Seeker

by William Nicholson

  "Destroyed! Why?"

  "That we don't know. Something has changed. The empire of Radiance has never had reason to fear us before. We don't have the power to overthrow kings, or the will to rule empires."

  "But if you chose to do it, Elder," said Seeker, burning with anger at the presumptuous threat, "you could call the Noble Warriors to battle, and our enemies would crumble before them!"

  "One battle, boy, and what then? You know how it is with our power. We can do great things, but we pay a great price. The strength we have at our command is driven by a life force that is slow to gather and quick to release. When we unleash that force in violence, the impact is overwhelming, but our strength is then gone. For long hours after, we're as weak as babies."

  Seeker heard this with consternation, and his proud anger turned to dismay.

  "I didn't know," he said.

  "Yes, you knew." The Elder's voice was gently reproving. "You're familiar with the words of the Legend. The Legend tells us that our strength is the strength of a wounded warrior, and victory makes us weak."

  "I thought..."

  "You thought that was just a story."

  "But Elder—the Nomana! No one can beat a Noble Warrior! The Nomana are trained—they have such powers—they can do anything!"

  "Not anything, boy. But we can do something. And the little we can do, that we must do, so that others will know good men too can be strong."

  "Yes, Elder."

  "And we won't let our enemies destroy us if we can help it, will we?"

  "No, Elder."

  "So this is all we know so far. A weapon is being built in Radiance, a weapon of such explosive power that it could sweep this entire island away like a mound of dust. We don't know what form this weapon takes or where it's being made. But we do know that our enemies will be looking for ways to bring it onto the island. If they succeed—" He raised both hands and opened his bright little eyes wide and smiled. "Then it's all over."

  "And my brother has something to do with this?"

  Even as he said it, it seemed absurd.

  "Your brother is no longer a danger to us."

  Seeker hung his head, in confusion and grief.

  "Can I trust you, Seeker after Truth?"

  "Yes, Elder."

  "Then this is how you can help us in these dangerous times. Go home and comfort your parents. They already know Blaze is to be cast out. Say nothing of all you have seen and heard today in the Nom. Look at me, boy."

  Seeker looked. The Elder's eyes held his and reached deep. Seeker looked back, unable to withdraw his own eyes from that penetrating gaze. Then he in his turn looked properly, looked to see how far he could reach. For a few moments, he saw nothing. Then he gave a gasp and shut his eyes tight. It was as if he had been looking into mist, and suddenly the mist had parted, and there beyond was an infinity of suffering.

  When he opened his eyes he saw that the Elder was still gazing at him, but now his eyes were filled with tears. The Elder of the Community, the wisest of all the Noble Warriors, was weeping for him.

  Seeker felt a tremor of fear.

  "Speak to me, Elder. Please."

  "What am I to say? That there are hard years ahead for you? You know that already. As for the rest, you must come to it in your own time."

  "Will it make me weep, too?"

  "I hope so. We weep for pity of those we must hurt, and our hearts break for those we love. But while we can still weep, we're not entirely lost. Beware of old men who don't weep."

  Now Seeker's own eyes were filling with tears, even though he didn't understand what it was he must fear. He brushed the tears away with a clumsy fist.

  "Go now, boy," said the Elder. "Say nothing."

  6. Submission, Submission

  SEEKER LEFT THE NOM BY THE PILGRIM GATE. HE made his way slowly across the stone-flagged square and passed between the rows of pine trees to the steps. As he went, he tried to make sense of all he had learned and to decide whom to believe. There was the voice that had spoken in his head, and there was the voice of the Elder. But stronger than either in his memory was the sight of his brother's face and the sound of the groan Blaze had uttered as he was cleansed. Seeker looked back at the high walls of the Nom, the castle-monastery that had stood all his life for what was good and strong, and for the first time he questioned its justice. If he must choose between his brother and the Nom, he chose Blaze. If the Nom said Blaze was a traitor, then the Nom must be lying; and if the Nom lied, then the Nom was bad. But at the same time, he loved the Nom and the Noble Warriors and had already begun to dream that he might be the one to save Anacrea from this new and terrible danger.

  As he hopped down from step to step, it seemed to him that with each step his feelings changed.

  I love Blaze. I hate the Nom.

  Who hurts the Nom? Let me fight and kill them!

  Who hurts my brother? Let me fight and kill them!

  Surely you know that it's you who will save me.

  The little we can do, that we must do...

  But what is it I'm to do?

  When he got home, he found the street door to the house was open and the downstairs rooms were empty. At this hour of the day his father was always to be found in his little library, and his mother in her chair by the street window, book in hand, pencil in her mouth, reading and making notes. One of her many jobs was reading and assessing new books and, where suitable, adding their titles to the list approved by the school.

  But she was not in her reading chair.

  Seeker climbed the stairs to the roof. Here on the flat roof, there was a little private terrace that looked out to sea. His mother was sitting in one of the faded cane chairs, beneath the bamboo awning. She was crying.

  "Mama!"

  Seeker threw himself into her arms. His mother never cried. It almost hurt him more than seeing Blaze suffer. He wanted to comfort her, but instead, unable to stop himself, he began to cry, too. The tears he had brushed from his eyes when he stood before the Elder now flowed freely. His mother held him tight and kissed his face, and their tears mingled on their cheeks.

  "Darling boy," she said. "My darling boy. On your birthday, too. I don't know how to tell you."

  "I know already, Mama."

  "My poor Blaze."

  "It's a mistake! It must be!"

  "Don't say that, darling. In some way we can't understand, this is the will of the All and Only."

  "It can't be! You know Blaze! They say he's a traitor to the Nom. Blaze would never betray the Nom!"

  "They say that? Oh, my dear."

  She bowed her head so he wouldn't see how much she suffered. Seeker racked his brain for something he could say to her to give her hope. He knew she would never take refuge in anger against the Nom, as he had done. Her faith was too strong. So he said to her the only truth of which he was certain.

  "I love Blaze and I'll never believe anything bad of him."

  "I love him too, darling. Even if—even if—"

  Silence and tears. Seeker had no more consolation to offer. Her suffering was unendurable. He wanted to make everything right again and burned with frustration that he couldn't, and felt once more the rising up of a confused anger. Who was doing this to them? Why? He would track down these unknown enemies and claw them and throttle them until they confessed it was all a lie, and Blaze was good and honorable and the best of all the Nomana, and his mother would smile again, and his father would—

  "Father! Where is he?"

  "He's at the school. He sent me a note."

  She had it still in her hand. Seeker read it. Not his father's usual strong clearly formed writing at all: this was a half-blinded scrawl.

  Blaze to be cast out at Congregation. I know nothing more. Submission, submission. Trust in the All and Only.

  Submission! His proud father, before whom the teachers as well as the students trembled—how could he submit? Seeker knew all too well that this catastrophe would pierce his father with a double agony, because
he would lose both his firstborn son and his pride.

  "I'll go to him."

  "Yes, my darling. Go to him. Comfort him."

  Seeker didn't know how to tell his mother that he too had failed his father, that very morning. Then he recalled the silent Noma who had been waiting outside the door as he had left. That must have been when the blow fell.

  "Go to him," said his mother again. "Bring him home."

  Gift met him as he entered the school's outer gates. The old meek was trembling with distress.

  "He's in the assembly hall," he told Seeker. "He won't speak to me, and he won't come out. What am I to do? I should have locked the school hours ago."

  "I'll talk to him," said Seeker. "He'll come home with me.

  He went to the hall door and knocked.

  "Father. It's me."

  There was no answer.

  He opened the door and went in. His father was there, standing by the honors boards, gazing up at the line of gilded letters, painted there twenty years ago, that spelled out his own name.

  He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Seeker saw with a shock how grief had aged his father. The smooth stern face had crumpled.

  "I remember it all so well," he said, his voice low. "The day the announcement was made, here in this same hall. How proud my mother was when they read out my name. I had hoped, of course. But you can never be sure. Not until you hear it. Your own name read out. And then you know you can be sure for all the rest of your life."

  He ran his fingers over the painted letters.

  "It is something, to be first in your year," he said. "It is something."

  All this was so unlike his father that Seeker forgot Blaze for a moment and looked on in dismay. As if divining his thoughts, his father shook his head and gave a small smile.

  "It's all right. I've not lost my wits. It's only that sometimes it helps me to—to remember."

  "Yes, Father."

  "So have you heard?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Nothing could have hurt me more."

  His voice trembled as he spoke. Seeker ached to touch him, but his father was not one for caresses.

  "It must be a mistake," said Seeker.

  "The Nom makes no mistakes." At this his father bowed his head.

  Seeker thought of the words on the note: Submission, submission. He wanted to say, Don't submit! Resist! Fight!

  "Perhaps," his father said, "perhaps I was too proud of—of the boy."

  He couldn't even speak his name. This was how it would be from now on. It would be as if Blaze had never been born. And all this would happen in public, at the Congregation due to take place on midsummer day. That was just four days away.

  "Time to go home, Father."

  "Yes..."

  He touched the painted letters of his name on the honors board once more, and looked at Seeker with an attempt at a smile.

  "Your name here soon, eh?"

  It was this half smile that made Seeker turn his head away with a sudden jerky movement. He didn't want to cry in front of his father.

  "You're right." His father misunderstood that quickly averted look. "We mustn't tempt providence. But you're a good boy, Seeker. You've always been a good boy."

  Seeker said nothing. His father sighed, and composed himself.

  "Ah, well," he said. "We at least know how to behave. We will attend the Congregation as if nothing has happened. We will conduct ourselves with dignity. You understand how important that is?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Everything will be done as it is always done."

  Then at last they left the school, and the old meek locked the gates behind them. Seeker said no more, and his father believed he had accepted, like him, that there was no choice but submission; but it was not so. The rebellion that had begun for Seeker in the classroom that morning was not over after all.

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

  7. The Wildman

  THE HOTTEST HOUR OF THE HOTTEST DAY SO FAR, NO clouds to haze the sun, and the dazzle on the river was turning mud to gold. On either bank the eucalyptus trees trailed deep green leaves in the shallows, and the scavenger dogs lay still and panting in purple shade. This was the hour of the snake, when bronze-skinned vipers uncoiled on burning rocks, languid and vulnerable, careless of predators, drunk on heat. This was the hour of still water, when the turbulent gully fish sought the depths and lay quiet as stones on the cool riverbed. No sentient creature had business to do at such an hour.

  Except the Wildman.

  "Heya! Do you lo-o-ove me?"

  More like a song than a cry, the syllables stretched beyond endurance, hurled bouncing and ricocheting from bank to bank, all down the easy turns of the Great River.

  "Do you lo-o-ove me?"

  No answer came. No answer required. All the world loved the Wildman, for his dark eyes and his golden hair; for his youth, just eighteen years old, and his beauty; and out of plain common-sense self-preservation. They called him the Wildman because he had been known to kill those who did not delight him, and it did not delight him to be unloved.

  He stood on the prow of the Lazy Lady, his golden-skinned, silver-braceleted arms reached out on either side, his face turned to the sun. His eyes were closed, and his voice soft as a lover's.

  "Dance with me," he told the sun, feeling his body soften in the noon burn. "Dance in my loving arms."

  Now he was dancing, all alone on the prow, in the sun. His crew watched him and shook their heads and smiled. Crazy as a catfish but dangerous with it, more dangerous than a starving mealy dog, and who's complaining? The Wildman made them rich, and every day was showtime. That was the truth of it. Run with the crazy golden boy and the lights shone bright and the days smelled sweet.

  "Heya, bravas! Company ahead!"

  The thatched roofs lay hidden in the trees, brown fronds among green, but the Wildman had sharp eyes. He saw the riverside village downstream, and he saw that it was deserted, it being siesta time, and he knew the people would be waking soon enough now. And they would be sleepy and afraid. And they would give him all he asked. This made the Wildman feel cheated and irritable.

  "Chickens!" he growled to himself "Chuck-chuck-chickens! Here comes the Wildman!"

  The Wildman liked opposition. He needed opposition. This was how he came by the surge of anger that flooded him and fed him and made him feared. When he lost control he entered an ecstatic state of violence which was both his joy and his power. The feelings were good and the effects were good so no need to argue over what came first. The Wildman knew how to get results. He could smell the squirt of fear that came out of those who roused his anger. He loved to see the way their eyes went wide as they discovered, in shocked and helpless terror, that they were about to die.

  But not in cold blood. Never in cold blood. There was neither honor nor satisfaction in that. He had learned the respect accorded to lethal violence, but only in combat and battle, only in love and hate. When the sweet juice flowed he cared nothing for his own preservation, and his fury knew no limits. At all other times he was a dove, a lamb, a honeychild.

  A bell started to clang in the village temple.

  "Heya, bravas!" the Wildman cried to his crew.

  Chuck-chuck-chickens!"

  His men knew what to do. Down came the rippling brown sails, out struck the oars. Now swishing downstream under man power, the Lazy Lady closed in on its prey. And the leader of the spiker band, barely out of boyhood, stamped his bronzed bare feet in the prow and sang out to his crew.

  "Heya, bravas! Do you love me?"

  Oh, they loved him all right. They loved their Wildman.

  ***

  As soon as the boat banged against the jetty, the river pirates were leaping onto land, whooping and grinning, in a gush and clash of colors, shirts orange and crimson and emerald green, jewelled belts flashing and silver bracelets jangling in the sun, their unfriendly intent expressed by the long curving kniv
es they juggled from hand to hand. The villagers streamed out of their houses, groggy with sleep and fear, and huddled round the temple at the heart of their homestead and stared and prayed.

  The spiker leader came prancing across the riverbank, casting his black eyes over the cattle in the day barn and over the sacks in the granary, and looking for all the world as though he was the favorite son coming home.

  "Heya, chickens!" he sang out. "Do you lo-o-ove me?"

  The village priest came shuffling forward, with sweat on his brow and lowered eyes. He mumbled some words, which the spiker leader failed to catch.

  "Whoa!" cried the Wildman, his spirits rising. "Open wider, brava!" In demonstration, he gaped his own mouth wide, showing bright white teeth. "Let me hear you."

  "We are protected," said the priest, still speaking low, and with his eyes on the ground. "Our god Shorn protects us."

  "Protect? What's this protect? Chickens! Rat-piss! You don't love me no more, brava?"

  The priest trembled. The spiker leader's voice changed its tone, turned soft and whispery.

  "You don't love me?"

  One of the village children carolled out through the sun-drugged air the secret that the priest had told them all.

  "We got a spirit fence! You can't hurt us!"

  The Wildman heard this. He looked up and down the path with a widening smile.

  "Spirit fence? You got yourself a spirit fence?"

  The priest raised one hand to dab at the sweat streaming down his face.

  "Shorn protects us," he mumbled, praying silently to his village god that it might be so.

  The spikers watched, grinning broadly. They knew the signs. When the Wildman talked sweet like that, throats got slit.

  "Show me your spirit fence."

  The priest gestured up and down the path, his hands trembling.

  "Cross the spirit fence," he said, his voice also trembling, "and you will die."

  The spiker leader looked surprised.

  "Die? Like, dead?"

  "Cross the spirit fence," said the priest, "and Shorn will strike you dead."