Seeker

by William Nicholson

  "Chickens! I'll slit your throats! You come near me, I'll rip out your hearts!"

  The guards paid him no attention. Other prisoners, lying on the stone floor of the tank trying to sleep, called to him irritably.

  "Shut that noise. Save your breath. You're not going anywhere."

  Unable to attack the guards, the Wildman turned on his fellow prisoners.

  "You got a problem, blubber-piss? You want your throat slit?"

  "Go to sleep."

  The tanks had no benches, no bunks. The inmates lay mostly curled up on the stone floor. At one end of each tank was a stinking trench in which the prisoners were expected to excrete and urinate. At the other end was a stone trough, into which a kind of gruel was poured twice a day. This gruel, made of ground maize diluted with water, was both food and drink for the miserable inmates. They were given no implements with which to eat it. They were to push their faces into the trough and lap like cattle.

  The Wildman had been dropped into the tank without explanations or threats. A wide hinged section of the grid had been unbolted and raised, and he had been pushed over the edge to fall onto the hard stone floor. The patrol officers who had brought him in, and the guards who now watched over the tanks, had no further interest in him. He had fallen into a living grave.

  The roof overhead was pierced with roof lights, and through these moonlight fell, past the crisscross bars to the prisoners below. The Wildman, grown weary at last of shouting at men who didn't respond, sat himself down in this silver light and looked about him and considered what to do. The bars above his head were set deep in the stonework and were as thick as pick handles. No chance of escape there. The hinged section was also strongly made, and the bolts, once driven home, were held in place by iron hasps. Anyone on the outside could undo these bolts; but to the prisoners down in the tanks, they were as unmovable as if they had been welded shut. The only way out, therefore, was to wait for the lid to be opened, and then to make a break for freedom. The Wildman counted the guards who were lounging round the tanks. Even now, when the prisoners were mostly asleep, there were ten men on duty. For any breakout to succeed, every prisoner would have to take part.

  The Wildman scanned the other prisoners, looking to see how much will to resist he could detect among them. What he saw gave him very little hope. Even in sleep they seemed to cringe with fear. Those who were not asleep lay staring unseeingly up towards the moonlight. There was no conversation, no fellowship, no attempt to make the best of the situation. These were people who had given up hope and were waiting like beasts in a slaughterhouse for their coming extinction.

  Only one other prisoner met his gaze with any hint of human contact. She was a woman with a sad sweet face, and she looked at him as if she pitied him. She wore a white dress, of the kind that rich people wear, but she lacked the sullen, resentful look of a rich person in trouble. She looked, it struck him, as if she wasn't aware of herself at all. She was aware of him.

  "Well?" he said to her, his voice sounding surly in the night silence. "What do you want?"

  "I was thinking how beautiful you are."

  "Much good may it do me."

  "It does me good."

  Her gaze was so direct, so unguarded, that the Wildman decided she was not mocking him, but saying in its simplest form what she felt. He relaxed a little.

  "So why have they put you here?" he asked.

  "No papers."

  "You know what they do to us?"

  "Yes. I know."

  "They're not going to do it to me."

  "Oh?" She was curious, not unbelieving. "Why not?"

  "Because what I want, I get. And what I don't want, I don't get."

  She smiled at that. He could tell by her smile that she was glad for him that he could still believe such things.

  "I think you're perfect," she said.

  Such a strange word to choose: perfect. And such a strange way to say it, the way you would speak of someone far away, or even of a god. But he liked her for it. He knew she wanted nothing from him. What she offered was simple admiration, as refreshing and as undemanding as sunlight.

  "So what's your name?" he asked her.

  "Mercy," she said.

  "I'm the Wildman."

  "Wild man?" Her voice parted the syllables. "I can see that you're a wild man. But that wasn't the name your parents gave you."

  "I have no parents."

  "You must have had a mother."

  "Not that I ever knew."

  "So she abandoned you when you were still little. Do you hate her for leaving you?"

  "I can't hate someone I don't know."

  "It was wrong of her. But perhaps she had no choice."

  "I don't care. I can look after myself."

  "Not so easy any more, Wildman."

  "Oh, I shall find a way. No one holds me down. No one keeps me in a cage. You wait and see."

  Seeker was obliged to sit alone at his hostel table for a long time. His evening meal was long eaten, and he was beginning to feel sleepy, when the small, balding man appeared at last. He was accompanied this time by two priests, one of whom carried a coil of rope, and the other, a covered lantern.

  "Come along," said the man, as if it were Seeker who had kept him waiting. "We've no time to waste."

  They went out into the night streets.

  "Last night you said, Try me. That is what we mean to do."

  He led Seeker across the city to the temple square. Here, in inky shadow, a flight of broad steps wound up the many levels of the temple to the towering summit of the rock above.

  "You'll need strong legs," said the man. "It's a long climb."

  Seeker looked up. The temple rock was outlined against the silver-gray of the moonlit sky.

  "Do you mean to throw me from the rock?" he asked.

  One of the priests answered him.

  "The rock is a place of offering to the Radiant Power who made all things. We ask the Radiant Power to guide us. You will either be acceptable, or you will not."

  "How will you know if I'm acceptable?"

  "The Radiant Power will give you back to us."

  Seeker didn't understand what this meant, but he feared the worst. The little bald man saw his apprehension.

  "Don't be afraid," he said. "Trust us. This is a test of many things. Of the will of the Radiant Power. Of your courage. Of your trust."

  "Why should I trust you? I don't even know who you are.

  "That's easily settled. My name is Evor Ortus. I am a professor of science."

  "And if I pass your test—what then?"

  "Then we will know that you are the one chosen to fulfil this historic mission. So—will you come, or will you not?"

  Seeker came. The steps ran from level to level of the massive temple in a series of long zigzagging flights. As they climbed, Seeker looked down from time to time and saw the city laid out beneath him, glimmering and beautiful in the silver moonlight.

  When they reached the topmost level, he could see the moon itself, low in the northern sky, shining on the still waters of the lake. He felt his legs trembling beneath him from the effort of the climb, and from fear of what was to come, and so he let himself sink down onto the terrace floor. Professor Ortus made no objection. He and the two priests were busy unfurling the coil of rope.

  Seeker saw behind him the arches of the royal terrace, now shuttered for the night. Before him was the railed platform where the king stood for the offering. And no more than twenty paces away was the projecting lip of rock from which the tributes fell—from which Morning Star would fall if he failed this test.

  The thought of standing on that high edge made his insides melt with fear. All he wanted to do was press himself to the paved surface and never move again. This, however, was unlikely to be the plan for him. Somehow he must find the courage to face that fearful drop.

  Ortus now set about knotting the rope to the iron railing. Seeker watched him pulling it tight, testing the strength of the knot, and h
e guessed the way in which he was to be offered to the Radiant Power. In the same moment, he knew he did not have the courage to do it.

  What would happen if he refused the test? It seemed unlikely that they would let him go. If against all odds he escaped, then he and the Wildman would concentrate all their efforts on rescuing Morning Star. If against all odds they were successful, they would make their escape from the city What then? Was he to go back home? Was he to go back to school and have everything go on as if Blaze had never been cast out? It was unthinkable.

  He knew without doubt that he was close to the weapon designed to destroy Anacrea. These very people now preparing the rope for him were surely the servants of the enemies who were carrying out the will of the Assassin. How could he abandon the search now, when he might be on the point of achieving all they had set out to achieve? If he could win control of the secret weapon, it would give him the power to save both Morning Star and Anacrea—or so he hoped. And he had no other hope.

  So he must not fail the test.

  He closed his weary eyes and prayed.

  Wise Father, give me the courage to do what they ask of me. Take away my fear. I can't do this alone. But with your help I know I can do all things.

  "Up you get," said Ortus. "Raise your arms."

  Seeker did as he was told. The professor ran the rope twice round his waist and tied it with three strong knots. The rope lay in coils on the ground, its further end fixed to the railing.

  "The rope will hold you," Ortus said. "The rest is in the hands of the Radiant Power above."

  Seeker felt his skin prickle with fear. He touched the rope between his fingers and knew that it was strong enough to hold him. The knots were secure. He was in no danger of falling all the way down to the water and the rocks of the lake. But to fall at all! To jump of his own free will over that jutting edge, out into nothingness!

  He trembled with raw fear. All that stood in his way was this fear. The fear took on the appearance to him of a closed door, a door that barred his way to all he wanted.

  Where your way lies, the door is always open.

  Of course! That was how to face his fear. He saw it all in a blink of his mind's eye, as if it were laid out before him. He would look beyond this rock and the dizzying drop to the ground below. He would look beyond the lake and the mountains and the moon above. He would even look beyond his own life and death. He would leap from the rock eagerly, as if out there, just within reach, was the door to the calm green home of the Lost Child he sought to protect, the Child who waited for him in the Garden. He would throw himself at the door, and it would burst open before him.

  "I'm ready," he said.

  He closed his eyes for a last prayer.

  Wise Father, let the door open to me, and I will come home. I will run into your loving arms. Catch me and hold me, forever and ever.

  He opened his eyes. He looked directly ahead, out over the shining surface of the great lake, to the rim of the mountain range on the horizon. He pictured to himself a closed door and on the far side of the door, a small child not yet able to walk, crawling towards him across the sky, reaching out one chubby hand. He drew a deep breath and ran and jumped, hurling himself at the door—and it melted before him—and he passed through into nothingness—the rope uncoiling behind him—and for a few blissful moments he was flying, sailing over giant moonlit space—and then he was dropping, down, down, down, and the blood sang in his ears—and then there came a savage cracking pull on the rope that made him cry out and knocked the breath from his lungs—and he was spinning, or the world was spinning, and swinging back in a long sweeping curve beneath the jutting overhang of the immense rock.

  His suspended body slammed against the face of the rock, and for a short time he lost all sensation. He dangled there, stunned and oblivious. The priests on the top of the rock now hauled on the rope, and slowly they dragged him back to safety. They untied the rope and felt his body all over and satisfied themselves that nothing was broken. When he opened his eyes, there they all were, looking down at him.

  "Did I pass the test?"

  Professor Ortus was beaming.

  "The Radiant Power has given you back to us!" he said. "You are the chosen one."

  Seeker stumbled to his feet. He had survived. He felt a thrilling surge of pride and, with it, a reawakening of his numbed body and the onset of pain. All his bruises began to ache fiercely, but he didn't care. He had faced the fear, the door had opened before him, he had asked for courage and had been given it. He knew now he could dare anything, anywhere.

  Professor Ortus led Seeker directly from the high rock to the tanks. They made their way along the iron walkway over the sleeping prisoners below, and Seeker passed within six feet of the Wildman, without either of them knowing it.

  The laboratory was plunged in darkness. The scientist led Seeker to the far side, where there was a storeroom. Here he laid him on the truckle bed he had himself used, night after night, to snatch short hours of sleep during the most intense phase of the scientific enterprise. Seeker was aching and exhausted, all his energy drained by his ordeal. Tomorrow was the day on which Morning Star was to be thrown from the temple rock: but he was helpless. All he could think was that somehow, if he came to be in control of the terrible and mysterious weapon, he could use the threat of it to save her. For now, he could do nothing.

  As soon as he lay down, he was asleep.

  30. Name Day

  CHEERFUL GIVER'S NAME DAY BEGAN IN THE TRADItional fashion, with all the household assembled in the courtyard to greet him as he emerged from his bedroom. He stood on the steps and assumed what he hoped was a suitable expression of dignified joy. The truth was that he felt terrible. He had hardly slept all night, and he still did not know what to do. So as his family and his servants sang to him the name-day song, he nodded his head in time to the rhythm and went on worrying.

  "Hail the day of Cheerful Giver!

  Cheerful Giver! Hail his day!"

  When, he thought to himself, will this cursed business of the tribute ever end? How can I send the child up the rock? What if she truly is a messenger from the Great Power?

  "Radiant God, you rise in glory!

  Shine your light on him today!"

  But if I don't offer the child, he worried, I have no tribute. Not only will I have thrown away a fortune, but today, on my name day, a common spiker will be sent up the rock. I've promised the king twice now that the tribute I offer on my name day will bring great honor to the Radiant Power. How can I not send the child?

  "Praise the name of Cheerful Giver!

  Proud his name and proud his day!"

  After the song had been sung, somehow he had to go through all the usual little customs, sipping from the glass of wine brought him by his wife, nibbling at the little cakes brought him by his sons, and accepting a prayer mat embroidered by the servants. As usual, the pattern was hideous. It would join all the others he had received over the years, in a musty pile under the cellar stairs. But as usual, he made a gracious speech of thanks and announced a small bonus in pay for all the servants, which they fully expected and which was all they were interested in. Then he retired to the breakfast room with his wife, to enjoy his name day in the sweet peace of a contented marriage.

  "Get your own breakfast!" screamed his wife as soon as the door was closed. "I shan't lift a finger! I hope you starve to death!"

  The argument that had raged between them for most of the previous day had not been resolved.

  "Thank you," said Cheerful Giver bitterly as he sat down. "What a grateful wife I have after all. Seventeen years of living like a queen, due entirely to my efforts, and she tells me on my name day she wants me dead. Thank you so much."

  "You know what I want."

  "And am I to shame myself and my family on my name day?"

  "There'll be another soon enough."

  "Do you want me to lose my position? Do you want Small Dream to be given the handling of the Corona?"


  "Do you want to stand on the right hand of the king?"

  "Phoo! That's all nonsense! She's making it up to save her skin."

  "Like she made up the writing on the leaf? Like she made up the bracelet on the cat?"

  "What does she know about the right hand of the king?"

  "Why don't you ask her?"

  "Very well. I will."

  This was in fact the conclusion Cheerful Giver had reached himself. He would question the child one more time, and then reach his final decision. So after a short and unsatisfactory breakfast, he and his wife carried a tray of food down the cellar steps to their puzzling tribute.

  Morning Star was ready for them. She had had as much time as Cheerful Giver to think about what she would do today, but she had thought to rather more purpose. She had no clever surprises to spring. She must rely on her instincts. But she did have a plan.

  As soon as Blessing and Cheerful Giver entered the cellar, she sensed the tension between them; and of course, she could see it. The wife's colors were a dusty yellow, made up both of pity and self-pity, with a rim of red, which showed she was angry. The husband's colors were mostly the angry red, but here and there were flickers of green, the color of uncertainty. From the very first moment, Morning Star watched Cheerful Giver's colors with care and adjusted her words accordingly.

  "Any more dreams?" said Cheerful Giver roughly. "Any more cats? Any more commands?"

  "I've brought trouble into your life," said Morning Star, bowing her head humbly. "That was not my purpose. Please forgive me."

  "It's my name day, that's all." Cheerful Giver's anger turned to petulance in the face of Morning Star's humility. The red aura softened into gray. "I have a position to keep up. Certain things are expected of me. It's not easy."

  His wife too sensed that his stubborn refusal to change his mind was weakening.

  "Husband, ask her. Perhaps she has had another dream."