Valderen ft-2

by Roger Taylor

  But, above all, there was throughout, a celebration in the word that had been formed; a celebration that was at once sensuous, ascetic, reasoning, and intuitive. Farnor turned away from it. It was too complex. And there was a joy in it that tore at him profoundly.

  The images vanished as swiftly as they had ap-peared.

  ‘It isn’t there then, this here and there?’ the voice said, almost incongruous after the breathtaking grandeur of the vision that it had just shown Farnor.

  ‘Yes, I think it might be, actually,’ Farnor replied.

  ‘Aah!’ Many voices formed the sigh of realization. Somewhere he Heard ‘here’ and ‘there’ being bandied about, as ‘I’ and ‘we’ had. And was that laughter he could Hear?

  Despite the darkness, Farnor put his hands over his eyes as he pondered what he had just experienced. He was conscious of a discussion still going on at the edge of his awareness.

  ‘We understand,’ the voice said, eventually. ‘I think. But it isn’t easy. Movers have always presented us with a problem. It is difficult to talk to most Hearers.’

  Farnor waited. And, seemingly from nowhere, a question came to him.

  He asked it. ‘Are you one or are you many?’

  There was a long silence. Then came the answer. ‘Yes.’

  Farnor sighed. ‘Yes, what?’ he demanded impa-tiently. ‘Are you one or are you many?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply, immediately this time. ‘Of course we are one, and I am many.’

  Farnor grimaced in frustration, then turned over and pushed his face into the rolled blanket that was serving as a pillow.

  There was some disappointment in the voice when it spoke again. ‘I see that you must be one, now, wander-ing the by-ways of your own world until the light returns. It is our way to respect such things, I shall withdraw.’

  Rather than responding, Farnor found himself cling-ing to the last word as it began to fade away. It grew softer and softer but never seemed to disappear completely. Around it were wrapped the farewells of many friends. Farnor thought that he was still listening to its distant, restful waning as it gradually began to transform itself into the din of the dawn chorus.

  * * * *

  The terrain was such that Farnor could not make the rapid progress that he would have wished. Nevertheless, he moved northwards steadily, using both the stars and his lodespur, sometimes riding, sometimes walking. He could not know it, but the step that carried him relentlessly towards his goal was that which had patiently carried his father, and generations of Yar-rances before him, up and down the land at the head of the valley, moving sheep and cattle, sowing and harvesting crops, mending, tending, painstakingly measuring out a lifetime’s endeavour; it was like a ringing, resonant echo through time.

  He made no attempt to mark his trail for, despite the richness of the variety of the Forest, there were too many things that were too similar and too few places where he could scan a broad panorama and select some feature to serve as a beacon. Instead, he placed a dull faith in the knowledge that as he now moved north-wards to an unknown destination at the behest of others, so, in due course, he would return southwards, and his own will would carry him inexorably back home.

  Such obstacles as he encountered, therefore, he greeted predominantly with anger; anything that stood in the way of his ultimate destiny could expect nothing else. At first he tried to enlist the help of the trees in finding a suitable route, but though they made obvious efforts to help him they still seemed to have little or no understanding of such matters as place and distance, and even less understanding of the problems he was experiencing.

  In the end, those obstacles that could not be walked over or hacked through, had simply to be walked around. Even a wide, tumbling river that crossed his path received little more than a curled lip and a fatalistic scowl as he wandered its bank looking for a suitable place to cross. Yet the bridge that he eventually found evoked no prayer of thanks, not even to good fortune. This was, after all, hardly an uninhabited land, was it? He had crossed many well-beaten tracks confirming that, and had even been able to follow some of them for part of the way. That a river should be well bridged thus brought no surprise.

  Had he paused to look at the bridge, however, he would have seen timbers large and small, trimmed, jointed, carved and decorated with a skill and knowl-edge far beyond those exhibited in the gate to the castle, which but weeks ago had held him awe-stricken with its massive solidity.

  Apart from the tracks that he encountered from time to time, the main evidence of the Valderen was to be heard rather than seen. At dawn each morning he would hear horn calls ringing out in the distance. Sometimes two or three different calls would mingle in a confusing but not unpleasant clamour. The affirmation, the confident assuredness of the calls irked him.

  Only once did he actually encounter people, finding himself one day passing through a lodge. It was oddly quiet after what he had experienced at Derwyn’s, and such inhabitants as were to be seen were all men, sitting, apparently casually, on the lower branches of the trees. They watched him silently as he passed by, but for the most part he avoided their gaze, sensing that they would be only too ready to intervene should he show any sign of halting his journey there. Though he was not in any way menaced, the experience was frightening, renewing in him as it did, the fear of strangers that was his natural heritage and which had been so vividly justified by the arrival of Nilsson and his men.

  Despite his dark preoccupation however, this recep-tion offended him. ‘Did they know who I am?’ he asked of the trees that night in some indignation. ‘And that I’m here because of your will, not my own?’

  ‘Hearers Hear,’ was the only response he got, despite several further askings.

  He was still feeling puzzled, and not a little bruised by this encounter several days later, and he was reliving his surly march through the lodge as he stared into the flames of his campfire. He could not have said what whim made him go to the trouble of lighting a fire when the sunstones that Derwyn had given him would have been sufficient for such heat and light as he needed, but he had done it. Patiently he had searched around for dry twigs and branches, sorted them, broken them into convenient lengths and, with the flint that he had brought from home, eventually ignited them.

  He had sensed whisperings of alarm from the trees as the flames had flared up and sent sparks wheeling and dancing into the night air. ‘Not keen on fire, I suppose?’ he had asked.

  There had been no specific reply, but the whisper-ings became louder and began to fill with images which he could not understand, but which were distinctly unpleasant. His first inclination was to tell the trees to sod off, they’d brought him here, they could take the consequences, but instead he said, ‘I understand. Don’t be afraid. I’ll cause you no harm.’

  The whispering faded.

  He sat for a long, timeless interval, staring into the fire. Memories of happier times hovered at the edges of his mind, just as the darkness hovered at the edges of the firelight. But he would not allow them closer. There was nothing to be gained in dwelling on such times; they were gone and could never be again.

  Yet, paradoxically, it still disturbed him that he had not been greeted at the lodge he had passed through, as he had been by Derwyn and his family and friends. He could not see himself as the dark-haired, lowering outsider that he so obviously was. Nor as the centre of a strange, unsettling upheaval. He was Farnor Yarrance, popular and loved by any who knew him, forced by cruel circumstance to do what he had to do. He was no man’s enemy, save Rannick’s. Why should anyone fear him, watch him as though he were a dangerous animal?

  And it had been fear in that lodge, without a doubt, he realized, as he threw some more wood on the small blaze. And fear begets anger and hatred. He frowned. The firelight etched out the lines in his face, ageing him.

  The silent watchfulness that had greeted him at the lodge lingered more menacingly with him than the open antagonism he had received from EmRan. They must be
different from place to place, these Valderen, he thought. Just as someone from over the hill would be different from us.

  He prodded the fire with a long branch. The dark-ness beyond the firelight seemed to deepen and his thoughts took an ominous turn. They were hunters, these people. Forest hunters. Silent, skilful movers through the shadows. And could not they, like he, decide that that which they feared should be destroyed?

  Even as the thought occurred to him, a sound that was not a sound of the night, impinged on him. A soft rustling.

  He moved his head slightly, idly turning the branch in his fingers. Then with a cry of terror he jumped to his feet and swung the branch at the dark shadow standing close behind him.

  * * * *

  Harlen sat in the doorway of his cottage. One hand held a short-bladed knife while the other periodically reached down to pick up a willow rod from a bundle lying beside his chair. With swift, practised strokes he stripped the bark from each rod and transferred it to another bundle on the other side of his chair. He was scarcely watching what he was doing, and his progress gradually slowed as his attention settled on the lurid red sky that was filling the western horizon since the sun had dipped behind the mountains. It had been a fine warm day and it would be a fine warm evening, but the bloody sky and the jagged black teeth that the moun-tains had become seemed to make the day and its ending into a metaphor for his own life. He shivered slightly.

  ‘Do you want any help with those?’

  Marna’s voice at once dispelled his momentary gloom and heightened his deeper concern. Gryss, Yakob and Jeorg were growing increasingly resolute in their determination to do something to bring Rannick down. And he, Harlen, a basket weaver, was helping. There were times when the enormity of what he was doing welled up inside him and threatened to choke him.

  Surreptitiously, he was checking on the guards downland: their numbers, their routines. He noted the strengths of the armed columns that passed along the road a little way from his door, how long they were away, how many returned, and, interestingly, were any of them injured. He had even taken to engaging in conversation some of the unsavoury characters who entered the valley with a view to joining Rannick’s growing army. From such casual encounters he had learned a great deal about what was happening over the hill, and such knowledge he passed on to the others. This was consistently grim, though no clear picture of Rannick’s intentions could yet be discerned.

  But, worse than the implications of his own in-volvement, was that of Marna’s. Dutifully she listened, as Gryss had asked her. Listened to the chatter of the women, of her friends, of the children. Listened, thought, told, so that the conspirators’ knowledge could grow still further.

  There was surely no risk in what she did?

  But she was his daughter, a brightness in his life upon which he knew that he could not look and expect to see with true clarity, and without which he judged he would be nothing. And there was such awful darkness about.

  And, too, if something happened to him, what then?

  He twitched away from the question, and, almost angrily, tore the bark from the rod in his hand. ‘No thanks,’ he replied. ‘I was just looking at the sunset.’

  Marna moved to his side, and leaned against the door frame, her arms folded. Neither of them spoke for some time. Harlen continued to peel the rods, though now very slowly, absentmindedly, and Marna stared fixedly at the slowly darkening sky. Incongruously pink clouds were forming around some of the peaks.

  Then Marna turned away and went back into the cottage. ‘Nothing looks the same, nothing smells the same,’ she said quietly, as she passed him. ‘Everything’s tainted.’

  Harlen turned and looked back at his daughter. He wanted to find some words that would tell her that all was well, that everything would be again as it had been. But there were none. Nor could there ever be. Whatever the future held, be it either the rise or the fall of Rannick, Nilsson’s intrusion from outside the valley and Rannick’s corruption from inside it would leave a scar which no span of time could completely obliterate.

  He looked down at the rod he had just stripped. He had done this year after year. Nothing is the same, he thought, inwardly echoing his daughter’s words as he ran his hand along the smooth, damp wood. It looked the same, it felt and it smelt the same, but…?

  Not the same.

  Yet…

  It was the same. How could it be otherwise?

  In the texture under his hand he felt the willows growing before men had come to the valley, and growing perhaps when they had all gone. It was a long perspective.

  ‘I’m afraid all that’s happened is that we’ve learned more,’ he said, laying the rod down. ‘What we need to do now is become wise enough to live with our new knowledge. To see that Rannick and Nilsson touch us, not the sunset. And whether that touch is a taint or not depends only on us.’

  There was a short silence. ‘What we need to do is take that stripping knife of yours and cut Rannick’s throat,’ came the bitter reply from the shady interior of the cottage.

  Harlen grimaced at the savagery in his daughter’s voice, though his hand tightened about his knife compulsively. ‘We’re doing what we can,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ Marna replied.

  ‘We’re doing what we can,’ he said again.

  Marna did not bother to reply this time, but he heard her fist come down on the table, and he knew what the expression on her face would be. A spasm of distress and anxiety shook him. Part of him said, ‘Do as you’re told. Don’t make trouble. Co-operate. Don’t attract attention.’ But another part of him rejoiced at Marna’s anger. ‘Scream and shout. Slash and hack at the desecration they’d wrought to life in the valley. Let them know the same fear that they’ve brought with them.’

  Cut Rannick’s throat!

  Again his hand tightened about the stripping knife.

  Perhaps one day there would be such a chance.

  But…

  And for now? They must do what they could.

  ‘Someone’s coming.’ Marna was by his side again, and pointing up the valley. Harlen lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the still-bright sky as he peered into the red-tinted dusk. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and the swaying figure of a rider emerged from the shadows. Unusual at this time of day, he thought. Whatever task it was that the occasional lone rider performed, they usually set out early in the day. Still, it was probably only a random visit to the guards downland. They happened quite frequently and their random character was a constant irritation to Gryss as he tried to build up a picture of the men’s routine. ‘They’ve been proper soldiers in their time, these people,’ he mused. ‘Nilsson knows how to keep his men alert.’

  And this time it was Nilsson in person, Harlen de-cided with a frisson of alarm as the figure came nearer. He was about to stand up and go into the cottage when it occurred to him that it would be a conspicuous act and might provoke the very contact he would rather avoid. ‘Go inside, Marna,’ he said quietly, bending over his work again.

  Marna hesitated briefly, then, sensing the serious-ness of his mood, she slipped casually back into the cottage.

  Harlen started to whistle softly to himself as he began peeling the rods again. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Nilsson drawing closer. By bending over the arm of his chair to pick up the rods, manifestly concentrating as he peeled them, and bending over the other arm to stack them, he should be able to avoid even casual eye contact with Nilsson as he passed along the road in front of him. Then he would be able to go into the cottage himself to avoid the same problem on Nilsson’s return.

  But Nilsson did not ride past. Instead, he turned off the road and on to the pathway that led to the cottage. Harlen felt his throat tighten with fear. Had Gryss’s scheming been discovered? With an effort he forced himself to look up. As if he had only just seen the new arrival, he stood up to greet him. Nilsson nodded to him as he reined his horse to a halt and dismounted. He looked down at the piles of willow rods and,
with the toe of his boot, nudged the strips of damp bark that were littering the ground around Harlen’s chair.

  Harlen watched him nervously. Slip and break your neck, he thought.

  Nilsson bent down and picked up one of the un-stripped rods, then, without speaking, held out his hand and nodded towards the knife in Harlen’s hand. Despite himself, Harlen’s hand was trembling a little as he handed it over.

  Nilsson took the knife and began peeling the bark from the rod. To Harlen’s surprise he performed the task quite proficiently, though there was a quality in the way he worked that Harlen found oddly repellent.

  ‘Interesting tree, the willow,’ Nilsson said, flexing the now stripped rod. ‘Fine, straight grain. Splits into the flimsiest strips with a good knife. Weave it damp and it stays that way when it’s dry.’ He looked straight at Harlen. ‘You know how the willow survives, don’t you?’ he asked, but he did not wait for an answer. ‘It bends as need arises. This way. That way. Offers no opposition. Just accepts what’s required of it, and thus lives on.’ He bent the rod one way then the other as he spoke. ‘Of course, should it choose not to…’ He slid his hands together along the rod, and bent it slowly until the white wood began to tear apart wetly.

  Harlen swallowed. He knew that Nilsson could read the fear that his manner, even his presence, awoke in people, but he tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke. ‘What can I do for you. Captain?’ he asked.

  Nilsson dropped the broken rod and kicked it casu-ally to one side. He spun the knife in his hand and offered it back to Harlen, handle first.

  Harlen saw that the blade was almost touching Nils-son’s wrist.

  A sudden twist and slash, and Rannick’s chief lieu-tenant would be mortally wounded; his arm opened from wrist to elbow. Images flooded over Harlen of the bull-like figure careening about his cottage, desperately trying to staunch the unstoppable flow that his very desperation would be pumping with increasing force from the long gaping wound. Flailing red skeins filled the air, splattering everything… everyone.