As this memory passed through his mind, the sun rose, and its light streamed across the water like an answer to his question. How could the Clear Light not still shine?
It wasn't an answer. It was the return of hope. Dawn makes the unknown future endurable.
He turned about and climbed back up the slope to the encampment, his shadow long and clear before him. The first person he met was the school meek, Gift. The old man was peering at him with anxious eyes.
"You will speak to them, won't you?" he said. "They don't know where they're to go."
"Yes," said Seeker. "I'll speak."
"The words will come," said Gift.
This was what Seeker too had come to believe. He had no god and no guidance, only the sense that this was not an ending but a beginning. So he decided to enter each new moment without foreknowledge and find what was to be found there.
The fires had been rekindled by now, and most of the people were up. As they saw him approaching, they began to gather, in the hope that he had a message for them. The Nomana gathered, and beyond them the people of Anacrea, and beyond them the spikers. Already they looked on him as living proof that their god was not dead.
"My friends, my teachers, my elders," he said, his eyes travelling over the grave faces of the Nomana. "My brothers and sisters. Each of us has made the same vow, to possess nothing and to build no lasting home. If what we held to be true was true before, it's true still. Our mission remains unchanged. We use our powers to bring justice to the oppressed and freedom to the enslaved. We are still Noble Warriors. And the little that we can do, we must do, so that others will know good men too can be strong."
This had been spoken by Noman long ago, as they all knew. So it turned out not to be so hard to find the words to say after all.
"I go on my way alone, leaderless, without certainty. So must you. One day we'll hear the call of the Nomana again. We'll come together again then, stronger than we were before."
How do I know that? he thought as he spoke. Our home is destroyed, our god is dead.
"For now we hope without hope and keep faith without faith. We'll travel light, don't you think? We'll go far. We'll blow away on the wind. And when we float to Earth again, what will be left of our Community? Memory—and love."
He found he was smiling as he finished, for all the gravity of his words. His brother, Blaze, came forward and embraced him.
"I'll be waiting, little brother. Call me, and I'll come."
Together they sought out their father and mother, to make their farewells.
"Are we to go on the road, too?" said their mother.
"No," said Seeker. "You're needed here. Look." He pointed to the makeshift huts. "Already a new town is being born. Think how much there is to be done."
"But the Nom is gone. What are we to do here without the Nom?"
"People must still eat, Mama, and be clothed. Roofs must be raised, and streets paved, and cattle reared, and fences built. You'll want a meetinghouse and a town council, and you may be a councilor. And you'll want a school, Father. The children must have a school. New walls, new honors boards."
"Ah, now, as to the honors boards," said his father, "I've been thinking of a different approach. It strikes me that our boards were too small. What we need is names all over the walls. The name of every child who passes through the school."
"And will all the names be in gold?"
"Oh, I think so, yes. You see, one can never quite tell how any of them are going to turn out. So it seems wisest to honor them all."
Seeker then embraced his father and kissed his mother and left them with his brother, Blaze. He passed from friend to friend, making his farewells. He bowed before his teachers Miriander and Chance. And so he came to the group of spiker chiefs, where the Wildman stood waiting for him.
"You a bandit again, Wildman?"
"Bandit and spiker and Noma, too," he replied, showing his badan. He had it tied round his waist like a sash. "Don't know what I am. Don't know what you are, either."
"I'm your friend."
"Heya, Seeker! To the end of the world!"
Seeker glanced across at Morning Star.
"She going with you?"
"Seems so."
"You watch over her."
"She'll watch over me, more like."
And so, last of all, Seeker made his farewells to Morning Star.
"I'll not forget you, Star."
"You'd better not."
"I hope you find what you want."
"Where I'm going," she said, "I don't think I'll find anything I want. But I'll go, anyway."
"None of us get to choose our own way."
"So who's doing the choosing?" she said.
"I don't know."
"If you ever find out, you come and tell me. I've got a whole lot of complaints about how my life has been run so far."
"I wouldn't want you any other way. Well, apart from one or two minor changes."
He knew she could read his colors, so she didn't pretend not to understand.
"You're the best friend I have in all the world, Seeker," she said. "And you always will be."
She held up her palm, and his hand met hers, and they interclasped their fingers.
"Don't say good-bye," he said.
With that, he left her and strode away briskly up the slope. At the top of the hill he turned back, knowing they were all watching him, and raised his hands high above his head in the Nomana salute. Then he passed on out of sight.
26 Through the Door
ON THE ROAD WEST, SEEKER PASSED MANY BANDS OF Orlans, no longer in their companies or under the command of the Jahan's captains. The humiliation of their leader had shattered the cohesion of the horde, and it had disintegrated into hundreds of smaller bands of stragglers and marauders. Many were heading back to the land of their origin. Some reckoned to stay and take advantage of the collapse of the empire of Radiance. All knew only one way to survive: by pillage and plunder.
None of those Seeker passed on the road gave him a second glance. Word had spread rapidly that the god of the Nomana had been killed, and in that land of many gods, it was taken for granted that those who lost their god also lost their power. Seeker did not wish to disabuse them. He had no desire to attract attention.
He walked on steadily down the road, his badan drawn tight round his head against the cold, until the white sun began to decline in the sky. He needed to rest and to eat. So seeing a roadhouse ahead, he decided to allow himself a short break.
A number of Caspians were grazing untethered by the roadside. An Orlan band must be in possession of the house. He thought of moving on to somewhere less troublesome, but he was tired and hungry. With luck, they would ignore him.
He opened the door and found a drunken party was in full swing within. Orlans crowded the benches, but not only Orlans—there were spikers at the tables too, and on the tables. Those on the benches were beating the boards with their fists and singing, and those on the tables were dancing and singing. Empty brandy bottles rolled about on the floor. Plates of rice and beans, half eaten, lay here and there on the tables, where they were stamped on by the dancing boots. A bright fire roared in the hearth.
No one heard Seeker come in, and no one asked him his business as he settled himself down in a corner by the window. He took up one of the plates of rice and beans and quietly set about finishing off what had been left. As he ate, he watched the drunken dancers.
The dancing was not quite as wild as at first he had supposed. There was a sort of order to it. The dancers formed two rough rings. The outer ring was made up of the true drunkards, still with bottles in their hands, who flailed their limbs about without any reference to the rhythmic beats of the song. The inner ring were attempting the steps of the dance, a staggering affair that lurched from right foot to left foot and back again, in time to the table-banging of their companions.
"No home but the road for me!
No roof but the sky for me!
No law but the knife for me!
So what's to do but drink!"
Then they held their bottles high and gave a cheer and drank. A gap opened up briefly in the rings of dancers, and Seeker saw a swarthy Orlan, with a bottle in one hand, singing at the top of his voice. He still wore his bright armor and had his whip and his sword in his belt. His face was red as a tomato, and he was beaming with pleasure as he joined in the song.
It was Amroth Jahan.
Seeker looked on in amazement. What had happened to the proud warlord? Anger was to be expected, and despair, and shame. But dancing and laughter?
Then he saw through the jumping figures that the Jahan was not alone in the center of the circle. He was dancing close to a woman. The woman had her back to Seeker, but he knew he had seen that rich mass of black hair and that voluptuous figure before. When she turned in her stamping dance and he saw her face, he remembered her name. It was the Wildman's friend Caressa.
The dance came to an end shortly, terminated only by the emptying of the brandy bottles. Amroth Jahan, profoundly drunk, had to be helped off the table to the floor. There he slumped to a sitting position, his back against the wall, grinning and calling out.
"Here, beauty! Want you, beauty! Kissy kissy!"
Caressa dropped down by his side and he took her in his arms.
"Say it again!" he cried, holding her tight. "Say it again!"
"Youngster!" she said, laughing. "Stripling! Colt!"
"Where's the old man?"
"I see no old man. I see a young fellow. Big and strong and young!"
"Oh, you beauty! Kiss me again!"
Seeker looked on in sadness. He felt no joy in the Great Jahan's downfall, and no desire to inflict any further punishment. What was done was done. It was enough that the once all-powerful warlord who had set out to conquer the world was reduced to groveling for the flattery of bandits.
He finished eating, then rose, meaning to leave as quietly as he had come. But at this point, one of the bandit gang spotted him.
"Heya!" he cried. "A hoodie!"
Others turned at the cry and, seeing Seeker, began to jeer.
"Hoodie, hoodie, lost your god!"
"Boom-bang! Bye-bye god!"
Seeker realized with a sinking heart that they supposed his powers had died with the destruction of Anacrea. He bowed his head, not wanting to provoke a conflict, and made for the door.
"Not so fast, little hoodie!"
They gathered round him, prodding at him.
"Not so noble any more, eh?"
Caressa now came to see what her gang had found. She recognized him from their brief encounter in Spikertown.
"That's one of the kiddies went off with the Wildman," she exclaimed. "So you're a hoodie now?"
Shab, who was right behind her, gave a mocking laugh.
"A saddy, more like."
"Hey, sad boy," said Caressa, coming up close to Seeker. "Think you're better than everyone else, do you?"
"No," said Seeker. "I've no quarrel with you."
"How about I've a quarrel with you, boy?"
Amroth Jahan now came lumbering through the crowd. When he saw Seeker, he burst into laughter.
"Why, that's the one! That's him! He was there in the battle!"
"You and your battle!" said Caressa. "If I'd been there, you'd be telling a different story."
"He's the one that made me kneel!" cried the Jahan.
He dropped to his knees and shuffled forward.
"Look, I'm kneeling again! I'm kissing your hand!" He tried to take hold of Seeker's hand. "Don't care any more. You want me to kiss your feet, too?"
"Get up, you fool," said Caressa, laughing and pulling him to his feet. "He's just a sad boy."
The Jahan wrapped his arms round her and grinned at Seeker.
"See, sad boy? I've got a beautiful woman in my arms and I'm young again. So I don't care if the whole world kisses your hand. I've got a woman who kisses more than hands."
He fell to smothering Caressa's lips and cheeks and neck with wild drunken kisses.
"Get off me," said Caressa, still laughing. "You'll get all the kissing you want. Right now I mean to teach this sad boy how to dance."
"Heya!" cried the bandits. "Dance lessons!"
"Make a ring for our guest, boys! Shab, see to the fire."
The bandits pushed back the tables and formed a ring round Seeker, their blades now drawn to make it plain that he was not at liberty to go. The Jahan shook his head vigorously from side to side and tried to stop them, but he kept bursting into laughter and forgetting what he meant to say, so he gave up and sat down on a bench to watch.
"You'd better let me go," said Seeker quietly.
But Shab was scattering hot coals from the fire over the open space of the floor, and the bandit ring was tightening. The points of their blades poked at Seeker, nudging him onto the coals.
"See, boy," said Caressa, "I don't like you hoodies. You took my Wildman and stole his soul and made him into a sad boy. So now I'm going to make you dance."
Seeker looked at her and said nothing. For all her taunts, he felt no anger. They didn't understand. That was no crime. He didn't understand himself. So it seemed to him the simplest way to silence her was to do as she asked.
With his mind he reached down into the soles of his bare feet and prepared them, making them strong. He gathered the lir in the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands. Then he stepped onto the hot coals and felt no pain. He stooped and picked up the hot coals in his hands and was not burned.
He held out the hissing coals to Caressa. She started back from him, her eyes now wide with fear. Seeker saw the meaning of that look. He had become a strange and monstrous creature.
"Let's go, boys!"
The bandits and the Orlans melted away, taking the Jahan with them. Seeker put the coals back in the fire. They had not so much as singed his skin.
By the time he was out on the road again, they were gone. He had put them to flight. Once again he was the victor. But there was no glory in it. He had not sought these powers, and he didn't know how to use them. He had broken the army that had attacked the Nom, but the Nom had been destroyed, anyway. Now all authority was overthrown. The land was in the grip of anarchy. It was one thing to win a battle, but who was then to rule?
Seeker made his way down the road, following the line of the old ruined wall. It seemed to him he had been given an immense responsibility, but he felt helpless in the face of it. Was he supposed to be the bringer of order? Was he supposed to set himself up as king?
The spikers were right. He was just a sad boy.
So why had he been given so much power?
I didn't ask for it. I'm no one special. All I ever wanted was to be a Noble Warrior. All I ever wanted was to live in the Garden.
The Garden was gone. Once more, desolation gripped his heart. Why the voices? Why raise his hopes, only to leave him with nothing?
Who is doing this to me?
The questions echoed through his mind, one after another, circling and calling like seagulls. There were no answers, only more questions.
Where am I to go?
What am I?
Who am I?
He felt a lurching shock within himself. It was as if with this last simple question he had stumbled on some hard obstacle that blocked his way. The question turned out not to feel so simple after all. And yet surely he knew the answer. He knew his own name, and his parents' names. He could describe himself. So why did it feel all of a sudden as if he did not know who he was?
He remembered the shadow in the cloud. It had been his shadow, but it had not been him.
Nervously he looked now for his shadow. There it was, faint in the cold gray winter light, and unremarkable.
I am Seeker after Truth. I was born on Anacrea. My father is the schoolteacher. I have been trained as a Noble Warrior.
But that was all only a small part. There was so much more. Most of him was hidden from himself.
I am more than I know.
Seeker had no idea where this strange notion had come from, but now that it entered his mind it would not leave. It frightened him to think he could be someone or something other, but it also came as a relief. Ever since he had first heard the voice in the Nom, he had felt as if he was living inside a maze. Somewhere was the right way to go, the way that would let him out of the maze, but he never knew which turning to take. Now it seemed to him obvious that he did not know and could never know. If the self that was trying so hard to make sense of everything was not his real self—or was only a small part of a much bigger self—then of course he wouldn't know. His little finger didn't know why he was walking down the road. All it could do was come along with the rest of him. His present notion of himself was perhaps like that: too small to comprehend the greater purpose of which he was a part.
Who am I?
More than I know.
Keep walking.
He began to sing the song that had come to him in the cloud.
"Jango up, jango down
Jango smile, jango frowny
Weep your tears, say your prayers
No man hears, no man cares
Seek a, seek a, seek a door—"
And there was the strange old man, seated on his sitting-stick, between the road and the old wall ahead. And right by the place where he was sitting there was a door in the wall.
Jango raised one hand in greeting.
"Here at last! Young Hero! Or maybe you've got yourself a new name by now, eh? New names for new times."
"Did you know I was coming?"
"Why else am I here? The faithful keeper of the key to the door. Not that I have a key. But then, nor does the door have a lock."
He studied Seeker with his little brown eyes.
"You're getting the hang of doors by now, I should say."
"I don't think I'm getting the hang of anything."
"But there's no getting anywhere without doors. And surely you know," he added with a mischievous smile, "that where your way lies, the door is always open."
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