped all the way down onto the cold white floor and spread himself out prostrate, as the pilgrims did.

  "Save me," he said. "The sadness goes on too long. Show me a way out of the sadness."

  After that he lay there in silence and felt the spirit grow calm within him, as it always did when he came to this holy place. His cheek pressed to the marble floor, he let himself drift into a half sleep, soothed by the distant swishes of the meek's broom.

  Then he heard a voice. The voice was clear and real, but it was right in the middle of his head. It was the voice of a child.

  "Surely you know," said the voice, "that it's you who will save me."

  Surprised, Seeker rose to his knees and looked round. But even as he looked, he knew that the voice had been inaudible to others. There were the guardian Nomana, still as statues. There was the industrious meek. The voice had been a child's voice, and it had been inside him.

  It came again.

  "Surely you know," it said, "that where your way lies, the door is always open."

  With that, Seeker heard the faint creak of an opening door. He looked round again. Some way off, between the pillars, he saw a small side door standing ajar. The door was in the wall on the far side of the Cloister Court, the wall that bounded the Community quarters. Such doors were only ever opened to Nomana.

  He rose to his feet and looked at the watchful Nomana, who were either unaware of the open door or were not concerned. Seeker felt a sudden surge of intense excitement. The voice could only have come from the Lost Child. The door could only have opened for him. He hesitated no more. He padded quietly between the pillars to the door and pushed it open and entered the realm of the Nomana.

  The room in which he now found himself was windowless, lit by glazed panes in the roof. All round the walls were racks from which hung white garments. Seeker recognized the garments as the ceremonial clothes worn by the Nomana on the great festival days. They were nearly identical to the Nomana's everyday clothes, but in place of the rough gray serge, they were made of a light white cotton. The Nomana wore very few garments: a pair of loose britches, tied at the waist and the ankles; a simple vest; a calf-length tunic with short loose sleeves, its skirt slit on either side from the waist down; and finally a broad scarf draped over the head like a hood. This last item, the badan, was unique to the Nomana. At each end of the long strip of material there was a net of threads holding a pebble. The two weighted ends of the badan were worn hanging down, one at the front and one at the back.

  So this was a vesting room. Here the Nomana came to change into these clean light garments, which made them seem, when they entered the square in procession in their hundreds, on the day of the Congregation, like spirits from another world.

  Seeker moved down the racks, not daring to touch the cool white fabric. He knew he had no right to be here. He also knew that this room was not his destination, because at the far end was another door, and it too was open.

  Where your way lies, the door is always open.

  He passed through this second door and found himself in a courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard was a wide circular bed of sand that had been raked into a pattern of overlapping fans. There were many doors leading out of the courtyard, but only one other was open. Through this door came a sound like the buzzing of bees, only deeper and harsher. Seeker walked slowly round the yard, keeping to the cobbles, and so came to the open door. Here the sound was much louder, almost painful. He winced and put his hands to his ears. He stepped through the door.

  He was in a washhouse. Pipes ran round the walls, and channels on the stone floor carried gurgling water to corner drains. Pipes also crossed the high ceiling, and from them projected smaller pipes with taps on their ends. One tap was open and gushing water, and dangling from this overhead pipe, wrists tied by a strip of cloth, was a half-naked man. His arms were pulled high above his head, and his head hung down on his bare chest, and the water from the pipe ran in a ceaseless stream down his arms and over his drenched hair and down his body to trickle from his bare feet to the floor.

  Round this dangling man were gathered a crowd of Nomana, men and women, filling the washhouse. Every one of them had their hands over their ears, as Seeker had, and every one of them had their eyes fixed on the dangling man. As they stared, they made the deep buzzing, grating sound that seemed to chisel into the very brain.

  Seeker saw and was afraid. The look on the faces of the Nomana was so intent: that stare, and the relentless drill of sound, offered no pity to the soaked and dangling man. It was hard enough to endure the buzzing even from the doorway. To be its focus must have been unbearable. And indeed, every few moments, the poor man twisted his head, as if to escape the torment, and groaned in his distress.

  What was happening? Was this some terrible punishment? The dangling man was a Noma too, as Seeker could tell from his clothing. The cloth that bound his wrists was his badan. Perhaps this was some kind of test. Seeker had heard tales of rigorous training in the novitiate. But even as he thought this, he knew that it could not be so. This was more than a test. This was a form of torture.

  The dangling man groaned again and tried in vain to block his ears with his straining arms. The effort cost him pain. He let his head drop further. Then, struck by some unseen wave of torment, he raised his head and cried out loud in his agony. That was when Seeker saw his face. Even streaming with water, even twisted in pain, even three years older, Seeker recognized that face.

  "Blaze!" he cried.

  The dangling man's eyes jerked open. He looked directly at Seeker in the doorway. He saw him; there was no doubt about that. But he did not know him. His eyes were empty. Something had been done to him, and now, at last, Seeker understood.

  Blaze was being cleansed.

  "Blaze!" he cried again, in terror and grief. "Blaze! Don't let them do it!"

  His belo
ved brother stared back at him, with that familiar broad face, that wide mouth; but the eyes had changed, and he did not know him. It was as if his brother were no longer there in his own body.

  Seeker heard a voice screaming. The terrible buzzing sound stopped. The Nomana turned towards him. The scream was his own voice.

  The Noma nearest to him said to him, "Look at me."

  Seeker looked at him. He knew at once he shouldn't have done it, but it was too late. The Noma's gaze held him, and Seeker felt the strength slip away from his body, and he knew he was falling.

  5 An Old Man's Tears

  WHEN SEEKER WOKE, HE WAS LYING ON A HARD BED IN an unknown room. He gave no sign that he was awake, because he realized at once that he wasn't alone in the room and he wanted first to work out how he came to be here. As his confusion of tangled thoughts slowly regained focus, he found that he was unharmed and that he was not bound or restrained in any way. Judging from the stone vault of the ceiling above him, he was still somewhere in the Nom. He risked turning his head very slightly and saw that there were two figures at the far end of the long room, both of them Nomana. They were talking in soft voices, presumably so as not to disturb him. One was a man's voice; the other, a woman's. Seeker lay very still and listened and tried to work out what had happened. They had been doing something bad to his brother. What had it been? Yes! Blaze had been cleansed! With the returning memory came a burst of anger that made his cheeks burn. Cleansing was almost a form of death in life. Cleansing was for criminals and murderers. A person who was cleansed by the Nomana lost all memory and will and desire. It was a return to infancy. How could they do this to Blaze?

  He caught the odd word from the far end of the room, whenever the man raised his voice. The woman's voice was too soft and low for him to hear. He caught the words secret weapon and then great danger. There was one word that recurred several times, which at first he didn't understand, but he made it out at last. It was Radiance. They were talking about the great city of that name, the heart of the empire that dominated the land to the north.

  Then the woman turned and saw that his eyes were open.

  "He's awake."

  She came to his side. She had short-cropped gray hair and a kind face, deeply lined with age. Like all Nomana when within the Nom, she wore her badan down over her shoulders.

  "How do you feel?" she said, and pressed her dry hand to his brow.

  "All right," said Seeker. "Where am I?"

  "You're in the Nom. In the sickroom."

  "Why?"

  The man now stood over him, frowning down at him. Seeker recognized him. His name was Narrow Path, and he was said to be a brother of great holiness. He had a high bald brow and a lean bony face.

  "That is for you to tell us," he said.

  "Later," chided the woman. "The boy's still in shock."

  "He looks perfectly healthy to me. Can you sit up?"

  Seeker sat up.

  As he did so, the door opened and a wheelchair rolled in, carrying a shrunken old man, pushed by an old woman. The old woman was one of the Nom meeks. The old man was the most revered of all the Nomana, the Elder of the Community. He was fast asleep and snoring. Narrow Path glanced towards the Elder, frowned a frown of irritation, and turned back to Seeker.

  "Explain yourself," he said. "You have no right to be here."

  Seeker was ready to explain, as best as he could, but Narrow Path's sharp tone reawakened his sense of anger.

  "You've no right to do that to my brother!"

  "Brother? What brother?"

  "Blaze. The one you were—you were—"

  Tears sprang into his eyes. The kind-faced woman understood him.

  "Oh, my dear!" she said. "Blaze of Justice is your brother?"

  Seeker nodded.

  Narrow Path seemed to find in this even more reason to frown.

  "Has Blaze of Justice communicated with you?"

  "No," said Seeker.

  "Then why did you come sneaking into the Nom?"

  "I wasn't sneaking. I was—I was—"

  He realized he had no sensible explanation. Narrow Path shook his shiny bald head and looked yet more grave.

  "You knew precisely where to come. You knew how to find your brother. Who told you?"

  "I didn't know. No one told me."

  Narrow Path turned to the woman and spoke in a low voice.

  "This is not good. Something here is not right at all."

  Seeker's distress burst out of him, even though he tried to keep silent.

  "I'll tell you what's not right! What you were doing to Blaze! That's not right! You were cleansing him! I saw! You had no right to do that!"

  He knew there were tears in his eyes, and his voice was shrill like a hurt child's, but he couldn't help it.

  "No right?" exclaimed Narrow Path. "Your brother is a traitor!"

  "He is not!"

  "Blaze of Justice has shown himself to be too weak to withstand temptation. He has placed the entire Community in grave danger. He is to be cast out. Of course he must be cleansed! Would you have us turn loose a weak and bitter man with all the powers of the Nomana at his command?"

  Seeker was too stunned to reply. In his struggle to understand, he recalled the words he had heard as he lay on the bed.

  "Is it because of the secret weapon in Radiance?"

  Narrow Path gasped.

  "You see!" he said to the woman. "He's part of it!"

  Now the woman too was looking grave.

  "What do you know of a secret weapon?" she said.

  "Nothing."

  Seeker's heart was sinking. He realized how bad it must look to them.

  "What does it matter what he knows?" said Narrow Path. "Already it's too much. He must be made safe, too."

  "No!" cried Seeker, shrinking away.

  "Don't scare the boy!" said the woman.

  "You know it as well as I do. He can't be sent back until he's been made safe."

  "Please!" said Seeker. "It was a voice. I did what the voice said."

  "Of course," said Narrow Path with a shrug of incredulity. "A voice told you. How convenient."

  There came a grunt from the wheelchair, and a series of snuffling noises, and the Elder woke up.

  "A voice?" The words emerged without his mouth seeming to move, a sound creaky with extreme age. "Did the boy say he heard a voice?"

  He fixed Seeker with his small bright eyes, like the eyes of a bird. His face was so deeply lined that it was hard to read his expression, but the eyes seemed to Seeker to be alert and kind.

  "It was a voice in the middle of my head."

  "In your head?" The Elder nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. "Have you heard such a voice before?"

  "No, Elder."

  "Where were you when you heard this voice?"

  "In the Cloister Court, Elder. Just in front of the Garden."

  The Elder nodded once more. Then he looked up at the other two Nomana and said to them gently,

  "Leave me alone with the boy."

  "Elder," said Narrow Path, "in light of the present danger—"

  The Elder raised one bony hand.

  "I know all about the present danger, Brother. Leave us, please."

  So the two Nomana left, and Seeker was alone with the Elder and his silent attendant meek.

  "Now, boy," said the Elder. "When you heard this voice, did you also feel a sensation of sweetness?"

  "No, Elder."

  "Nor pain?"

  "No, Elder."

  "Very good. So tell me what this voice in your head said to you."

  "The voice said—the voice said—"

  Seeker found he was unable to finish his sentence. The Elder watched him with his bright little eyes and seemed unsurprised.

  "No matter what the voice said. Who do you suppose it was speaking to you?"

  "I don't know, Elder."

  "But you can make a guess."

  "I think perhaps it was the Lost Child, Elder."

 
The Elder closed his eyes and nodded his head.

  "Why should the One who made all things speak to you, boy?"

  "I don't know, Elder."

  And truly he did not know. It had never happened to him before, or to anyone he had ever heard of. Even his mother, who was very devout and spoke of the All and Only as you might speak of an old friend, never claimed to have heard an actual voice.

  "But you believe," said the Elder, with his eyes still closed, "that whoever spoke to you wished you to enter the Nom."

  "I don't know, Elder." As he said this, Seeker realized this was exactly what he did believe, even though it made no sense. So he added, "Yes, Elder. I do think that."

  "Of course you do. And whoever spoke to you led you to your brother."

  "Yes, Elder."

  The old man mused awhile in silence. Seeker's thoughts returned to Blaze, to that terrible blank expression on his soaked face, and to the way that when he saw Seeker he didn't recognize him.

  "They were wrong to do that," he said in a low voice.

  "The Nom is not wrong, boy. The Nom makes no mistakes. If you don't understand, it is because you lack knowledge, not because the Nom is wrong."

  "Blaze can't be a traitor! He just can't. He's nothing to do with this secret weapon, or Radiance, or anything like that."

  "What is done is done," said the Elder mildly. "The question now is what to do with you. It seems you know a little, and that is dangerous. You must either know enough to understand our situation, or you must know nothing at all."

  Seeker knew what that meant: it meant the buzzing noise in the washhouse, and the water flowing over his head, and all his memories and everything that made him what he was washing away down the drain.

  "I think I had better trust you, Seeker after Truth."

  Seeker looked up, surprised.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "You are the brother of Blaze of Justice. The son of our valued schoolmaster. How old are you now, boy? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

  "Sixteen, Elder. Today is my sixteenth birthday."

  "Sixteen already. Forgive me. You have a young face. So, Seeker, this is what you should know. The priest-king of Radiance has decided that Anacrea must be destroyed."