Seeker

by William Nicholson

  "I call on this Congregation," the Prior said gravely, "to enforce the judgement of the Community, according to the Rule of the Nomana."

  An electric silence fell. A casting out! Seeker felt his mother's hand tremble in his. Out from the ranks stepped a lone Noma, drawing back his badan. Seeker's heart almost stopped beating. That big shambling gait, that open face. Only now he did not smile. He stared unseeingly before him.

  Oh, my brother! What have they done to you?

  Soren Similin watched with a sudden sharp attention.

  Seeker turned to look up at his mother and saw her eyes were shining with unshed tears. He looked up at his father and saw his face set hard, expressionless, not moving so much as an eyelid.

  "Blaze of justice," said the Prior, "you have been judged guilty of transgressing the Rule of our Community."

  There followed a pause, in which it seemed the entire gathering held its breath. Blaze stared blankly before him, as if unaware of the gravity of the moment.

  "It is the will of this Community, in punishment of your most grave transgression, that you be cast out."

  A sigh rose up from the shocked crowd of pilgrims and islanders. Cast out! All eyes looked to the evildoer. They could see it on that bland, expressionless face. He had been cleansed. He would barely even remember his own name. The Prior reached up one hand and unwound the badan from Blaze's head. As he did so, he recited the terrible words of the verdict.

  "All we have given you now returns to us. Take nothing with you as you go."

  Seeker saw the tears roll down his mother's cheeks. Brother! he cried in his heart. Speak out! Tell them this is wrong!

  "You are now like a child born again. You are innocent again and therefore forgiven."

  Seeker felt his father shudder and then go still again. Blaze himself stood motionless, looking so young, so vulnerable, without his badan. Seeker watched him with tears in his eyes.

  Blaze! What have they done to you? Why? Tell me they're wrong!

  "You were once our brother, and for that there will always be a welcome for you here. But the time has come for you to make a new life in a new place. Go now, and may the One who understands all things have mercy on you.

  Silent to the last, Blaze did as he was told. He set off across the paved ground towards the steps, not turning once to bid farewell to his family. Seeker made a move to run after him, but his father's hand closed over his arm in a grip so hard it hurt. He looked up at his father's face, wanting to see there pain, or at least pity, but all he saw was iron self-control.

  "Father—it's Blaze. Your son!"

  "I have only one son now."

  As his father spoke these words, Seeker felt the mist lift around him. What duty did he owe this father who could cast out his own son? The Noma had said to him on the morning of his birthday, "Your life is your own. If it's not the life you want, only you can change it."

  If ever he was to change his life, today was the day.

  Only if he entered the Nom would he understand the wrong that had been done to Blaze. Only if he became a Noble Warrior would he have the power to put it right.

  The buried longing now exploded within him. What had always been impossible now suddenly seemed possible. The desire sprang into life with such intensity that he could barely speak. It was the wrong moment, the moment of Blaze's disgrace. It was the wrong desire, not his father's plan for him at all. But it was too strong in him to remain undeclared.

  "Father," he said, stammering. "Father—I ask your permission—I would like to join—I ask to take Blaze's place."

  "You?" His father turned and looked down at him in cold surprise. "I thought we understood that was out of the question."

  "Yes, Father, I know. But now that—now that—"

  There were no words. To be a warrior for the All and Only—to ask for nothing and to possess nothing—to protect the Lost Child and obey the Wise Father—to forge mind and body into an instrument of the true way—it was all he had ever wanted in life. Not to be a teacher: that was his father's dream for him, not his own dream. What had his father known of his nature when he named him? How could he read the heart of a newborn baby? But of course it wasn't the baby's heart he had read, it was his own.

  "Let me try! Please!"

  "The Nomana would never accept you," said his father, gripping his arm harder still. "Yours is a different path in life. Don't torment yourself with what can never be."

  His steady, unfeeling gaze turned away across the crowded square, to watch Blaze pass out of sight.

  Morning Star too was watching the departure of the exile. She didn't fully understand what was happening, but she could see from his colors, the blue and violet glimmer round him as he went, that he was enduring great pain. She kept expecting someone to reach out to him, or call to him with some word of farewell that would break the cruel silence. But no voice was heard.

  After Blaze was gone, and as the business of the Congregation resumed, a second figure slipped away, unnoticed, and took the path to the steps. Soren Similin had seen enough. He believed he had his man.

  16. Selection

  "SEARCH YOUR HEARTS," SAID THE NOVICE MASTER. "Ask yourself why you wish to join our Community."

  His grave eyes ranged over the lines of young men and women before him. Most were just sixteen years old: and for them, as for Morning Star, this was the moment for which they had been preparing themselves for as long as they could remember.

  "In the secrecy of your heart, answer that question with perfect truth."

  His eyes moved steadily from one to the next, holding each pair of young eyes for a moment, commanding their attention.

  "If you want glory, this is not the life for you."

  Morning Star looked into her own heart and answered truthfully that she did not want glory.

  "If you want dominion over others, this is not the life for you."

  No, she thought. I don't want dominion over others.

  "If you want to win special favor with the All and Only, this is not the life for you."

  Is that what I want? Morning Star felt a sudden shiver of doubt. She did want to be close to the Loving Mother. Was that wrong? Did that mean she was weak? Would she be rejected because she wanted it? Her mind shrank from the prospect. It was unthinkable. How could she go back to her old life, and go on living in the old way, with nothing to hope for?

  So what is it I hope for?

  "But if, rather than seeking any benefit for yourself, you want to give your life in the service of others—"

  Yes! she thought. That's what I want! To serve. To be of use. Not to allow my youth and whatever talents I have to trickle away like spilled water and be wasted.

  "—then it may be that you can follow the way of the Nomana. But that way is hard."

  Let it be hard! responded Morning Star joyously in her heart. The harder the better.

  "It's lonely."

  Have I not been lonely all my life?

  "It offers no material rewards."

  There's nothing I want, but to serve the Loving Mother.

  "On the day you enter the Nom as a novice, your old life ends and a new life begins. Ask yourself, is that truly what you want?"

  Yes! Yes! Let a new life begin for me!

  "Those of you who are so decided, go forward now in a humble spirit of acceptance."

  They heard the sounds of the bolts being drawn back on the Pilgrim Gate.

  "Whatever happens is the will of the All and Only, and is for the best."

  Seeker was not among the applicants who had come forward for selection, but his place was nearby, and he could hear every word the Novice Master said. His father had let go of his arm and now stood stiff and erect by his right side; his mother on his left. Seeker stood quietly, doing as he had been told. He watched as the Pilgrim Gate swung open to receive the applicants.

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

  Not the voice: only the memory of the voic
e. Seeker stared at the Pilgrim Gate. The world is full of open doors, he told himself. Why am I so sure that this one has opened for me?

  The applicants were filing through the archway in a slow-moving line, guided by the attendant meeks. Morning Star moved with them, shivering with longing and doubt. Her moment of madness earlier in the Nom had shaken her confidence. Perhaps there was a fault in her, a weakness that made her unworthy. If she was not selected, she would go—she would go—somewhere—anywhere—but not back, never back. This new life was too long awaited. To go back would be a return to childhood, and much as she loved her father, she could never be a child again. She had no choice. She must go on.

  But would she be selected? The other applicants all seemed so much more confident. She knew she looked like a simpleminded girl. Most times she could never think what to say. She had a face no one remembered. Why should they select her? They couldn't see inside her. They had no way of knowing what she was really like. But then, she thought, I'll tell them my mother is one of them. I'll tell them I can see the colors. Then they'll look at me differently. They'll say, there must be more to her than meets the eye. They'll see beyond the mask.

  The last of the applicants had just passed through the Pilgrim Gate when she heard the thud of running feet and a boy ran full tilt into her, almost knocking her to the ground. His colors startled her: he was fizzing like a firework, fierce reds, greens, and gold. Red and green just meant a crass youth, but gold was rare. So rare she wasn't even sure what it meant.

  "Sorry!" he said, panting, looking fearfully behind him.

  Before Morning Star could ask him what he was doing, a man appeared in the archway behind them and, pointing his finger at the runaway boy, called to him in a commanding voice.

  "Come back at once!"

  The boy got behind Morning Star, as if he expected the man to throw something at him.

  "I won't!"

  "You little fool! They'll never take you!"

  The man glared at the boy for a long moment. The boy didn't move. Then the man turned and stalked away. The boy drew a long shuddering breath. The colors blazing round him were so strong that Morning Star was almost frightened. He looked and felt younger than she was, but his face was so alert, the expressions so fast-moving, that even without the colors, she was able to pick up the anger in him and knew it was stronger than the fear. His dark eyes caught hers for a fraction of a second, and she could see that he was on the point of saying something, but then he didn't. One look at her bun-like face and her peasant head-scarf, and no doubt he assumed she wouldn't understand. This disappointed and annoyed her. For this reason, she found the courage to speak first.

  "Who was that man?"

  "My father."

  The boy shuffled along beside her in the line, eyes on the ground.

  "Comforting to know he has faith in you."

  That made him look at her.

  "But he doesn't."

  Goaded by his audible surprise, she became wicked.

  "Whatever happens is the will of the All and Only. We go forward in a humble spirit of acceptance."

  That left the boy speechless. He could tell that her tone was mocking, but who was she mocking?

  The line of applicants was now directed across the Shadow Court to a door on the right-hand side. The door was marked COMMUNITY ONLY.

  The room they now entered was a long, high-ceilinged hall, lit by lamps hanging from the center, with benches running along either side. On the benches sat some thirty or forty members of the Community, all wearing their badans down over their shoulders, as was the custom when inside the Nom. Morning Star's eyes searched the silent faces, looking for her mother. There were many women there among the Nomana, but none were looking towards the applicants. Wherever her mother was, she would surely be watching out for her.

  At the far end of the hall, at a table set at right angles to the lines of benches, sat the two selectors. A novitiate meek, hovering by the door, indicated to the applicants that they were to wait, standing, until summoned. Then they were to make their way down the hall, between the two lines of Nomana, and give their names to the selectors. The Novice Master, who was one of the selectors, would then point to the left or to the right. The door to the left led into the novitiate. The door to the right would take them back into the Shadow Court. They were to go at once, and in silence, in the direction indicated. They were not to challenge the selectors' decision, which was final.

  "Aren't we to speak at all?"

  "You may ask one question, if you wish. But one question only."

  "One question! Is that all?"

  The novitiate meek then tapped the first applicant or the arm, and he set off down the hallway to the selectors' table. Morning Star, watching, saw how the Nomana studied him as he passed, and then turned their silent faces, one by one, towards the selectors. She guessed at once that it was this wordless judgement that was the true process of selection. By the time the applicant reached the table, the decision had been made.

  The exchange that took place at the table was too low for the others to hear, and shockingly brief. The Novice Master pointed to the right, and the applicant was rejected. Morning Star, watching this, was seized again with a shivering fear. How could she make them accept her? How could her entire future turn on a short walk under the eyes of strangers?

  Seeker, standing beside her, was also waiting his turn with mounting nervousness. The Novice Master knew his father well, and would certainly recognize him when he stood before him. Would he know that he was there without his father's permission? Did it matter? He was of age. On the other hand, the Novice Master would know he was the brother of the disgraced Blaze. Could that be held against him?

  Around him the other applicants were discussing in anxious whispers the best sort of question to ask. Seeker, like Morning Star, suspected this had nothing to do with the selection process. He didn't know where the true test lay, but in his instinctive faithfulness to the ideals of the Nomana, he took it for granted that they would get it right. His part was simply to present himself before the selectors and to trust the wisdom of a process that was beyond his understanding. If he was rejected—well, he would trust that this too was right for him. But he dreaded rejection. Rejection would mean going home, to his father.

  Who among them would be accepted? He glanced round and saw Fray looking at him, his eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused surprise. He looked away and met the eyes of the girl he had run into, the one who had said such odd things. As their eyes met, she pulled a funny little face. It was a smile, but its meaning was, Isn't this unbearable? He shook his head, confused. Her smile implied she knew him already, but this was not so.

  There came a loud bang from behind them. The rear door had been thrown open. A strong young voice called out, breaking the silence.

  "Heya, hoodies! Do you lo-o-ove me?"

  All heads turned, astonished. There stood a handsome youth in brightly colored clothes, with silver bangles all down his arms. Seeker, staring with the rest, knew that he had never seen anyone like him in all his life. Not just the gaudy dress and the long golden hair: it was the swagger and the smile and the bold cry. The Wildman was everything the Nomana were not.

  The novitiate meek hurried forward. "No, no, no!" he said.

  "Yes, yes, yes!" said the Wildman, sweeping the meek aside with one golden-skinned arm. He strode down the hallway, nodding and smiling to the Nomana on either side as he went.

  "Heya, hoodies!" he greeted them. "I want to be like you!

  When he reached the selectors' table, he put one hand into his pocket and threw a scatter of gold shillings onto the papers before them.

  "I pay my way," he said with pride. "I want your power. I want your peace."

  The Novice Master looked from the gold to the smiling youth standing before him. He spoke gently.

  "What is your name?"

  "They call me the Wildman."

  "We have no use for gold here, Wildman."
r />   The second selector, a thin, bony woman, picked up the gold shillings, one by one, to return them. The Wildman stopped smiling.

  "You won't take my gift?"

  "No."

  "Blubber-piss hoodie!"

  His right hand shot out, reaching for the Novice Master's neck. The Wildman had a powerful grip, and the Novice Master had a thin neck. The Wildman had squeezed the life out of better necks than this. But somehow he misjudged the distance. His fingers closed on air.

  He tried again, stabbing forward with his right hand, snatching for the throat. The owl-like eyes of the Novice Master stared back at him, never moving. But once again, the Wildman found he had not reached far enough.

  The woman selector leaned forward and held out his gold shillings. On the back of the hand that held the coins, he could see the tendons working her fingers like wires.

  "It's not your time yet," she said.

  He took the coins. She then raised the hand that had held them and, with the palm turned outward, gave the air a little push, towards him. The Wildman stumbled backwards, as if he had been struck a soft but irresistible blow. Then he felt a jerking sensation in his legs. Quite unable to stop himself, he began to stalk towards the door that led out into the Shadow Court. Left foot, right foot, away his feet went, and the rest of him had no choice but to be carried away, too. The situation was ridiculous. It was humiliating. It was exactly as if he were being marched away, except that it was he himself who was doing the marching.

  "Blubber-piss hoodies!" he yelled as he went, shaking his gold shillings. "You'll pay for this!"

  The meek by the exit opened the door, and out went the Wildman, and peace returned to the selection process.

  One after another, the waiting applicants made the short walk down the hall, and most were rejected. Seeing this, and not knowing how to avoid the same fete, the spirits of those who remained sank lower and lower. When Seeker's turn came at last, he was so sure he too would be rejected that he approached the table in a spirit of proud defiance.

  "My name is Seeker after Truth."