Noman

by William Nicholson

  "Yes! But what if—"

  "Don't say the words!" cut in Jango sharply. "Don't think the thought! Look at me."

  Seeker turned his back on the dark clearing in the trees and faced the old man. Jango's eyes burned with a fierce energy. He laid down his stick on the bridge and raised his arms.

  "I had hoped not to have to do this," Jango said. "But I see that I must."

  Seeker understood that he was to come into the old man's embrace. He stepped forward. Jango put his bony hands on his shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes.

  "Do you see me?"

  "Yes. I see you."

  "Who am I?"

  "You are Jango."

  "That is one of my names. Look deeper."

  Seeker looked closely at the old man's weathered face, lit by the last glow of the setting sun. As he did so, it seemed to him that he recognized him from long ago. He resembled someone he had once known well. But he could not tell who.

  "Have we known each other in some earlier time?" he said.

  "Indeed we have. Look deeper."

  Seeker gazed for another long moment at that old and gentle face, searching for clues. Jango closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Seeker blinked too, in instinctive response. As soon as he did so, he had his answer.

  "Of course! I know you!"

  "So you do."

  "But how—how is it possible?"

  Jango held him with his steady gaze. Seeker, looking at him now in fearful amazement, could say no more.

  I know you. I am you.

  This never-known always-familiar face before him was himself grown old.

  Now Jango took him in his thin and trembling arms, and Seeker held him close, and it was the strangest sensation. It was apartness and oneness together. It was the sublime comfort of total love, and yet he was alone.

  As they embraced, Seeker felt the old man dissolve in his arms, and he sank into him and was him. Now he was Jango, embracing his younger self.

  I am more than I know.

  Then, like two dancers holding each other close, turning together, he was Seeker once more, and the old man was gazing at him with long-cherished love.

  "Look with my eyes, Seeker. Look into the Garden."

  Seeker turned then and looked again into the clearing. The deep shadow tricked his gaze, and for a little while he could not tell what he saw.

  "Have faith," said Jango. "See with the eyes of faith."

  Seeker looked among the trees into the bower where the chair was placed, and all at once a wave of joy rose in his heart, and his eyes filled with tears.

  "I see!" he whispered.

  The All and Only was before him, beckoning him forward.

  "Go to him."

  Trembling now, weeping with joy, Seeker crossed what remained of the bridge and stepped onto the shore. Jango came after him. There before the overpowering presence, Seeker fell to his knees and felt himself warmed by transcendent love.

  "Command me," he said.

  From behind him came a deep close boom of sound.

  Seeker leaped to his feet and turned to face the lake. The sound filled the world. There could be no mistaking now: Manlir had entered the Garden. But Seeker knew his faith was strong. He was ready.

  Boom! So deep and strong that surely the waters of the lake must shiver to hear it. But nothing moved. Jango was watching him, leaning on his stick. Then his old eyes too turned to stare across the lake.

  A figure was coming into view on the bridge, far away. Too far to detect any details, but he was in the form of a man, and he moved with a slow grace that could only be born of great strength.

  Seeker calmed his mind, ready to strike.

  "Let him come," he said.

  The deep boom sounded nearer: not the footsteps of the approaching stranger, but the power that rolled before him. Prompted by some inner instinct, Seeker stepped back onto the bridge. There on that blade of darkness he would meet his enemy, and so the final combat would be fought at last.

  As the stranger approached, Seeker advanced to meet him. There was little light left in the sky now, and such light as there was, reflecting on the lake, threw all else into silhouette. So it was two dark forms who converged upon each other, to the slow boom of the sounding land.

  Is it me he comes to destroy, thought Seeker, or is it the All and Only? Is this the Assassin of the legend, whose day must surely come? If so, I am no more than an obstacle in his way. But he will find I'm not so easy to pass.

  Now the stranger was close. Seeker stilled his mind for combat. Instinctively taking his ground, he adopted the stance known as the Tranquil Alert. His arms loose at his sides, he let his eyes defocus so that he could catch any and all movement. The stranger too, seeing him halt, came to a stop. All round him, the rolling boom of sound filled the air.

  Then the stranger spoke, his soft dry voice sounding clear through the echoing night.

  "Look with your own eyes, Seeker."

  Seeker's whole body stiffened in surprise. He knew that voice.

  "Noman?"

  "Manlir is waiting. Look again."

  Seeker turned to look. The darkness between the trees was deeper now. But he had already seen what was to be seen.

  "I have seen the All and Only."

  "Go closer. Look again."

  "I have looked."

  Noman's voice cried out, sharp as a knife.

  "See with your own eyes!"

  At this, the dread that Seeker had felt before returned with redoubled force. He did not want to turn round. He did not want to look again.

  "I have looked," he said. "I have faith. I have the strength in me now of the All and Only. I'm ready."

  "Seeker!" The old voice drilled into his brain. "Seeker! Jango faced this test before you, and he failed. The only lasting strength is truth. Look with your own eyes!"

  So Seeker turned once more and forced his heavy limbs to take the first step. Step by slow step, as if dragging himself through sand, he made his way back across the bridge.

  There was Jango, waving at him, mouthing something that he did not hear. There was the dark clearing between the trees on the shore. There was the shadowy outline of the chair.

  Seeker stepped onto the shore. Once again, he came to a stop. The dread was so strong in him now that his whole body shook.

  What is there to fear? he asked himself. I've seen the truth once already.

  No, he answered. I saw then through Jango's eyes. Now I must see with my own eyes.

  Shivering uncontrollably, he forced himself to approach the shadowed chair. He heard the crackle of dry leaves beneath his feet. He moved clumsily, as if half asleep, heavy with dread.

  Now as he looked, as he forced his weary eyes to strain into the darkness, he saw that there was indeed a figure seated in the chair: the figure of a man.

  He strode nearer, his heart beating, his heaviness falling away. The man in the chair gazed towards him and raised one hand in a familiar gesture.

  "Seeker," he said. "My son. I'm proud of you."

  "Father?"

  Seeker stopped in consternation. How could it be his father? But there was the familiar high smooth brow, there the steady blue eyes. His father was smiling at him, as he had always longed to see him smile: with a look of love and pride.

  "Father! Why are you here?"

  "Isn't this what you want?" said his father.

  Then as Seeker stared, his father's features began to melt and change. Now before him in the chair sat his brother Blaze.

  "Blaze!"

  "Hallo, little brother. I've been watching you. You're good!"

  "Watching me?"

  "Skim stones. I saw that last one. Three jumps!"

  "But you never saw, Blaze. I could never do it right while you were watching."

  "Well, I've seen now. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  Then Blaze's features changed too, and he shrank down in the chair until Seeker saw crouching before him the aged body of the Elder.

>   "So, Seeker," he said. "You turn out to be strong after all. All the rest of us have failed. Only you have true strength."

  "How can I believe that, Elder?"

  "Why not believe it, child? It's what you want to believe."

  Seeker felt then a sinking in his heart. He looked away in shame. He put one hand to his face to cover his eyes. When he looked again, the chair—the chair that had given him all his childish longings—the chair was empty.

  25 The Assassin

  IT WAS A COMMON WOODEN CHAIR WITH A CURVED back and arms, the kind that stands at the head of the table in every modest household. It had no upholstery on the seat, no carvings on the back. Seeker touched it and felt the smooth grain of the wood. It was just a chair.

  So what had he seen before, when he had looked through Jango's eyes?

  I saw what Jango wanted to see. Then I saw what I wanted to see.

  And now? All there is before me is an empty chair.

  On a sudden impulse, he turned and lowered himself into the chair. He heard Jango cry out.

  "No!"

  But he was seated now. It was done. He was in the very chair that he had believed held the All and Only.

  He heard the shivery boom of his enemy—from the night sky above him and from the ground beneath him, from the trees behind and the lake ahead.

  "Let him come," he said. "All he'll find here is me."

  He felt the rising of a wind blowing off the lake. It blew in his face, ruffling his hair, making his eyes water. He tried to raise one hand to brush his cheek but found his hand was fixed to the arm of the chair. The wind blew stronger, buffeting him as he sat. He tried to get up. All movement had become impossible. No bonds held him down, but he could not leave the chair. Now the wind was so strong it hurt his face. He twisted from side to side and pulled on his arms and legs, but he was caught.

  Ahead the black line of the bridge stretched away across the lake, and the lake reached from horizon to horizon. The wind whipped the dark waters, forming ridges and waves that hissed against the near shore. Over it all boomed the ceaseless beat of his waiting enemy, so near but never revealed, before whom he was now helpless.

  Seeker struggled to free himself with all his might. As he did so he shouted his defiance.

  "Here I am! Do your worst!"

  Then, from the far rim of the lake, there came a new sound and with it a fleeting movement, a play of light over the water. A rustling murmuring like the fall of blown leaves, like the wind in dry grass, swept softly towards him. Flickering crests rose in the water that might have been waves but were not waves. As they came closer, he saw that they were formed of fine filaments, cobwebs carried on the wind, tumbling and snaking over the lake. Each strand glowed with its own faint luminescence, forming as they were blown along ever thicker skeins and braids of light.

  The windswept threads now covered the lake, as more and more streamed over the distant ridge and down to the water. The nearest strands reached the shore and came rustling over the ground towards him. The murmuring took form; he began to catch words and phrases, at first too tangled, one with another, to be coherent, but through the low hum came again and again two clear words: Help me.

  Now the whispering threads were twining round his feet and the legs of the chair. They were so fine, so light, that he could barely feel their touch. But all the time more came, and more, gathering round him like blown cobwebs, gradually coating his feet and shins. He caught their sounds now, as the soft words pressed closer to him.

  Help me! he heard. Hear me! Give me! Love me! Save me!

  "Get away!" he cried, trying to kick with his feet. But he could not free himself. Only his head could twist and turn. He looked round for help, but he was alone.

  The glowing webs of sound continued to flow towards him and to heap up round him, clinging ever tighter with the sheer mass of their numbers. Their murmuring filled the air.

  Ease my pain! End my loneliness! Give me hope! Show me mercy! Forgive my weakness! Punish my enemies! Watch over those I love! Watch over me! Don't let me suffer! Don't let me die! Let me live forever!

  Each fine filament was a prayer. All the prayers offered to the All and Only by all those in need were swarming over the water to cluster round the one who had taken his seat in the chair. The threads were crawling over the mound that had already formed round his legs, and now he felt them twining round his arms and clutching at his chest.

  In his terror he cried out.

  "I'm not your god! I can do nothing!"

  But the strands continued to pile up round him, layer on layer cocooning his helpless body, reaching now as high as his neck. Soon they would be curling round his face, choking his mouth and nostrils, stopping his breath.

  "Get away!" he cried. "Do you want to kill me?"

  But he knew as he cried that his words meant nothing. The miserable souls who uttered these prayers knew nothing of him. In their need they prayed, and their prayers flew forth, and he was imprisoned in the place where their prayers came to rest. He was being buried by prayers.

  So this was what it felt like to be god: crushed by unmeetable needs, burdened by the deadweight of helpless misery, silenced by the great gagging mass of unanswerable prayers.

  Now the webs were winding round his chin and reaching for his lips. He shook his head, but they clung on tight.

  "Save me!" he cried.

  Then he laughed aloud. It was a joke, a bitter joke: the one to whom all others prayed for help crying out to be saved. Where was his saviour? Who was he calling?

  Surely you know that it's you who will save me.

  He turned his head, twisting upwards in a vain attempt to escape the mass of writhing threads. He threw his gaze up into the empty night sky above. There he saw, high overhead, a slowly circling falcon. He watched it as it flew, wings outstretched, hanging in the air so effortlessly, faintly rimmed by light from the dying west. Too high and too dark to read its markings, but he knew from the shape, from the edge-feathers of its wings and tail, that it was a peregrine. He knew the great hawks well. His brother, Blaze, had taught him to watch them, long ago. They were hunters who struck from above, from so high up that their prey could never even imagine their existence. They hunted by sight. It was late for a peregrine to be out. "They only see you if you move," Blaze had said to him—making him shiver. Seeker the boy had looked up fearfully then, wondering if there were other, higher hawks, entirely beyond the reach of his eyes, waiting to swoop down on him: unseen gods of punishment and death.

  Now as he looked up, he remembered and his mind, reaching out of his imprisoned body, joined the circling falcon and looked down with the bird's keen eyes. Below him he saw lake and shore, verge and woodland, and it was a hunting ground—nothing more. This True Nom, this place of power and mystery, was to the falcon no more than a breeding ground for its prey. My world is many worlds.

  His gaze then swooped like a falcon down the night sky, through the branches of the trees to the world of grasses and roots, where mice and shrews lived their little lives all unaware. And there, tall among the grasses, stood a single blue flower. His eyes came to rest on it, lit by the silvery light of the web of prayers, and he greeted it like an old friend. He knew this flower well. He understood its beauty. It was itself, the only way it could be.

  As he thought this thought, a tumble of further thoughts followed, faster than he could grasp them: how the falcon's world and the world of the mice and the shrews and the cornflower intersected in a bolt of death from the sky; how his world and the world of those whose desperate prayers clutched at him were different too, all of them, and yet shared the same land and sky. Like blindfolded prisoners they shuffled about in their private darks, bumping into each other, not knowing who or what they had struck.

  We are all connected.

  This was a massive thought. He felt himself grow, reaching out into the trees and over the water and up into the night sky.

  He saw then with astonishment what had always
been there to see, what was so laughably obvious: the way all the elements of the world work together and could not exist without one another. The mountains need the plains, and the lakes need the hills. The river could not be a river without its riverbanks, and the high road would not be a road without the fields and forests through which it cuts its way. The shore needs an ocean, and the ocean needs a horizon, and the horizon needs a sky.

  The revelations exploded like fireworks in his mind. Every smallest thing is part of a greater whole. The greater things depend upon one another. Nothing is alone, nothing is without its function, nothing is without meaning. And seeing this, and knowing this, makes the world beautiful beyond imagining.

  I am more than I know. I am all that I know. I am all there is. Could it be so? If it was true—

  He realized then that the whispering strands that had been smothering him were falling silent. As if only the sound they made had given them substance; as they ceased to murmur, so they dwindled and faded and were gone. The whole creeping web that had covered the lake was melting into the night. He found he could move again. He rose from the chair.

  There before him in the night was Jango, staring at him with anguished eyes.

  "What do you see?" he called.

  Seeker knew what Jango needed to hear. But everything was changed now. He could only speak the truth.

  "I see nothing," he said.

  Jango sank to his knees and clutched his breast as if wounded.

  "Assassin!" he cried.

  So be it, thought Seeker. I'm not the god of the Garden. I'm the one who sees there is no god. I'm the Assassin.

  He stepped away from the chair. He went past the sorrowing Jango. He went to Noman, on the lakeshore.

  "What you have seen," said Noman, "I saw long ago. I was the Assassin then. You are the Assassin now."

  He raised his arms. Seeker came to him. Noman put his hands on Seeker's shoulders and gazed into his eyes.