The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Cley looked out across the crowd, almost all of whom were familiar to him. The expressions with which they now regarded him were far less familiar, betraying a mixture of anxiety, confusion, or plain fear.

  A few faces stood out. The first was Laak, her wrinkled features calm and unreadable. Next was Davvi, the Bard, who was rarely seen at public meetings unless he was the focus of attention. His face was clouded and grim, his doubts plain for all to see. Sopharndi, looking down into her lap, had chosen to sit near the front.

  The final face that captured Cley’s attention that morning belonged to Cochta. Choosing not to sit, she and three of her companions stood at the back, arms folded, heads erect and defiant. A significant faction within the People looked to Cochta for guidance, particularly among the young. Her opinion mattered here, and Cley knew it.

  He rose to his feet, and the murmuring crowd grew quickly silent. He chose his words carefully, looking for a way of reaching the old guard, those who looked to the musician priest of their established religion, and those who might be tempted by the certainty and strength of Cochta.

  Cley spoke. His message was simple, direct, and revolutionary. He tried to reassure the various vested interests represented by Laak, Davvi and Cochta, but, in that—at least for the most part—he failed. He could see it in their faces.

  He praised the Law, how it gave a shape to the lives of the People, how it enabled them to live in harmony.

  He praised the bards and their songs, the way they had preserved the message of the Singer for countless generations.

  He praised the People for listening to the songs, for following the Law.

  Then he told them the Singer wanted to sing to them personally. Each one of them. That She had already been doing so, since they were forming in the wombs of their mothers. That She would continue to do so when they abandoned their bodies and became part of Her eternal song.

  He told them the Singer was no more distant than their breath.

  He told them they only had to listen.

  He told them that listening to the silent song, which was, even now, singing the world into being in every moment, was the simplest thing to do.

  He told them all they had to do was to wake up. To pay attention. To listen.

  He said although it was simple, it wasn’t easy. He would teach them how, but only they could decide whether or not to commit to the practice.

  He told them that every single one of them was being sung into being right now, that each of them was part of the silent song, without which it would be incomplete.

  He asked them to listen. Not to him, not to anyone else.

  Just listen.

  Then he stopped talking and looked at his audience. There was puzzlement, mistrust, uneasiness. But he also saw curiosity, excitement, and awe. A buzz of intense conversation began.

  Laak was speaking quietly to the other Elders.

  Davvi was shaking his head, his rejection of what he had just heard obvious to everyone.

  Cochta and her companions had gone.

  Cley felt like he was emerging from a trance, but his memory of the past half-hour was so vivid, it was almost hyper-real. He raised his hands for quiet. Silence fell immediately. When Cley had raised his hands the previous night, he had stopped an earthquake. If he wanted quiet, those present were certainly going to let him have quiet.

  Demon, prophet, or madman, he had made an impression.

  “I will be here every morning and every evening. I will teach you how to listen. I will not be among you for very long.”

  With that—briefly wondering if he’d been a touch too pious, maybe a couple of gags might have broken the ice—Cley turned and walked back into the forest. After a few seconds, a hubbub of debate broke out behind him. There was no going back now.

  As the crowd finally dispersed, in groups of excited, stunned, or angry chatter, Sopharndi stood alone, looking into the woods at the point where her son had disappeared. Her face betrayed no emotion at all. After a few minutes, she was the only member of the tribe still present.

  Finally, she turned her back and walked back to the settlement, and her duties as First.

  29

  Three Months Later

  The meeting circle’s fire had died to embers during the night. With dawn’s early light, figures emerged from the gloom and quietly made their way to the west side of the fire pit, sitting close with their backs to it, enjoying the last of the warmth it gave. The atmosphere was quiet and charged with anticipation. A few whispered greetings were the only sounds other than the cracks and pops of the settling embers and the song of the birds greeting another new day. Soon, the members of the tribe present fell into a silent stillness. It was always this way in the hour after dawn. It would be the same at dusk. These were the times Cley, the Last Song, came down from the forests and spent time with the People. They would sit in contemplation together for half an hour, after which he would speak to them and answer questions.

  At first, Cley had lived alone, the first member of the tribe ever to do so outside the protected settlement. Now, he was only truly alone in the hour before dawn and the hour before dusk - when he walked further into the forest to be with the Singer. The rest of the time, he was attended by a group of followers of around twenty.

  The People numbered over a thousand in the settlement in these days, but fewer than fifty regularly attended the contemplation sessions. Cley’s message was undoubtedly powerful, but it was also disconcerting, and he was disseminating it without the official blessing of the Elders, and in the face of increasingly open hostility from their bard, who considered him misguided, or worse.

  Cley knew his time was short. He also knew some sort of confrontation was inevitable.

  He just hoped he was ready.

  From the moment Cley had returned from his Journey, she had known. Sopharndi had looked into her son’s eyes, seeing intelligence there for the first time, and she had known. He was Cley, and he wasn’t Cley. A fighter by trade, strong in mind and body, trained and sworn to protect the People, she felt as if reality had suddenly shifted in a way that she couldn’t explain or understand, and she didn’t like it.

  After that first night, Cley had moved out of their dwelling. He hadn’t returned.

  She had watched him produce water from the air, witnessed him healing the sick. She had come to his dawn and dusk teaching sessions, had heard him speak of the Singer with conviction. She had closed her eyes along with the rest, but her mind hadn’t been listening, it had been going round and round, fixating on the same few thoughts.

  She and Cley had exchanged greetings every day, but she wouldn’t follow him into the forest. She had her duty as First of the People. She was their protector. She couldn’t abandon all those that depended on her. Besides, observing her routines, training with her fighters, she could observe the mood of the tribe. She could see divisions start to appear over Cley and his message.

  Sometimes, sitting near the fire pit in the sessions Cley had initiated, as those around her focused on listening, she would remember Sharcif on their last morning together. She had told him she thought she was carrying his child and he had smiled at her as he dressed.

  “I know,” he’d said.

  She had wondered at his absolute confidence. She had barely begun to show, and it was only the fact that she knew her own body so well that convinced her she was pregnant. Yet, Sharcif seemed unsurprised. Happy, yes, but unsurprised.

  “I know you have never felt the Singer’s power,” he said. “You’re even a little embarrassed that, of all the males of the People, it is their bard whom you turn to when you wish to have a child.”

  Sopharndi said nothing but wondered how he could see through her so easily.

  He shrugged. “I am not offended by this. The Singer told me it would be you.”

  She had flinched a little at that. Her faith in the Singer had never been strong. She believed in the songs, the way they shaped their society, bound them together, taugh
t them there was a judgment of their actions beyond that of the People themselves. She had never, ever, referred to her lack of belief, knowing that her position in the tribe demanded she uphold their traditions. And yet, Sharcif knew her secret. And, knowing it, he had still wanted her to bear a child with him.

  “It could only be you,” he had said as if he could hear her thoughts. “The Singer came to me in my dreams and sang of our son.”

  She had sat up then, and begun to pull on her clothes. Again, knowing what she was thinking, Sharcif had flung himself onto the skins next to her and put his head in her lap.

  “Don’t be haughty, Sophi. I’m not here just because the Singer told me to come.” He sat up and slipped a hand between her thighs. “Nowhere else I’d rather be than right here.”

  She’d giggled despite herself. Sharcif was the only one who’d ever heard her giggle.

  In the end, they had got up late that morning, Sopharndi arriving at her briefing slightly breathless, Sharcif waving as he headed off to sing to the hunters.

  That had been the last time she had ever seen him.

  Now she wondered what dreams Sharcif had had of their son, what future he might have been shown. The last words he had ever said to her, his playful features serious for once as he looked into her eyes, had seemed nonsensical after their son had been born a Blank. It was only since Cley’s return as the Last Song that they had been shown to be powerfully prophetic.

  “He will change everything, for everyone.”

  After the initial shock and joy at Cley’s return, Sopharndi had kept her distance. It wasn’t just the assault on her sense of reality that kept her awake at night, yearning to see him, yet reluctant to do so. From being totally dependent on her for everything, Cley had transformed into someone she struggled to recognize. Finding that her delight at having him back was tempered by an unworthy sadness at not being needed anymore, Sopharndi limited her contact to attending the dawn and dusk sessions and exchanging a few words with him every day. It wasn’t that he didn’t show a son’s natural love and respect, it was more that he showed the same love and respect for everyone, regardless of their age or status. That should have made her proud, but Sopharndi knew herself too well. She was ashamed to find more than a little jealousy accompanying her thoughts of Cley, and his adoring followers.

  But it wasn’t just that. There was something else causing her to hold back from greater contact with him, though she struggled to name it.

  So she performed her duties as First, and gradually, in her own slow and considered fashion, examined her own feelings about Cley, and what they might mean. At the same time, she observed the mood of the People, the reaction to this shocking development, this unprecedented intervention by the Singer.

  His message might be a peaceful one, but there were those who were unmoved by it. Hostile to it, even. Sopharndi used her network of fighters to relay the gossip about Cley and his followers. As time passed, her fears for him grew.

  The most significant danger, she knew, came from Cochta. From the very first morning, Cochta had looked for ways she could use this unforeseeable development to her advantage. She had been noticeably quiet for the first couple of weeks until it became clear that Cley’s mission wasn’t universally accepted. Then she had begun to make her move. She was careful, circumspect. She could see how disturbed some of the tribe were by Cley’s transformation and message. Some were excited, and drawn to his undoubtable charisma. Yet she knew there was a great reluctance among many of the tribe to change, particularly the kind of revolutionary change offered by Cley.

  When Davvi had emerged from his dwelling singing old songs that warned of false prophets, of demons who, legend had it, tried to lead the People astray, Cochta had listened, and she’d watched the response of others. It was obvious that Davvi feared his status in the tribe was under threat. Although Cley had claimed to honor the old songs, and the bards who sang them, who would really care about bards if they could listen directly to the Singer? Davvi’s son was lined up as the next bard, but what kind of future would there be for him if the People followed Cley?

  When he saw that there were those who had some sympathy with his suspicions, Davvi had warmed to his theme. He had spoken more openly, hinting at possible blasphemy. The Singer had always sung her songs directly to the bards. It took training, prayer, and the study of music passed on through generations to be able to understand, play, sing and interpret the songs. Cley didn’t even sing the old songs. In fact, he didn’t sing at all. He spoke only of listening. He would draw the People away from their god, from all that had brought them to this time of peace. He was leading the People down a very dangerous path. How dare he speak of the Last Song? The bards had long determined the Last Song would be sung by the Singer herself, and it would herald the end of the world.

  Although he’d never quite had the courage to say it directly, Davvi had spread the idea that Cley was, in fact, a demon. A Blank now had a personality; was it not possible—likely, even—that he had been possessed by an evil spirit? When Cochta had taken his arm one evening, led him away from the fire and told him she believed his opinion to be not only right but crucial to the survival of the tribe, he immediately abandoned his previous opinion of her. She was no power-hungry, over-aggressive manipulator who only cared about herself. She was a female of rare and deep perspicacity. A future First.

  For her part, Cochta and her allies carefully planted the seeds of doubt, fear, and anger among the People.

  Then they waited, allowing the inexorable spread of bad news and gossip to do its work.

  All of their machinations might have come to nothing, however, if it hadn’t been for the attack.

  Sopharndi stood at the dwelling just beyond the meeting circle and banged the flat of her hand on the wall.

  Cochta’s actions were becoming less subtle and more open by the day. At first, Sopharndi had hoped that Laak would be able to keep her daughter’s ambition in check, but it looked increasingly unlikely. Laak was old now and nearing the end of her time as Leader. Age had brought wisdom for Laak, but her otherwise sound judgment was now compromised by a mother’s love.

  When Laak had called her to the meeting circle alone, Sopharndi knew matters were coming to a head. If Cochta wished to be First, the challenge would be coming soon, and Sopharndi had no doubt she still had the advantage. If Cochta waited another ten years, time would probably have weakened Sopharndi enough to make her vulnerable, but she doubted the young fighter had that kind of patience. Something else was brewing, and Sopharndi didn’t like the lack of control she felt, knowing danger was close by, but not knowing exactly how that danger would manifest itself.

  The Leader had seen no need to put on a show of strength for a private discussion with her First, and she looked frail. Her body was bent with age and her breath was slightly shallow and labored. Laak’s attention drifted occasionally as they spoke, and she leaned on the younger female’s arm for support more than once.

  "I will step down as Leader when the moons next align," said Laak.

  When Sopharndi did not respond immediately, the old woman reached across and took her hand, squeezing it weakly.

  "I know you have your doubts about Cochta, "she said. “Her confidence sometimes borders on arrogance. This I concede. But she is strong and intelligent. If the Singer wills it, you must accept her.”

  Sopharndi was utterly stunned for a moment, her thoughts frozen in shock. She found herself unable to say a word. She held her features carefully immobile, years of training preventing the slightest hint of her disapproval showing. Underneath her studied calmness, her thoughts reeled. After all this time, still she had underestimated Cochta’s ambition. Laak’s daughter wanted nothing less than the Leadership. She had allowed Sopharndi to believe she had ambitions to become First, but that had merely been a diversionary tactic. Now she had manipulated her mother into giving her the position which would enable her to command Sopharndi’s loyalty. If Cochta became Leader, she wo
uld be the youngest in the history of the People. And, Sopharndi knew, nothing good could possibly come of it. How could she have missed the signs?

  Sopharndi looked at Laak’s tired features, the old female’s eyes closing as they sat together. She had always shown such wisdom and good judgment. Perhaps she would also be proved right in this, and Sopharndi’s anxieties would be exposed as paranoid.

  Then Sopharndi recalled Cochta’s mocking comments about Cley, and her cynical sacrifice of Sku’ord. Cochta could never be allowed to lead.

  She squeezed the older woman's hand back. "As the Singer wills.”

  She walked away from the meeting circle toward the settlement. Then she stopped, and turned, facing the trees rising up the side of the incline where Cley and his followers lived. She stood still for so long, a few yoiks and nuffles broke cover from the undergrowth and began sniffing around the fire pit, looking for morsels left behind by the tribe.

  When she finally moved, the animals scurried back into the shadows with a few surprised squeaks.

  Sopharndi returned to the settlement and called softly to Katela, who was patrolling the sentries, making sure the tribe was secure for the night.

  Katela knew her First well enough to have shared some of her discomfort over the past months. The internal power struggle would soon become overt, and the fighters would be called upon to keep order. Tensions were high, and the failing health of their aging Leader was doing nothing to settle frayed nerves. The fact that Sopharndi’s son seemed to be the catalyst for this unrest was unfortunate. Katela had never been particularly religious - it was common among the fighters to be observant of the Singers rituals, to attend the bard’s recitals dutifully, but to maintain a little distance from the truly pious. They might be called on at any moment to fight, or kill, and their minds needed to be focused on that. Which made Cley’s involvement awkward. Not that anyone under Sopharndi’s command had detected the slightest difference in her unflinching dedication to her duty. They felt the same absolute loyalty to her they always had. They would lay down their lives for her without a moment’s hesitation.