Noman

by William Nicholson

  "The experiment is far bigger than that."

  "Bigger than that?"

  It struck Seeker now that he had paid too little attention to this so-called experiment. He had supposed it to be the test of strength in which he was enlisted: the battle between the Noble Warriors and the savanters.

  "What is this experiment?"

  Noman closed his eyes. Seeker remained silent, sensing that Noman was debating within himself how much to reveal. After a few moments, without opening his eyes, Noman began to speak.

  "Imagine," he said, "that a farmer sets out to grow a field of corn. He knows that so long as he protects the seedlings from frost, and clears the weeds from the young shoots, and waters the plants in the dry months, his corn will come to harvest and feed his family. But he also knows that he can't be in his cornfield all day. He has other concerns. He may fall ill. He may die. One day he must die. So he says to himself: How can I plant my seed so that it will grow and survive without me? Then my family will be fed after I'm gone. He knows the many dangers of this cruel land. He fences his field, and he irrigates it, and he picks only the hardiest seeds. Then he watches and sees the corn grow to ripeness all by itself. The autumn winds blow. The seeds scatter. Winter comes, and the land freezes. The frosts pass, and the land wakes into spring. The farmer could return to the field and plant new corn, but he chooses not to. He watches the scattered seeds take root but does nothing to protect them. Many die. He does not intervene. Why not? Because if the seeds he planted so long ago show that they can renew themselves without him, the farmer will know that he has planted living corn. He may die, but the corn will return each spring. Living corn will feed his children, and his children's children, forever."

  With that he opened his eyes, but even as he looked on him, Seeker felt his withdrawal.

  "Don't leave me," Seeker said, suddenly afraid.

  Noman raised his long sword over his head, as if the slender weapon in his frail hand had the power to protect them both.

  "I am always with you."

  The blade flashed, reflecting the light from the tall window, making Seeker blink. When he looked again into the mirror, the old man was gone. There was the reflection of the armchair. And in the armchair, his right hand upraised, the reflection of himself.

  Slowly he rose from the chair, and slowly he made his way down the long mirrored room. His reflections, repeated forever, walked with him.

  He left the room by the end doors. Here was an entrance hall. The outer door stood open. A flight of steps led down to an overgrown driveway flanked by tall trees. At the far end of the driveway ran the high road. He was lost no more.

  As he stood looking out of the mansion, a horse and rider came down the road and stopped to gaze on the great house. Seeker recognized the rider. He descended the steps and walked down the drive to her side.

  "We meet again," said Echo Kittle. "Is this your house?"

  "No."

  "So where are you going?"

  "Wherever the road leads," said Seeker.

  "Would you like company on your way there?"

  "I may be poor company."

  "Any company's better than none," said Echo.

  So they set off down the road together, Echo riding Kell, and Seeker striding by her side. From time to time Echo glanced down at Seeker, and when he caught her look, she smiled.

  "Since we're travelling together," she said, "let's at least be friends."

  11 The Wildman Dances

  THE CASPIANS WERE GRAZING ALONG THE BANKS OF the river. There were a hundred and more of the beautiful beasts, running wild now that the Orlan army had disintegrated. The grass was short and dry, and they had to keep moving to find enough to eat. Where the bank was shallow, they picked their way carefully to the river's edge and drank the yellow water. The day was hot and the air round the Caspians was swarming with flies. From time to time one of them looked up, attentive to the smallest sounds; then a shake of the long golden mane, to disperse the flies, and the head dropped down again to resume grazing.

  A splash from upriver, and into view shot a long canoe paddled by four men. The Caspians sprang back from the river's edge. A second canoe followed, and a third. The men in the canoes began shouting at the herd and hurling small stones. The Caspians wheeled about and trotted away from the riverbank, putting distance between themselves and the river men.

  But ahead of them, over the brow of the slope, there appeared a line of spikers holding a long net. The net hung from their raised hands and dragged over the stiff grass. The Caspians wheeled again, to run south, only to find a second line of men approaching from that direction, too. Sensing that a trap was closing in round them, they came to a stop, huddled close together, nostrils flaring with fear, and looked about them to see where the danger was greatest.

  When the ring round the herd was complete, the spikers with the nets stopped advancing and stood still in the bright sun. Over the brow of the hill, stepping slowly, came a horse and rider. The ring parted to let them through, then closed behind them. It was the Wildman, riding the Caspian called Sky.

  He rode with an easy grace, his long golden hair floating as he came, like the Caspian's golden mane. He wore scarlet and amber and brilliant green, and all down his bronzed arms, his silver bracelets flashed. He rode the Orlan way, without saddle or harness, and Sky responded to his slightest pressure.

  He came close to the frightened herd of Caspians and spoke to them quietly, then let them smell both him and Sky and know that they meant no harm.

  "Heya, my beauties. Quiet now, my beauties."

  The men in the canoes, drifting downriver in the slow current, set about paddling to stay by the herd. The swish of the paddles spooked the edgy Caspians, and one of them made a break for a gap in the ring of men. The gap closed at once, but now half the herd was on the move, and the line of spikers on the northern rim faced a panicky charge.

  "Let them come!" cried the Wildman. "Let the net have them!"

  The spikers in the line of charge held the long net before them, only releasing it and throwing themselves clear as the Caspians struck it. The net was swept forward, dragging with it long lines of spikers, to right and left, but it did not break. The Caspians found themselves packed together into a thrashing bunch and tried to turn about to escape and so became even more entangled.

  "Stand steady!" called the Wildman. "Hold them there! Be strong! Be still!"

  He himself proceeded on Sky at a walking pace to the terrified herd, now bundled on all sides within the net. He slipped off his mount, leaving Sky free, and vaulted over the net into the heaving, shivering mass of horses.

  The surrounding spikers watched with smiles on their faces as the Wildman pushed his way among the captive beasts. He moved from Caspian to Caspian, embracing them one by one, pressing his face to their heads, speaking to them, letting them feel the nearness and the harmlessness of his body.

  "Heya, my beauties. Nothing to mind; no one to hurt you. There, beauties, friends now. Friends and comrades."

  He touched them as a victorious commander touches his weary men after a battle, transmitting to them his power and his glory. Slowly the Caspians calmed down and allowed him to climb on their backs. There, lithe and barefoot, standing tall, he stepped with expert balance from back to back, his jingling arms outstretched and shining in the sun, and cried out to his admiring followers.

  "Heya, bravas! Do you lo-o-ove me?"

  Back came the eager cry.

  "Wildman! Wildman! Wildman!"

  The Caspians were accustomed to the leadership of men, and once they had accepted the Wildman's authority, there was no more need for restraint. The nets were unwound, and the Wildman, mounted on Sky once more, led the herd back to the spiker army camp.

  As the men and horses made their way along the high ridge path, they heard the distant sound of singing and laughter. Shortly there came into view below them a great crowd of people, too far off to make out in any detail, advancing slowly across th
e plain, singing and dancing as they came.

  The Wildman called a stop to look.

  "What is that?"

  No one knew.

  "There must be thousands of them."

  Shab stepped forward.

  "I've heard the Orlans are reforming," he said.

  "Those aren't Orlans. There's women there, and children. Listen."

  The singing voices drifting up towards them on the warm breeze were both light and deep, and here and there they caught the shrill laughter of children.

  "Let me go and find out," said Shab.

  "Alone?"

  "Better for one man to go. That way I'm just another spiker on the road."

  The Wildman thought for a moment, then nodded his approval.

  "Do that, Shab. Come back and tell me."

  The Wildman rode on towards Spikertown, leading the riderless Caspians after him, and his men strode with him on either side.

  As they reached the outskirts of the great camp, the cheering began. The Wildman rode down the broad central street, at the head of the captured herd, and the people roared their approval.

  At the heart of the camp, beneath the long canopies, he dismounted and gave orders for the Caspians to be fed and watered. Then he went to his own tent. Pico, his bodyguard, was squatting outside.

  "Let no one past, Pico," he said.

  Pico had been with him from the start and could read his moods. He was a big man, with long black hair and a thick black beard, a strong man not much given to speaking. He nodded and held the tent flap open and drew it shut once more, after the Wildman had passed through.

  When he was alone at last, out of sight of his men, the Wildman's smile faded. He stood for a few moments in utter stillness. Then, with slow movements, he drew off his brightly colored shirt and lay down on the floor, arms outreached, face to the ground. As he lay, he groaned and beat his brow softly on the rough weave of the rug.

  Here he lay, neither eating nor drinking, till nightfall.

  At last he rose and drank a cup of water and ate a cut of bread; just enough for the basics of life. Then he called Pico to join him in the tent, and he handed the big man his whip.

  "Do it, Pico," he said.

  "Don't like this, chief."

  "Do it for me, Pico."

  He knelt before him, and the whip rose and fell, lashing down on the Wildman's bare brown back. A tracery of red weals from earlier whippings striped the skin. The Wildman received the lashes in silence.

  When he was finished, Pico handed back the whip, shaking his head.

  "What's done is done and won't be undone."

  "Same time tomorrow, Pico."

  The big man believed the whipping to be an act of atonement for the death of Snakey; but the Wildman sought the punishing sting of pain for so much more than that. He had fallen into a dark place where he felt nothing and no longer loved his life. Surrounded as he was by a vast army, he felt entirely alone. Able to command whatever he desired, he desired nothing. The beautiful youth who had danced on the Caspians' backs, crying out, "Do you love me?" had been playing a part, acting the carefree bandit leader that his followers knew and revered. In himself, when alone, the Wildman felt empty, as if he had been hollowed out. The only true and certain joy left to him was the one he had felt as he had squeezed the life out of Snakey: the wild joy of the kill. It frightened him that this was all he craved. Better to feel nothing than to come alive only through such acts of violence. He was frightened too by his own temper. It exploded suddenly, unpredictably, beyond his control, and was dangerous in its intensity. So for this too, to atone for his minor cruelties, he knelt and was silent beneath the lash.

  In the command tent, where he joined his men at last, the talk was all of the Orlan resurgence.

  "They have a new Jahan, who they say is even greater than the old one."

  "The old one wasn't so great. I saw him on his knees."

  This angered the Wildman.

  "Who says the Jahan wasn't great? He was a warlord!"

  "I saw him begging on his knees."

  "So did I," growled the Wildman. "Every one of us would be on his knees before that one."

  They all knew who he meant by "that one," but the name was never spoken aloud. He had been the Wildman's friend. Now he could no longer bear to hear his name.

  The Wildman sat with the others for the night meal, but he ate nothing. In the course of the meal, Shab returned. He was tired and dusty, but a beaming smile creased his lean features. In place of his petulant whine, he greeted them all with a ringing laugh.

  "Friends!" he cried. "Share the joy!"

  They stared at him.

  "Have you been at the brandy?"

  Shab went to the Wildman and threw his arms round him.

  "Chief! Be happy!"

  "Get off me!" The Wildman gave Shab a sharp push to get him away. "Don't tell me how I'm to be."

  Shab smiled all the more cheerfully. He seemed to have lost all fear of the Wildman's anger.

  "Those people we saw, they call themselves the Joyous. They're not soldiers or bandits, they're the followers of the Joy Boy. They're preparing to be gods."

  "So they're a flock of fools," growled the Wildman. "I don't need to know any more."

  "But chief! The Joy Boy! You must meet him! He made me see things I've never seen before." He turned on the gathered spiker chiefs sitting round the table and extended his arms. "Look! None of you are happy. Don't you want to share the joy?"

  At that, the Wildman shot out one arm and seized Shab by the throat and shook him.

  "No!" he shouted. "We don't want your fool joy!"

  Shab was beyond fear.

  "Meet him," he croaked, grinning even as he choked in the Wildman's grip. "Meet the Joy Boy. Find out for yourself."

  "The Joy Boy!" The Wildman hurled Shab to the ground in disgust. "You're a bad joke, Shab. You always were."

  Shab picked himself up and brushed the dirt off his clothing.

  "Maybe I'm a joke," he said. "But I'm the only one here who's laughing."

  ***

  The next day, the Wildman called up fifty of his men to act as his escort, and mounted on Sky, he rode out to see the Joyous for himself. Shab led the way.

  As they came close, the Wildman saw the heavily laden supply wagons.

  "Bandits," he said. "Just another gang of thieves."

  "No," said Shab. "It's all freely given."

  "Why would anyone give for nothing?"

  "Because they've no need of personal possessions where they're going."

  "Where's that?"

  "They call it the Great Embrace."

  They went on and so entered the outer fringes of the crowd. The Wildman looked with irritable gaze on the singing, dancing groups.

  "Cracked," he said. "Funny in the head."

  "Happy," said Shab.

  Smiling faces called out to them, "Share the joy!"

  "So where is he?" the Wildman grumbled. "Where's the chief fool?"

  "He'll be in the crowd somewhere."

  "In the crowd! There's thousands here. We'll never find him."

  "He'll find us."

  There was nothing to mark him out, no retinue of servants, no crown or throne, but the Wildman knew it was him at first sight. The Joy Boy was sitting on the ground, leaning back, supported on his elbows, talking and laughing with a crowd of children. When the Wildman rode to a stop before him, he looked up, shading his eyes with one hand, and nodded a friendly greeting as if he had been expecting him.

  The Wildman addressed him sharply.

  "You're in my territory," he said. "Everyone who crosses my land pays a levy."

  "By all means." The youth waved one hand to either side. "Take whatever you want. We don't have much, but you're welcome to all you need."

  "I don't take," said the Wildman. "You give."

  He meant to establish a relationship of authority between himself as warlord and this plump-cheeked youth. Annoyingly, every time the Joy
Boy spoke, all those round him nodded and smiled as if he had said something clever.

  "I do give," said the Joy Boy, smiling. "I give the greatest gift that can be given. I give it to you. But do you receive?"

  The people round him clapped softly. The Wildman looked away, not liking the sensation of meeting those big dark eyes. He gazed over the heads of the great throng and spoke with an air of indifference.

  "I see that your people aren't armed. Move on today, out of my territory, and my men will see you safely on your way."

  "And who will see you safely on your way?"

  The Wildman chose not to answer this. He didn't like these soft questions, so barbed with presumptions about his needs. He wheeled his Caspian about and signed to his men to begin the journey back to camp.

  The Joy Boy called after him.

  "Go in peace," he said. "Seek your own peace."

  The Wildman went on riding, and his men strode with him on either side, but these last words had done their work. They echoed and reechoed in his brain. Did the Joy Boy know that these same words had been spoken to him long ago? Did the Joy Boy know that it was just this very search for peace that had turned him from a carefree bandit into the lonely self-hating warlord of today?

  The more he thought about this, the angrier he became. This pudgy Joy Boy was just another one of the tribe of dreamers who ruined lives with promises that could never be met. Peace! There was no peace in this life. And joy, this joy that he was told on all sides to share, it lasted a few moments, at the most, before turning to ashes.

  Suddenly the rage came swelling up from the belly of his misery and burst forth in a howl of refusal.

  "No!" he cried. "There is no peace! There is no joy! You're all fools!"

  He swung Sky round and cantered back to the Joy Boy. He threw himself to the ground and seized the youth's fleshy neck in his powerful hands and squeezed it and shook.

  "Don't tell me what to do!" he shouted. "Don't goop at me with your fish eyes! Don't preach at me! You've got nothing! Nothing!"