by Sarah Rayne
“A rebel,” said Taliesin, just very slightly diffident about using this term to this creature who was the greatest rebel the world had ever known.
“We are of the same pattern, you and I,” said Fael-Inis.
“Yes?”
“Rebels,” he said, and grinned. “But let us turn our attention to this cold, soulless world we are going to, my friend. You will dislike it, I think. You will find it cold and bleak and austere. You have a little of the Samhailt, of course, and you will feel all of these things with ease.”
“Yes.”
“You have never understood about the Samhailt.”
“No.”
Taliesin waited, but Fael-Inis only said, “It does not always go where you would expect, the Samhailt. And it is not a comfortable thing to possess.”
“No.”
It was not comfortable now. The cascading fire and the dazzling lights poured about them, but Taliesin could feel that they were nearing the end of this fantastical journey; he thought that the salamanders were not moving so vigorously now, and he thought he could feel the echoes and the emotions of the world they were going into; he could tell that ahead of them was a coldness and such a lack of sharing and friendship that it would be like going down into a deep, dank well.
We are going into a cold and bleak world, and yet for all that, it is the world of our descendants, he thought. And wondered whether, deep down, for all the tremendous anticipation, he was more fearful than he had let anyone see. And then he thought, The Chariot! What will happen to the Chariot!
“The Chariot will come and go as I wish it,” said Fael-Inis calmly, apparently picking this up easily. “It will not disappear, but it will acquire protective coloration. I shall summon it if we need it, Mortal. You can be sure of that.”
It gave Taliesin an unexpected sense of security to know that the Chariot would be at hand, that it would materialise at Fael-Inis’s summoning.
“And it will never appear quite the same to any two people,” said Fael-Inis. The grin slid out again. “It would be interesting to know how the people of this world see it,” he said.
“Will they see it?”
“Probably not. I think we do not want to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary.” He was holding the reins more loosely now, and Taliesin had the impression that the fiery walls and the pouring flames were not rushing past them quite so quickly. It was very nearly possible to pick out chinks in the flames, to catch glimpses of worlds beyond the fires … What must it be like to be able to go forward and through Time at will …?
“Extraordinarily tedious in the end,” said Fael-Inis, and sent Taliesin the winged smile again.
“Have you been into this world before?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis turned the remote stare on him.
“I am in all the centuries and all the ages,” he said. “Sometimes I have a different name, but I am always to be found.”
“I see,” said Taliesin, who did not see at all, and Fael-Inis laughed, and as he did so the cascading fire seemed to ripple down over him.
“I know a little of this world,” he said. “And I know a little of its people.”
“Yes?” Taliesin withdrew his gaze from the chinks in the fire and the tantalising glimpses of the worlds that existed beyond them. It was extremely important to know as much as possible about the world they were going into.
“They are a cold people, but also they are frightened,” said Fael-Inis. “But it has taken them many generations to reach this state.” He paused, and a frown touched his brow. “They reached a crossroads many times,” he said, “times in their history when they could have altered course, when they might have taken different roads. There could so easily have been a happier fate for them. But they are not entirely to blame, for no world is ever entirely to blame for what befalls it. They had greedy leaders and they had governments who were short-sighted to the needs of the people, and who were, as well, corrupt within themselves.”
“Kings and Queens?” asked Taliesin, and Fael-Inis said, “Not for a very long time. While they had them, they might have been saved, for they had a respect for their Royal lines.
“But there were, as there have always been, usurpers; bands of people who thought that Kings had no place in the world any longer. And so all the Royal Houses of the world disappeared. Not all at once, but gradually. They were assassinated, or they were deposed, or they simply died out. And then people lost respect, they lost the ability to submit to the rule of others who were wiser and better fitted to rule. The people cannot really rule the people,” said Fael-Inis. “Not completely. There must always be leaders and there must always be those who are led. The world — this world — lost sight of that.”
Taliesin was framing a question, when the huge glittering wheels of the Chariot jolted, and the salamanders threw back their heads and the fire rippled and the flames melted and parted, cleanly and easily. Straight ahead of them they saw roads and highways covered with some hard, solid, almost shiny substance, and towering buildings, and everywhere cold brilliant lights against a night sky.
The flames dissolved, and the Chariot melted, and together they fell into the noise and the lights and the cold hardness of the Far Future.
*
It was like nothing Taliesin had ever seen or imagined or dreamed. It was bleak and ugly and hard. Hard. That was the word that was foremost in his mind as he stood with Fael-Inis. Hard. Everywhere was coated with the grey or black substance of the roads; the buildings were huge, they were square or oblong, and they had harsh corners and uncompromising windows and doors. There was no softness, there was none of the mellowed feeling that Taliesin was accustomed to. He thought that there was certainly a sense of age and of an accumulation of civilisations, but it was the age and it was the accumulation of all of the unspiritual things. Greed and the acquisition of power. The intemperance of a civilisation that for centuries has been allowed to have all it wants.
Fael-Inis said softly, “You feel it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would,” he said.
Taliesin, still staring about him, said, “But where are the people?” And then, in horror, “Have we after all come to the time after the Apocalypse? Are they all lying dead somewhere?”
“Oh, no,” said Fael-Inis. “Oh, no, for once the Apocalypse has walked the earth, these buildings and these cities will all be reduced to smouldering rubble.”
“How terrible,” said Taliesin dryly, and Fael-Inis smiled.
“I am glad that you retain your sense of irony,” he said. “I have lately feared you were losing it.”
“I may lose everything I possess and be bereft in a friendless world, but I should still retain a sense of irony,” said Taliesin at once, and Fael-Inis grinned.
“The people are all here,” he said. “Look.” And drawing Taliesin to the side of the road, he pointed to where lights burned in windows, and to where, stretching out below them, there were hundreds of solitary lights, strung out like glowworms. “Each light signifies that a person is there,” said Fael-Inis. “But they are locked away until morning.” The golden eyes were thoughtful. “They are a very frightened people,” he said softly.
“Of — Plague?” said Taliesin, remembering that the first Herald was already here, that Plague in the guise of the Conablaiche was stalking this strange, cold, unwelcoming world.
“Perhaps. Come, shall we walk along here?”
Taliesin found himself glancing back to see if there was any sign of the Chariot, but although he thought there was a sudden thickening of the shadows a little to the left, he could not be sure.
“It has become one with the shadows,” said Fael-Inis. “But it will be there for us when we wish it.”
“To escape with?”
“I hope we shall not need it for that,” said Fael-Inis, and led the way along the narrow road hedged with tall buildings on each side. Taliesin thought they were rather grim, rather forbidding structures, and t
hen he thought they were not forbidding but sad. A solitary light glowed from each one, an oblong of bright yellow light.
“Occupancy?” said Taliesin, stopping before one.
“Yes.”
“They do not venture out into the streets? Because of the Plague? Or for some other reason?”
“They are afraid of the Plague,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully. “I think we can be sure about that. And they are a dying world.” He looked at Taliesin. “You are not seeing the wild, noisy, sexual world that has lived in the Time Travellers’ memories,” he said. “You are looking on the last days of a world, Taliesin.”
“The Apocalypse?”
Fael-Inis sent him one of his enigmatic stares, but he only said, “The Apocalypse will merely administer the final blow. The world is burnt out already.”
And the people of this dying, burnt-out world remain inside their houses, thought Taliesin. They shut themselves away, they are locked away until morning.
They came out into a kind of square, with tall houses on every side of them. Taliesin thought there might once have been a square of grass at the centre, with trees and flowers, but the grass had long since died. And then he turned at a touch from Fael-Inis, and saw, directly ahead of them, a garishly lit sign that glittered just above the houses, and that blazoned a message in strange, unfathomable symbols.
At his side, Fael-Inis said, very softly, “So they do call it Plague, after all,” and stood looking at the cold bluish symbols with his eyes unreadable.
Taliesin said, “Is it —” And Fael-Inis at once turned, and said, “Forgive me, Mortal. I am blessed with the gift of tongues.” And he directed his golden stare on Taliesin, so that Taliesin felt a shower of cascading lights, needle-fine and silvery, pouring through his mind. The unfamiliar outlines of the strange austere houses blurred for a moment, and then came back into focus, and he thought it was not his imagination that they seemed sharper now, more definitely limned against the night sky. And then he turned to look at the cold blue lights of the lettering and drew his breath in sharply.
“The Gift of Tongues,” said Fael-Inis lightly, his eyes on Taliesin. “All right, Mortal?”
“Yes,” said Taliesin softly. “Oh, yes.”
“I do not bestow it lightly, you understand,” said Fael-Inis, rather mockingly. “But since we are to reside in this remarkable cold world, perhaps you should be given just a little help.”
“Thank you,” said Taliesin, matching the other’s tone, and Fael-Inis grinned, and Taliesin turned back to the shrieking message that towered in letters ten feet high and that shimmered with cold light.
PLAGUE! AS THE SPREAD OF THE DISEASE CONTINUES, THE DRAKON HAS ISSUED THE FOLLOWING DECREES:
1) NO PERSON OR PERSONS TO ENTER INTO SEXUAL CONGRESS WITH ANOTHER WITHOUT THE PROPER SUPERVISION.
2) SEXUAL CONGRESS WITHOUT PROPER SUPERVISION IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.
3) THE BIRTH OF CHILDREN IS RESTRICTED TO ONE CHILD PER FEMALE AND IS ONLY PERMISSIBLE ON PRODUCTION OF A BILL OF FULL AND CLEAN HEALTH. BIRTHS OUTSIDE THE LAW WILL BE TERMINATED.
4) ALL FEMALES WILL BE STERILISED AFTER THE BIRTH OF A CHILD.
5) SEXUAL CONGRESS BETWEEN PEOPLE OF THE SAME SEX IS PUNISHABLE BY CASTRATION.
6) THE PRACTICE OF PROCURATION OF SEXUAL PARTNERS IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.
7) THE CURFEW IS NOW IN FORCE FROM THE NINETEENTH HOUR OF EVERY DAY. PERSONS FOUND ABROAD AFTER THAT HOUR WILL BE INCARCERATED IN THE CUIRIM.
And then, in larger, even more brightly lit letters:
ISOLATION IS HEALTH.
CELIBACY IS FREEDOM.
THE WAY TO SALVATION IS TO LIVE ALONE.
And again:
ALL PERSONS ARE TO SPEND THEIR DAYS WORKING FOR THE COMMON GOOD.
ALL PERSONS ARE TO SPEND THEIR NIGHTS ALONE.
By Order of the Drakon.
And beneath that, in smaller, but no less brightly lit words:
THE DRAKON’S LAW IS ABSOLUTE.
THE DRAKON SEES ALL.
And a signature they could not read.
*
Taliesin’s first reaction was one of utter disbelief. He thought, But surely this Drakon, whoever or whatever it is, cannot force people to stay inside their homes like this! And then he looked again at the deserted streets, and at the shuttered buildings with the solitary lights, and he saw this brave new world not as the glittering place of the legends, but as sad and forlorn and frightened.
“They are very frightened,” said Fael-Inis.
“Of the Drakon, or of something else?” said Taliesin.
“That is perceptive,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe there is something other than the Plague that stalks this world.” He stood very still, and Taliesin thought that a frown touched his brow. And then his mood changed again, and he swung round and regarded Taliesin with all the mischief and all the rebelliousness that had shone from him in Calatin’s house. “Shall we wake them?” said the rebel angel softly. “Shall we send out the Ancient Beckoning that once spun and shivered at heaven’s gateway? That was exiled by the gods because it was so beautiful and so irresistible that Men wept and offered their souls to the Light-Bringer if only they could be allowed to listen to it?” His eyes glinted in the dark square, and Taliesin thought, He still calls him the Light-Bringer …
“Shall I play the Ancient Spell of Allure and bring the people of this cold dying world out into the streets, Mortal?” said Fael-Inis, and now there was no doubt about it; the reckless wild look was shining from his eyes.
Taliesin said cautiously, “We had thought — Fergus and I — that we would try to enlist the aid of some of them —” and Fael-Inis laughed.
“You are becoming too careful, my friend. Listen, and I will call up the Allure, and if one — if only one creature from this bleak and terrible city hears it and responds, then it will suffice. Yes?”
Taliesin said slowly, “Why only one?” And then, catching a little of the other’s mood, “Why not all of them?” he said.
Fael-Inis laughed. “Let us see who we can bewitch,” he said. And without waiting for Taliesin’s response, he seated himself cross-legged on a low stone wall, and let his eyes roam over the buildings and the lights. Taliesin remained silent, and at last Fael-Inis’s eyes came to rest on a threestoreyed house, with porticoes and white stonework, at the far side of the square. His eyes grew remote and inward-looking.
“In there,” he said, “in that building, is someone who is so strongly at odds with this world that she will hear the Beckoning easily. She understands just a very little about the old magic and about ancient enchantments. She does not quite believe in them, but she would like to believe.” He sent Taliesin the slanting smile, and lifted the silver pipes to his lips. “She will come running when I call to her,” said the rebel angel, and as he lifted the pipes, an aureole of light began to glow around him.
Music floated across the square.
It was all still there within the music. Everything Taliesin remembered, everything he had heard and felt and dreamed in Calatin’s house. Magic and enchantment; the strong gentle Beckoning that said, Follow me, for I am beauty and light and power. Come with me to the ends of the earth, follow me to heaven or to hell, but never once take your eyes from me. Let the music soak into your soul, and let yourself become one with the light and with the beauty, for there can be no salvation without beauty, and there can be no true happiness without complete submission.
Taliesin was half aware of Fael-Inis’s eyes, golden and slanting, and he was half aware that Fael-Inis was concentrating all his energies and all his powers on the threestoreyed white house. He thought that something stirred inside the house; a response, an answer, a creature drawn by the music and puzzled and dazzled and bewildered, but ready to obey the music’s spell.
But he was caught by the music’s enchantment all over again, and his mind was awash with the joy of it. For a second he saw splinters of light pierce the dark square, as if Fael-Inis was sprinkling th
e music all around them, and as if it was taking on the substance of thin, sweet light. He thought that surely the people of this strange, sad world could not possibly resist.
And then a door at the centre of the white building opened, and a girl came running towards them.
*
Taliesin’s first reaction was one of the most complete astonishment. “For,” he was to say, “I had seen many types of women and many different races. And while I had known that our descendants would be different from us, I had not thought they would be different in quite this way.”
She was rather small and slender, and although there was a fragility about her, Taliesin had the impression that it was deceptive. He thought she had an inner strength, and he thought she would be very determined indeed in a fight. She would fight like a cat, thought Taliesin, and then, because the simile seemed suddenly to fit, he went on thinking of her as cat-like.
Her hair was copper-coloured and glossy and, rather astonishingly in a female, it was cut short, so that it fell in a silky mass of curls level with her jaw. Taliesin found this unusual and rather attractive. But to one accustomed to the honey-mixed-with-cream skinned ladies of his own world, it was her complexion that was the strangest part of all. She was light clear golden brown, a warm honey-without-the-cream colour. Pale autumn leaves, thought Taliesin, fascinated. The colour of soft doe-skin. Almost as if the copper colour of her hair had run into her skin.
Her eyes were wide apart and grey, and thickly fringed with black lashes, and her nose was short and straight. The upper lip of her mouth curved slightly, and Taliesin thought it was this which gave her a faintly feline look.
He thought she was dressed very oddly indeed — “ways of dress change drastically over the ages,” said Fael-Inis, amused — but he thought she was interesting and unusual. He found it unexpectedly difficult to reconcile the pretty girl with the cold, greedy, unsharing world they were in, and then he remembered how Fael-Inis had said that to find a response to the music, they must find someone strongly at odds with this cold world. And the girl had certainly responded … He looked at her and waited, and thought that of all the extraordinary things that had happened so far, this was possibly the most extraordinary of them all.