Jango

by William Nicholson

  "Please!" cried Seeker, waving one hand in front of his face.

  "I only mean to make the point," said the old man mildly, "that I am different things at different times."

  "All I mean is, what is your name?"

  "My name now, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "I believe now they call me Jango."

  "Jango!"

  Seeker was about to exclaim that this was a word he himself had made up. But apparently it wasn't. He must have heard it before somewhere, and kept it tucked away in his memory.

  "Names, names!" said the old man, with a sigh. "What policemen they are! What judges and jailers! Some people are obliged to be fettered to the same name for the whole of their natural lives. Imagine it! Like having to wear the same suit of clothes from the day you're born. So undignified. I once knew a man called Poopy. Naturally he came to nothing. So how do you like being called Seeker after Truth?"

  "I don't," said Seeker.

  "So get yourself a new name."

  "I can't just change my name. No one would know who I was."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "I want people to know who I am."

  "But they don't, do they? They know someone they call Seeker, but they don't know you. They've got a lot of wrong ideas about you, haven't they? So why not shed all those wrong ideas, along with the old name, and start again? You could call yourself, say, Hero."

  "Hero? I'm not a hero."

  "But if you were called Hero, you would be."

  Seeker just shook his head and said no more. However hard he tried to get onto firm ground with the peculiar old man, it all slithered away beneath him.

  "Now," said Jango, "why don't you try again to knock me down? Only this time, try harder."

  "I don't think I can."

  "Just not strong enough, eh?"

  "I may not be."

  "Funny thing, strength," said Jango. "Not like a rock at all. Much more like water. It can be here, and then—slosh, slosh—it can be there. You can drink it in, and you can leak it out."

  Seeker was watching the old man's twinkly brown eyes as he spoke, and suddenly he understood.

  "All right," he said. "One more time."

  They faced each other in combat stance. This time Seeker didn't attempt to overpower his opponent. Instead, he held him with his eyes, and he drank him in.

  Hey ho, jango!

  He felt the old man struggle, but he did not release him. There was nothing his opponent could do. If he used his power to strike at Seeker, that would simply deliver more of him more quickly into Seeker's control. He was being devoured. With each moment that passed he grew visibly weaker, while Seeker grew stronger.

  "Enough!" he gasped at last, tottering on his feet.

  Seeker let him go.

  Every blow I strike makes me stronger.

  The old man propped up his sitting-stick and sat down on it, breathing rapidly.

  "My oh my!" he said. "That was most unpleasant."

  "I'm sorry."

  "No need to be sorry. I had to make sure. And now I'm sure."

  "Sure of what?"

  "That you're ready. That you're up to the job. There are seven of them, after all, and only one of you."

  "Seven what?"

  "Savanters." Jango seemed surprised that Seeker needed to ask the question.

  "So you know about the savanters, too?"

  "Of course. The longer you live, the more you know. But at the same time, as you see, the weaker you get. It's all very badly managed, really. Life, I mean. Take the savanters. They're even older than me. By rights they should be dead. But don't underestimate them, young man. They have very little strength of their own, but they've learned how to use the strength of others. They will try to use yours."

  He dabbed at his wrinkled forehead with the sleeve of his blue coat and, turning towards the door in the wall, called out.

  "Wife!"

  Once again Seeker was taken by surprise. But no answer came from beyond the door. By now Seeker had come to realize he was unlikely to get a straight answer from Jango about who he was or how he came to know so much; but he was determined even so to learn what he could from him before they parted.

  "How should I defend myself against the savanters?"

  "You must not defend. You must attack. Wife!"

  This time there came a shuffling sound beyond the door and the clicking of the latch, then the old door creaked open. However, no one appeared.

  Jango peered crossly into the dark space beyond the door.

  "Come on out, woman," he said. "You might at least set eyes on the boy. Where's the harm in that?"

  There was no answer. As far as Seeker could see, there was no one there.

  "Attack?" he prompted. "How?"

  "How? How?" The old man furrowed his brow and pondered his answer. "The savanters are very clever, you see. And the only way to beat very clever people is to refuse to play their game. You have to be stupid. You have to respond in ways they can't predict. Yes, that's it." He nodded, satisfied that he'd reached the proper end of his chain of thought. "Fight them with craziness."

  "Fight them with craziness," said Seeker.

  He understood the theory but had no idea how to carry it out in practice.

  "They must all die," said Jango suddenly. "You understand that? It's most important. The experiment has failed. All seven must be killed. Leave even one alive, and it will all begin again."

  "What experiment? What will begin again?"

  "Ah! There you are!"

  A figure was peeping out of the doorway: a little old lady.

  "Come out, come out!" said Jango, beckoning her. "Take a good look. Here he is."

  But she would not come out. Shyly, she peeped at Seeker from within the shadows of the doorway, but she did not speak. She was as old as Jango, and a little stooped, and wore a dark head-scarf that framed a deeply lined face. She seemed to be smiling.

  Seeker bowed politely.

  "My wife," said Jango. "My dearest friend, my life's companion, my comfort in old age, and my one and only love."

  Seeker found himself unexpectedly touched. The strange old man spoke with such tenderness.

  "Now shake my hand, my boy. And go on your way."

  Seeker gave him his hand. Jango took it and drew him close and embraced him.

  "You know I only threw stones at you because I love you."

  "I don't know anything," said Seeker. "I wish I did."

  "The stones come from the wall. Once this wall was as high as the trees and stretched from sea to sea. It was built by the great king Noman, to protect his empire."

  "Noman? The first Noble Warrior?"

  "The very same. And look at the wall now."

  Then Jango kissed Seeker on his brow with his dry lips, and let him go. He got up from his sitting-stick and, taking it in one hand, shuffled to the doorway, where his wife was watching. He put his arm round her, and she put her arm round him, and they stood there side by side, smiling at him. Behind them Seeker could just make out a plain white room and a wooden table. On the table, in a glass of water, was a single blue cornflower.

  The sight of the loving old couple in their simple home pleased Seeker. He bowed to them both in farewell, then set off down the road.

  When he had gone some way, he turned to look back, and he could still make out the old couple standing in the doorway. The image of their happiness together after all these years moved him. Long after Jango's many other mysterious utterances had faded in his mind, Seeker recalled how the old man had looked towards the old lady in the doorway and said, "My one and only love."

  13 The Jagga

  CARESSA'S BAND TRAVELLED NORTH TO RADIANCE TO share in the three days of public feasting and games given in honor of the Orlans, and with them came the Wildman. His strength was returning, and he could feel his old wild spirit reawakening within him; but he saw no clear way ahead. So for now he followed and watched and waited.

  The bandits
mingled with the great crowds between the dome-shaped tents of the Orlan camp, drank toasts to the Great Jahan with grinning imperial axers, and raised cheers to Radiant Leader with weather-beaten Orlan veterans. As the day ended, they warmed themselves at the bright fires and ate their share of roast mutton and sweet potatoes and marveled at the Orlans' beautiful beasts.

  The Wildman looked on in amusement as a wealthy merchant of Radiance tried to buy one of the Caspians for himself.

  "I have gold," he kept saying. "I'll pay in gold."

  "Would you sell your own child?" said the Orlan.

  "But I offer you gold!" protested the merchant, as if this argument overcame all others.

  "Maybe we'll have your gold, anyway," said the warrior with a wink. "Once the feasting's over."

  Caressa too was paying close attention to the Caspians. She had little interest herself in the feast or the games. She had come upriver for the horses.

  "What do you say, Wildman? The word is they're fast and strong."

  The Wildman watched a mounted Orlan ride by.

  "They're beautiful," he said.

  "If we had mounts like these, you and I, we could have it all!"

  The Wildman said nothing to this, nor did he turn to meet her shining eyes.

  Shab joined them.

  "I've been down by the lakeshore," he said. "There's hundreds of the beasts there, roaming free."

  "Are they guarded?" said Caressa.

  "Not that I could see."

  "We wait till dark," said Caressa. "Then we rope some for ourselves."

  "Right, Chief," said Shab.

  "Right, Chief," said the others.

  "Right, Wildman?" said Caressa.

  The Wildman gave a shrug.

  "Could be," he said.

  He was gazing at a troop of mounted Orlans who were cutting back and forth, clearing a space in front of the city gates. They moved in a disciplined formation, maintaining their lines, all turning at once when they turned. In this way, twenty riders imposed their will on a crowd of many hundreds.

  "Wildman," whispered Caressa, "don't do this."

  "Don't do what, Princess?"

  "You know."

  "Just the way I am, Princess."

  "Seems like you're better," said Caressa, a little ruefully. "So now I suppose you want to be chief."

  "Not me, Princess. This is your band. You're the chief."

  "So you'll take my orders?"

  He turned his handsome golden face to gaze at her at last, then shook back his long golden hair.

  "You want me to take your orders?"

  "I want to slit your guts and stuff you with pig dung and bury you alive," she said.

  "Sounds like that's a no."

  She struck him on the chest with one hand.

  "What did you have to come back for?" she cried. "I was doing fine till you came back. Look at them!"

  She gestured at the rest of her band, who were standing round pretending not to hear what was happening.

  "They take my orders. They know I'm the chief. Shab knows I'm the chief."

  "That's why you don't want Shab," said the Wildman.

  "I know! I know! Don't tell me what I know! It's you I want! I want you because you'll never take my orders! I order you to want me, and you don't want me, and the more you don't obey, the more I want you!"

  She struck him again and again.

  "You drive me crazy! Throw yourself back into the sea, and this time, stay dead!"

  "You want me to go away?"

  "No! I don't want you to go away! I want you with me. I want us to be together. You and me, Wildman—we could be the best!"

  There came a banging of drums and a braying of horns, and out through the city gates streamed a procession of red-robed priests. Servants followed, bringing gold-backed chairs, which they lined up in a row. Torches were lit, framing the now wide empty circle before the gold chairs. Onlookers crowded closer to see what was happening, and the Wildman and Caressa and the others moved with them.

  After the priests came Radiant Leader, resplendent in his golden robes and his glittering corona. All the citizens of Radiance lowered their gaze. He stood for a moment to acknowledge the bowed heads, then took his place on one of the gold-backed chairs. He gave a sign that he was ready, and out of the city gates rode three young Orlans, all abreast. Word spread through the crowd: these were the sons of the Great Jahan, and there was to be some kind of contest.

  Next came a pale and slender girl, on foot, escorted by Orlan captains on either side. She looked unseeingly before her as she came, and allowed herself to be led to one of the gold chairs without a word. The Wildman looked at her curiously, as did everyone else in the great crowd, and a murmur passed from mouth to mouth.

  "She's the prize. They're fighting for her."

  Then the drums beat faster and the horns sounded louder, and there came a dazzle of dancing light in the city gateway. Heralded by trumpets, flashing with brilliance, out rode the Great Jahan. At once a mighty shout went up from all the Orlans, and their leader raised both arms high above his head as he rode, then clasped his hands together.

  The Wildman stared, transfixed. All round him he heard the cry, "The warlord! The warlord!"

  The Jahan was smaller than he had expected, and uglier, but his every move was charged with the authority of absolute power. The Wildman watched him accept the cheers of his warriors and saw the fear and admiration on the faces of all others, and he felt a surge of excitement. This was what it was to be a warlord.

  There had been another warlord, long ago, who had built a great kingdom and been feared and obeyed by all. But he had gone further. He had used his power to force his way into the heart of the Nom, into the Garden itself. What had he found there? Whatever it was, it had changed him forever.

  The Wildman watched Amroth Jahan as he rode round the circle by torchlight, and he thought of Noman. Had he too been born to live wild? Had he breathed free air, and never sworn obedience to any man, and gone his own proud way? And had he learned to hunger for this thing called peace?

  The Wildman now knew he could never be a true Noble Warrior. But he could be a warlord. He could take his peace by force.

  He laughed to himself as he framed this thought. Caressa, hearing him laugh, thought he laughed at the Great Jahan.

  "You think he's funny?"

  "No, not him."

  "The girl, then?"

  The Wildman looked at the girl sitting among the leaders on the gold chairs. She alone of all that crowd was paying no attention to the coming contest. There close before her, the three sons of the Jahan were stripping the clothes from their upper bodies and cracking their whips in the air. But she stared into the distance, making no attempt to conceal her indifference to all around her.

  "I think she's funny," said Caressa. "That girl has a face like a fish."

  She turned her gaze back to the Great Jahan. He too was now stripping off his coat and shirt to reveal a powerful, well-muscled body. In the glow of the torches, he presented an impressive sight. One of his servants bound back his springy black hair, exposing his high cheekbones. His prominent features now fell into place, and he looked magnificent.

  Caressa was mesmerized.

  "That man," she murmured, "must be the ugliest man in the world."

  ***

  Amroth Jahan had not taken part in a jagga for ten years, but as he unfurled his old familiar whip, the thrill of the sport came back to him. He breathed the twilight air deep into his lungs and felt its cold touch on his bare skin and knew that soon he would be fiery hot. His best Caspian, Malook, waited restlessly for him to mount, shivering her ginger skin.

  "You've missed it too, Malook? We'll show them something worth the seeing, won't we?"

  Then he nodded to the handler, and with a single powerful spring, he was on Malook's back. He looked towards Echo Kittle and saw that she was gazing at nothing, her lovely face grave and unsmiling. There's a girl worth fighting for, he said to him
self. Whichever of my boys brings me down will win himself a fine wife, and good luck to him.

  His sons were stripped and mounted and waiting for him. He eased his position, leaned a little forward, and Malook moved off, smooth as cream. Picking his way with delicate hooves, Malook crossed the open space to the far side, where the boys were gathered.

  "So who's it to be first?" the Jahan asked his sons.

  "I'm to go first, Father," said Sabin, his youngest. "I don't claim any great skill at the jagga."

  "You're an Orlan," said his father. "You're born to this."

  He looked round the mass of watching faces, letting his gaze end once more on Echo.

  "And we have a crowd to cheer us on!"

  He raised his whip and rolled it through the air to end in a sharp crack. The nearest spectators jumped. The Jahan grinned. He was feeling strong.

  "Come on then, boy! On my cry!"

  He spun Malook round, trotted to the far side, and turned again. All this Malook did without being told. Sabin unfurled his own whip and angled his horse to face his father. The young man looked slight, almost fragile, in comparison with his father, and on his face there was a look of uncertainty.

  "Ya, jagga!" cried the Jahan. His whip sliced the air, and Malook set off at a rapid trot. Sabin swung left and cantered round the perimeter, but Malook turned deftly to cut him off, and they were engaged. The Jahan's whip curled and caught, winding round Sabin's left arm. The boy held to his mount. With a turning countersweep, he flicked his whip round his father's shoulders. The pull from both sides dragged them together. Both releasing at the same time, they slackened the whips, and with a shake of their naked upper bodies, both were free.

  "Good boy!" shouted the Jahan. "And again!"

  He urged Malook round in a tight circle, his whip cracking in the air, and Sabin turned with him, watching the whip to avoid its clasp. Veteran Orlans shook their heads and smiled.

  "The old man has him now."

  The Jahan chose his moment at leisure. A murmur in Malook's ear, and the Caspian bolted past Sabin. In the same fraction of a second, the Jahan's whip curled out and wrapped itself round Sabin's waist. Before Sabin could turn out of its grip the whip had tightened, and with a lurch he was jerked off the horse's back, to fall sprawling on the ground.