The Shadow and Night

by Chris Walley

  He had barely closed his eyes when there was the sound of soft footsteps nearby. He opened his eyes and saw Elana next to him.

  “Hi,” he said blinking, rising to a half-seated position.

  “May I join you?” she asked quietly, with a careful glance around, as if to see if anyone else was near.

  “Of course—,” he began, but she had already sat close to him.

  He looked at her, catching an odd, fleeting look on her face. She smiled back, but it was a strangely joyless expression.

  “Merral,” she said in a low, urgent tone, her face close to his, “I want to talk. Privately.”

  Merral looked around, confirming that they were certainly out of sight and sound of the house. Deep inside him, he was aware of an uncomfortable feeling that he could not pin down. “Surely. How can I help?”

  “I need to leave,” Elana said abruptly, her blue eyes fixed on his. “I need to leave here.” There was a note of desperation in her voice.

  “Why, Elana?” he asked, feeling sorry for her.

  “It’s the atmosphere,” she replied. She picked up a blade of grass and began to chew on it, her sky-colored eyes still looking into his. He was vaguely aware that he found her closeness very agreeable. He was also dimly aware that there was something perilous about this proximity.

  “I want to escape. It’s not a good place anymore. It’s tiny and boring and the atmosphere gets me down. I want to live somewhere else. I want to be someone else. Can you help?”

  “Me?”

  “Get me out. Anywhere. Herrandown, Isterrane. The Southern Seas, the ends of Farholme. I don’t care. Just get me out of here.”

  He tried to smile. “I’d love to help. How?”

  She chewed a little more on the grass stalk, then took it out of her mouth. “There are ways. Get us relocated. Go back to your boss— what’s his name?”

  “Henri.”

  “Okay, now, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been here eight years. In two years, Mum and Dad’s posting is reassessed. So you could, you see, just ask Henri to move us early.”

  “I can’t do that. There are rules. There’s a long transfer list.”

  “Rules can be bent. You could say that Dad’s getting weird. Mum’s—what’s the word?—unbalanced. Get us reposted. South. Somewhere with beaches.”

  “I can’t do that,” he protested as he tried to think of some other way of helping her. He paused. “I could, I suppose, request a psychological survey of you all. Say you have been through a stressful time.”

  She gave a firm shake of her head. “No. I’ve read up on that stuff; it’s in the Library. Dad would fight an assessment.”

  “True.”

  And you’d never get a verdict in your favor; you are all sane. Or at least as sane as anyone else on this increasingly messed-up planet.

  “Merral,” she said in a low, soft voice that he found extraordinarily compelling, “Couldn’t you go to Henri and ask for us to be moved? Now. As a special favor. A private arrangement.”

  I could too, he realized with a shock. Henri trusts me. “But there’s a list.” As he said it he felt his protest sounded feeble.

  “Please. As a favor. Just get us put on the top of it.” There was a gentle, troubling tone of pleading in her voice.

  “Elana, I can’t do favors,” Merral answered, aware that his voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

  But I can, he thought. There are vacancies in the new southern colonies.

  “Not even for me?” she implored, flicking her pale hair back and wriggling slightly, as if pressing herself down into the grass.

  “Well . . .”

  I could do it. Get them put on the top of the transfer list. And why not? She has had a rough time. And who would be affected by one family moved to the top?

  She stared at him. “For us.”

  He was silent.

  She reached out and stroked his hand gently. “Please.”

  Suddenly, Merral jerked his hand away. He started to his feet, conscious that his face was burning.

  “No, Elana!”

  She stared at him with a hurt look, as if something precious had been snatched from her.

  Merral headed toward the house and then stopped.

  He looked behind, relieved to see that she was not following him. He brushed the grass off himself, took a deep breath, and tried to settle his thoughts. He had been tempted and had gone a long way to giving in. In his mind, he began to pray for forgiveness.

  A few minutes later, to his enormous relief, he heard the whispering of the approaching rotorcraft.

  In his urgency to get back to Isterrane, Merral arrived slightly early at the Ynysmant airport terminal. He was walking around the waiting area trying to bring some calmer reflections to bear on what had happened when he saw Ingrida Hallet standing looking out of the window, a travel bag at her feet.

  “Hello, Ingrida,” he called out, welcoming the possibility of a conversation that would distract him from his guilty thoughts. “I haven’t seen you since before Nativity.” He remembered again that memorable evening, the night that he had first met Vero, when Ingrida had so warmly wished him well with the new job he was to be given.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Ingrida said in a cold, hushed voice. Her face, framed by her long black hair, showed no trace of welcome.

  “Yes . . .” Merral stared at her, alarmed at the lack of welcome in her face. “What’s the problem? You don’t seem very pleased to see me.”

  Ingrida bent down, picked up her bag, and then looked at him with a hard, irritated expression. “Frankly,” she snapped, “I’m not.”

  Wounded, Merral shook himself. “Look, what have I done? I don’t understand.”

  “Remember the rain forest job? The one you were offered?”

  “Yes, you were the first to tell me about it.”

  “Oh yes. I was, wasn’t I?” She snorted, as if furious with herself. “Well, it was a job I wanted, the job of a lifetime. And it went to you, didn’t it?”

  “But—”

  She was unstoppable now. “So I had to take something else, didn’t I?” she snapped. “And what a second best. They put me on lichens! A millimeter’s growth in a hundred years. They are barely alive. Lichens!” For a moment, he thought she was going to spit.

  “Well, sorry. But I don’t see why you are so mad at me.” Merral felt overwhelmed by this onslaught that, for all its fury, seemed to have no focus.

  Ingrida gave him a look of contempt. “Why? Because I now find out you are not taking the job. Mr. Merral pick-and-choose, eh? Henri tells me when I pass through today that you are ‘doing something else,’ that you are ‘no longer really in Planning.’ It’s wasted!” Her face was pale with anger.

  Merral, appalled and sick to his stomach, felt he had never heard anyone be so sarcastic.

  “Sorry, I mean—”

  “Oh, keep your words!” she snorted. “I can’t apply for it now. I’m stuck with my lichens.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Really?” she grunted, glaring icily at him in a way that no one ever had before. “To change your mind like that . . . it’s rotten!”

  Suddenly Merral was seized by a sense of how totally and utterly unfair it was. Here he was, prepared to risk his life trying to save Farholme, and this—this senseless woman—was attacking him! The total injustice of her assault irritated him beyond measure. He felt himself getting angry in response and could now no longer be bothered to rein in his feelings. The offense against justice was, he knew, so great that it required an appropriate and just response. He had to tell this stupid woman bluntly, and plainly, how idiotic she was.

  Merral was just going to say, “Ingrida Hallet, you are a total fool and you have not the slightest idea what you are talking about,” when he saw another passenger staring at them with a look of shocked curiosity. Ingrida followed Merral’s glance then, with a toss of her head and a new snort of anger, turned her back on him and walked aw
ay.

  For a fleeting moment, Merral considered pursuing her to tell her exactly what she ought to hear. Then, suddenly ashamed of his temper, he controlled himself and walked away in the other direction to the men’s room. There, instinctively, he washed his face in cold water. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that he was as pale as if he had been sick.

  Isabella, Elana, and Ingrida. Jorgio’s prayer had been answered in triplicate with an appalling vengeance. One answer alone would have been enough. Dear God, he prayed, have mercy on me.

  Ten minutes later, he got on the plane and made his way to the very back. Ingrida came in later and, without looking at him, sat down at the front. When they landed at Isterrane, she got up and exited as soon as the fuselage door had slid open.

  To Merral’s surprise, Vero was waiting for him at the terminal.

  “How did you know I was on the flight?”

  “It’s hardly a stunning feat of intelligence to check the passenger lists.” Vero stared at Merral. “You know, you look dreadful.”

  “I’ll tell you about it. But not here.”

  His friend had a vehicle outside, and once they were inside and had closed the door, Vero turned to Merral. “Have you met them?” he asked.

  “No. I found no trace of them. At least not physically.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “I found enough evidence to make me know that I—we—have to fight.”

  “I am glad you now agree. But I am concerned. What did you find?”

  “Let me be clinical,” Merral said, trying to keep his voice level. “In under two days I found evidence of sin, to my knowledge, unparalleled in Assembly history. I found, among other things, a flagrant and open desire to dishonor parents, a gross outbreak of anger in public, and . . . something else I will not name.”

  “In two days?” Vero’s eyes opened wide. “The rot is faster than I thought.”

  Merral stared out of the windscreen at the lights of town. Then he turned to Vero.

  “The rot? Vero, you have no idea at all how bad it is. You see, I didn’t find the rot in others; I found it in myself.”

  34

  Vero drove Merral to Corradon’s residence, an unremarkable single-story building at the edge of the lake that lay at the heart of Isterrane. As they walked through the garden toward the house, a man standing by the door came over as if to ask a question. Seeing Vero, he nodded respectfully and stepped back. “Who was that?” Merral whispered as Vero knocked on the door.

  “A guard. One of Clemant’s ideas. Justified, I suppose.”

  The representative, dressed casually in an open-necked shirt, answered the door himself. The sounds of family chatter and music drifted past him. “Welcome both,” he said, looking unsurprised at their arrival. “Do come in.”

  Merral was briefly introduced to those members of Corradon’s family who were present: his wife, Victoria; one of their three sons; a daughter-in-law; and two grandchildren. They were curiously formal introductions, and any anticipation Merral had had that here, at his home, he might meet a private Anwar Corradon evaporated. Merral had a brief conversation with Victoria, a graceful lady with short white hair, who made some warm comments about Ynysmant, recalling a happy visit there some years earlier. But as she spoke, Merral noticed that her eyes were constantly glancing toward her husband as if she had some deep worry for him.

  Within a few minutes, Merral was shown to the representative’s study. It was full of books of poetry and theology, family images, and statues, with one wall being devoted to a large map of Menaya, drawn and painted by hand with exquisite engraved scenes scattered across it. Beyond it was another glass door that led to a small conservatory full of plants.

  “So, my dear Forester?” the representative said as he sat down behind his desk, his eyes staring at Merral with undisguised anticipation.

  “Sir,” Merral said, and he found himself swallowing hard, “I am now, very reluctantly, ready to lead the FDU contact party.”

  Corradon closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Merral. “Thank you. It is about the best news I have heard today. Daily, things get worse. Since I saw you, Lucian and I had a private visit from a senior member of the Farholme Congregations Committee; they are noticing it now. Other events have been reported. There are three focal points: Ynysmant, Larrenport, and Ilakuma.”

  “Ilakuma? In the Anuzabar Chain? It’s at least five thousand kilometers away. Are they sure?”

  “It seems the same sort of thing,” said Corradon. “A lot of bitterness, but here it’s centering on property disputes. They are talking about . . .” He paused. “What was the word? I had to look it up to be sure what they meant. . . . Yes, lawyers.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “Anyway,” Corradon continued with a shrug, “it’s getting messy. They blame the Gate going and I wasn’t going to argue otherwise.”

  “I’m not surprised, sir.”

  Corradon opened a drawer, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over.

  “On the assumption that you would take on the task, I had a formal letter of commissioning drafted for you. Lucian is, as ever, anxious that we do things right.”

  The envelope was marked “Confidential” and bore the seal of the Council of Representatives. Inside there were three sheets of paper. Merral took the top sheet and, aware that his hand was shaking slightly, began to read it.

  Forester Merral Stefan D’Avanos is hereby authorized to take charge of the Farholme Defense Unit as of the above date until such time as he is relieved of his office. He is to take the rank of captain and, under God, is to be answerable only to the Council of Farholme Representatives. His general duties are to carry out, to the best of his ability, the task of countering the intruders. His specific and immediate duties are detailed on the separate sheet. Captain D’Avanos is authorized to use such Farholme facilities and resources as may be required.

  At the bottom was a signature and beneath it, Anwar Corradon, Representative for northeastern Menaya; Chair, Council of Farholme Representatives A.D. 13852.

  Merral flicked to the next sheet, which was headed by “Confrontation Plans: Top Secret.” Underneath were four short, numbered paragraphs:

  1. A body of approximately one hundred and forty soldiers is to be assembled by Sentinel Enand. These are to be divided into four units as follows: a) One six-man squad to accompany the two-person diplomatic team. b) Two thirty-man teams for the possible assault. c) The remaining personnel to be kept in reserve on the Emilia Kay. Each unit is to be under a lieutenant and a sergeant.

  2. The diplomatic party will be unarmed and will advance openly without show of force. If, in your judgment, their approaches are rejected by the intruders, you are authorized to attack with all possible speed.

  3. If such an attack becomes necessary, your goal—to be achieved at all costs—is to disable the ship. If at all possible, the ship is to be taken intact by the FDU.

  4. In the event an attack is undertaken, all reasonable opportunity for the surrender of the intruder forces is to be given. Should there be a failure to surrender, then you are authorized to use whatever force is necessary to ensure the completion of the mission.

  At the bottom was Corradon’s signature.

  The third sheet was simply an acknowledgement form stating I have read the above two sheets and agree to them.

  Merral paused. “Sir, what’s a lieutenant and a sergeant?”

  A sad smile crossed Corradon’s face. “They are, I’m told, military ranks. The ever-knowledgeable Sentinel Enand will explain.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Merral stared at the paper, struggled with a sea of emotions, took the pen off the desk, and with a silent prayer for help, signed his name.

  Corradon took the sheet from him. “I’m sorry. I truly am. You and I are in the same unhappy position of having been given a task that neither of us wants.” He rubbed his face before staring at Merral. “A task without precedent, a task that may not even be achievable
. To lead a world without a Gate . . .” He stared darkly into the distance. “To lead a world without a Gate that is being infiltrated by evil?”

  Merral felt that he had never heard such gloom in the representative’s voice.

  Corradon put his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward so his chin rested on his fingers. It was, Merral thought (and immediately felt ashamed for thinking it), a terribly statuesque pose that made him look rather noble. Yet there was something brooding about the way Corradon appeared that reminded Merral of some troubled king or president from before the Intervention, faced with leading his people through a time of strife or disaster. And then Merral realized such a parallel was all too apt.

  “I know you are busy,” Corradon said in a quiet voice, “but come through to the conservatory. There are things that need to be said and here is perhaps rather formal. But can I get you a drink?”

  “A fruit juice, sir, please.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute. Go through.”

  The conservatory was full of anemones of many colors, most with their petals closed for the night. Merral was looking around, trying to identify the species when Corradon returned with two glasses of juice.

  “Shall we?” he said, pointing to a pair of chairs in a corner.

  “A fine collection of plants, sir,” Merral said as he sat down and took the juice from the tray.

  “Thank you. I have concentrated on the anemones of Menaya.” Suddenly the representative’s tone of voice changed, and Merral was all too aware of tiredness and strain in it. “But, Merral, let’s drop the formality. Here, at least, please call me Anwar.”

  Merral was surprised to see that any trace of confidence had left the representative’s face. The man who sat in front of him now seemed older and troubled.

  “As you wish, Anwar,” Merral said, feeling both sympathy and alarm.