by Roger Taylor
'And you think Marken will be told what's to be done with him?’ Derwyn asked.
'It's logical, if nothing else,’ Angwen declared.
'But if that were the case, they could've told him what he needed to know in the first place,’ Derwyn said, although he was reluctant to challenge the optimism in his wife's words.
Angwen nodded again. ‘I doubt it's that simple,’ she said, reflectively. ‘They aren't as we are. Marken spoke of great confusion. Perhaps they don't know what they want. Perhaps what they want is beyond our understanding.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps it's difficult for them to make themselves Heard, or perhaps Marken, or any Hearer for that matter, simply can't understand fully what he's Hearing ...’ She stopped abruptly. ‘But that's all conjecture and vagueness,’ she concluded, smiling and holding her hands out, palms upwards, with a small shrug of defeat. She raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the bold hunter's intuition tell him?'
Derwyn smiled and raised his head in mock imitation of an animal testing the air. ‘My hunter's instinct tells me that I've been dithering where I should've been thinking, and that, as usual, you're probably right,’ he said. ‘There's obviously something special about the boy. And, without a doubt, he'll need us while he's here. And who else but Marken could be the link to tell us what's happening? I'll be patient and await events.’ Then his smile faded abruptly and his expression became almost fearful. It was as if a black cloud had suddenly appeared in a bright summer sky, to obscure the sun and throw the land below into cold shadow.
'What's the matter?’ Angwen asked, her eyes abruptly anxious.
Derwyn forced a smile, but it merely served to accentuate his look of distress. ‘There's a bad feeling in the air, Angwen. All around. Change coming. Change for us. Change for them. Darkness ...'
Slowly, like Farnor before him, he wrapped his arms about himself protectively.
* * *
Chapter 4
Farnor slept restlessly, though it seemed to him that he scarcely slept at all, so many times did he start awake violently. Yet sleep he did, he knew, for when he slept, he dreamed, or, more correctly, he slipped from the torment of his waking thoughts into the torment of nightmare.
Awake, he played fitfully with all that had happened, seeking to arrange the events of the past weeks into some form of order, seeking some kind of pattern within which he could find his place, and thence decide what he must do next. But no such pattern emerged. Everything that had happened had seemingly been wild and arbitrary: the silent arrival of the creature, heralded only by a few slaughtered sheep; the unexpected arrival of Nilsson and his men, and the confusion with the tithe gathering that had enabled them to become established at the castle and to take control of the valley before their true character was known; and the mysterious transformation of Rannick from village misfit to...
To what?
To some kind of manic ... chieftain? ... possessed of powers that previously Farnor had heard of only as wild fancies in Yonas's fireside tales where they were invariably possessed only by those beings who had walked out of the great burning from which all things had come, and who had moved about the world, shaping it through the ages until it had become as it now was. Beings who were now all long vanished.
For all the fever of his anguish, however, Farnor was too close to the soil, to the reality of the mysterious cycle of the growth and death of things, to squander his energies wildly denying what he knew to be true. The how and the why of Rannick's transformation were questions which capered for the most part at the edge of his thoughts, dancing to the centre only rarely and being almost immediately dismissed from the whirling circle there, where lodged his overpowering desire to destroy Rannick. His dominant concerns were profoundly practical. What was the extent of Rannick's power? How readily could it be used? How often? And at what cost? For surely nothing was ever truly without cost? There was a balance in all things.
And, most intriguing of all, for what, and how much, did Rannick rely on the creature? For it was the creature he had sent in pursuit when he had felt Farnor's angry presence, not some battering wind or scorching fire.
And yet, mysteriously, the creature had failed.
Memories of the times when he had found himself at one with the creature returned, welling up inside him like vomit. They were not memories that he relished but he sensed that they were important. He had seen the terror in men's faces, indeed he had felt—and lusted for—the terror in their hearts as they looked on it ... him. And they had been fighting men at that; men used to wielding swords and axes to defend themselves against savage enemies. Yet they had fallen without resistance, like corn before the scythe.
But still, he, Farnor, fleeing in panic, had escaped the creature, though he was sure it had been only a few paces behind him at the end. When he solved that mystery he would have the makings of a weapon which he could wield against both Rannick and the creature, he was sure. For even though he had no measure of his own strange abilities, nor any conscious control over them, he knew that Rannick understood—and feared—them.
Not that this conclusion was reached so straightforwardly. It emerged and retreated repeatedly, like a wild animal preparing to cross open ground. Looking, listening, testing the air, waiting for those silent inner voices that would urge it forward, then vanishing again into the tangled undergrowth of childish terror and frenzied blood-red hatred, of despair and grim determination, that seemed to have possession of Farnor's soul.
And in between this waking confusion, he slept, sometimes tossing and turning, muttering and crying out incoherently, at other times lying motionless while his mind soared off into eerie dreamworlds where the terrors and the furies of his waking thoughts ran hideous riot.
Yet, unvarying throughout, there ran the simple thought that he must return to the valley. He must finish what he had set out to do. He must find Rannick and somehow kill him. No sense of ordered law coloured this thought, neither the far distant king's, nor even the village council's. His parents had been cut down at Rannick's foul whim, and he was tied to that event inexorably. That the bonds were of his own making, he could not know. All he knew was that his every endeavour must be dedicated to the destruction of the murderer of his mother and father. What might lie beyond that end was one torment that never came to him.
He was thus little rested when finally he awoke to see leaf-greened sunlight percolating through a carved grille covering the window and dimly lighting the room that Edrien had found for him. He jerked upright, gazing about him, alarmed. ‘Who's there?’ he demanded of the silence about him.
There was no reply. And the room was quite empty. Yet for some time he could not shake off the feeling that he was being watched, or perhaps listened to.
Eventually, however, his aching body made itself felt, and the impression faded. Then a lifetime of early rising forced him out of bed. He looked about him as he dressed. The room was simply furnished, containing only the bed, a couple of chairs, and an odd circular table set with tiers of drawers, the like of which he had never seen before. And everything, he realized gradually, seemed to be made of wood—even a bowl on the table, which at home would have been earthenware, was wood. He picked it up gently and examined it closely. At first he thought that it had been elaborately painted, but as he looked at it he saw that it was made out of many different-coloured pieces of wood, tightly jointed together in some manner that he could not discern. For the first time since his parents’ death he felt a distant stirring of wonder; pleasure even.
It shrivelled however, as soon as it touched the baleful thoughts that blew through his mind like biting winter winds. Its last residue faded as he ran his fingers lingeringly along the smooth rim of the bowl when he laid it down. The bowl became merely functional and unnecessarily ingenious. As did the wooden handles to the drawers in the circular table, and the peculiar hinges to the door.
His inspection was ended by a sharp knock on the door. As he moved to open it he noticed for the first time that a s
word was hanging behind it. He was about to examine this unexpected find when a second, more impatient knock made him snatch open the door irritably.
Edrien bustled in. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You're up at last, then? I gather the dawn horns didn't wake you. Bildar said I should leave you until you woke up on your own.'
Without waiting for a response, she walked across the room to the window, where she fiddled with something that Farnor could not quite see. Silently, the grille covering the window divided and the two halves swung apart to form decorative panels on either side of the window. Bright sunlight flooded the room.
Blinking, Farnor moved to the window. He ran a hand over one of the panels. There was a quality about the delicate carving that, for some reason, reminded him of the ring that hung outside Gryss's cottage, but he was in no mood to pursue the idea. Then, very tentatively, he tapped the glass. ‘Well, at least something around here's not made of wood,’ he said.
Edrien looked at him, puzzled, but did not comment. In the light, Farnor noticed for the first time that she had pale brown eyes. It came to him that he had never seen such a colour before. And her hair was light brown as well. Like an autumn leaf, he thought, unwittingly poetical. But the eyes drew his attention again. They looked squarely at him and there was a look in them which seemed to challenge him. He turned away, uncertain how to deal with this strange young woman.
'I suppose you're hungry by now, aren't you?’ she said, unexpectedly.
Farnor nodded cautiously, wary of some taunt.
'Come on, I've arranged breakfast for you.’ With a flick of her head Edrien turned and walked briskly towards the door. Farnor glanced again at the sword hanging there as he followed her out. He was about to ask about it when he realized that he was standing on a narrow platform below which was nothing for some considerable distance except dense foliage and a few large and unwelcoming branches. Involuntarily he froze, his hands tight around the rail in front of him.
'Sorry,’ Edrien said, turning back to him. ‘I forgot you don't know anything about trees, do you? I'll walk more slowly.'
'I know quite a lot about trees, thank you,’ Farnor managed, straightening up and releasing the handrail as casually as he could. ‘I've just never lived in one, that's all.'
'What kind of lodge did you live in, then?'
The question made Farnor wince, as visions of his home and his parents rushed into his mind. Edrien however, was looking away and did not notice. With an effort, he set the memories aside, and did his best to give a brief description of a typical village house as they walked along. From time to time his telling faltered as the platform swayed a little, or worse, creaked. He noticed that Edrien made a conscious effort not to smile whenever, instinctively, he reached out and clutched at the handrail.
'How strange it must be, living on the ground all the time,’ she mused when he had finished.
'Not as strange as living in a tree,’ he retorted, more defensively than he had intended.
Edrien scowled a little and looked around. Walkways were all about them, above and below and on every side, sweeping hither and thither through the enormous leafy bower. Bark-covered walls appeared here and there, punctured by doors and windows.
The whole perspective of the place bewildered Farnor.
'There's nothing strange about living in the trees,’ she said, a little indignantly, after this inspection of her domain. ‘How else are you supposed to live? it's what all normal people do. We've always ...'
'I've never seen such splendid trees,’ Farnor interrupted hastily, suddenly anxious not to antagonize his guide. ‘There are some fine trees in the valley, but nothing to compare with these. They're so big. So alive and vigorous looking.'
A proprietorial smile replaced Edrien's scowl and she looked around again. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as if she had just been paid a particularly pleasant compliment, then, ‘Are you going to be all right on this ladder?’ she asked, her tone concerned. She suddenly slipped through a gap in the handrail and dropped down so that only her head and shoulders were visible above the platform.
'Yes,’ Farnor said quickly, in preference to giving a more considered answer.
Edrien nodded and then disappeared. Gingerly, Farnor peered over the edge to locate the ladder. Edrien was just bouncing down on to the platform below as he did so and her face turned up to look at him. He turned around and, tightly gripping two well-worn uprights, he cautiously swung a leg from side to side until it made contact with the ladder.
I suppose I'll get used to this eventually, he thought, unconvincingly, as he began the descent.
It was not a particularly long ladder, but by the time he reached the bottom, his hands were sore and his arms were aching.
'I see you're still very stiff,’ Edrien said. ‘But I watched you that time. I think you're holding the ladder too tightly. Can't you relax a little? I'm sure it would help.’ She seemed pleased at having arrived at this diagnosis.
'I'll try,’ Farnor mumbled, then, hastily changing the subject, ‘Where are we going?'
'To Bildar's,’ Edrien replied. ‘He wants to have another look at you, to make sure you're all right.'
'I thought we were going to eat somewhere,’ Farnor said, an old reluctance to place himself in the hands of a healer rising within him.
'Bildar will feed us,’ Edrien said, setting off again. She grinned expectantly. ‘He's an excellent cook.'
As they walked, Farnor became aware for the first time of people on the other walkways. Some of them called out to Edrien, who shouted back or just waved in acknowledgement. Farnor felt extremely self-conscious, all too aware of the contrast between his lumbering, awkward gait and Edrien's light and easy movements. It did little to help him that almost everyone they encountered stared at him quite openly and with considerable curiosity. Once or twice he saw individuals swinging under the handrails of the platforms to pursue whatever errand it was they were on by climbing rapidly from branch to branch. Occasionally he saw Edrien move as if to do the same, only to recollect herself at the last moment. ‘Doesn't anyone ever fall?’ he asked tentatively.
'Oh yes,’ Edrien replied, simply. ‘But not often. It's not nice.'
Farnor nodded in pained understanding, uncertain how to continue this particular line of conversation.
He was spared any further difficulty, however, by a group of people coming along the platform towards them. For the most part they were young men and women of around his own age, and their chatter and laughter rose up to complement the sunshine streaming through the leafy surroundings. Farnor was unpleasantly surprised by a twist of sneering anger that suddenly sprang to life within him at the sight and sound of them. He found himself reminded of the darkness that had come to his own homeland unbidden and undeserved and, without realizing it, he held his breath, as if to suffocate this unwelcome response.
There was a brief, confusing flurry as the group reached them and, amid noisy and simultaneous greetings, Farnor found himself introduced very quickly to several people. Vaguely he tried to cling to one or two of the names, but further references to families and relations passed him by completely. He was a little unsettled by the fact that each of the newcomers peered at him intently, especially at his hair. This was not as unsettling however, as the form of greeting which they adopted, which was not as he was used to, to shake hands, but to grip both his arms firmly just above the elbow. After three or four such welcomings Edrien saw his discomfiture and intervened. ‘Gently,’ she said, prizing someone away from him. ‘He's had ...’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘... a nasty fall recently,’ she decided. ‘He's badly bruised. And we have to get down to Bildar's now.'
There were some noisy apologies and much understanding nodding, but the group seemed content to stand and stare until Edrien vigorously shooed them on their way.
As the group retreated noisily, Farnor remained where he was, holding on to the handrail as the swaying of the platform, which had been another concern during
the encounter, subsided.
His head was trying to tell him that having withstood so many people standing in one place, the platform, and whatever supported it, must undeniably be extremely strong, but his heart and his stomach were not listening. Somewhat to his distress, he still felt a lingering anger at the happiness of the people he had just met.
'Are you all right?’ he heard Edrien asking, yet again.
He relinquished his hold on the handrail and hugged his arms. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, rather than discuss his inner confusion, he added, ‘But does everyone have such powerful hands?'
Edrien's forehead furrowed and she looked down at her own hands. They were long and delicate. ‘I've never thought about it,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Come on.'
A few minutes and two more ladders later, they reached a door which Edrien announced as being the entrance to Bildar's lodge. She was beginning to enjoy the authority of her role as guide to this strange young man. Looking over the handrail, Farnor saw that they were about the height of the Yarrance farmhouse above the forest floor. For some reason, the mere sight of the ground made him feel much safer, even though he knew that a fall from such a height was just as likely to seriously injure or kill him as a fall from much higher.
Edrien knocked vigorously on the door and pushed it open without waiting for permission. She ushered Farnor in.
Any reservations he might have had about visiting the healer disappeared as he stepped inside and was greeted by the savoury smell of cooking. Somewhat to his embarrassment, his stomach rumbled noisily. Edrien laughed and Farnor looked a little guilty. ‘I didn't realize I was quite so hungry,’ he said uncomfortably.