The Earth Goddess

by Richard Herley

  4

  As the spring advanced towards summer, Kar Houle’s condition correspondingly declined. Paoul visited him as often as his duties with Hothen allowed, and so was not fully conscious of the magnitude of the changes that less frequent visits would have made plain: the wasting of his flesh, the dulling of his eyes and their gradual withdrawal into the sockets, and the worsening pallor and greyness of his skin.

  At an earlier stage, Kar Houle had been able to get up for short periods, to sit by his fire or even, on sunny afternoons, to bask in a sheltered corner of the physic garden among his beloved plants; but recently even that had been denied to him and he now remained permanently in bed. His old hands lay limply for hours on end in one place on the counterpane. The colour of his tattoo seemed itself to have dulled as much as his gaze, which was usually directed at a point some scores of yards or miles or years beyond the whiteness of the far wall. Whenever Paoul had come in, though, he had always managed to greet him, however feebly; he had always managed to absorb and enjoy Paoul’s titbits of harmless gossip; and, before he tired, he had always managed to smile at least once.

  Until today. Today it had taken him some time just to recognize his visitor, and Paoul knew at last, for himself, that what Kar Vever had first said six weeks and more ago was right: Kar Houle was dying. At breakfast, interrupting his own preoccupations, Paoul had received a message from Kar Vever and had come straight from the residence to the vansery. “He’s been asking for you,” Kar Vever had said. “I don’t think he can last much longer.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “No. But I suppose the end will come as a relief.”

  A week ago Paoul had been told that the Chief Herbalist had granted Phede Keldis’s fraternal request: Enco had been released to treat Hothen. He would arrive by the next merchantman from Hohe, the ship following the one that had brought the news.

  Enco was coming. Any day now, he would be travelling the road from Apuldram up to the Trundle. He was coming, and Paoul had made it happen. By tweaking the Vansard’s vanity, Paoul had managed to manipulate the organization of the Order to suit his own ends. The thought filled him with astonishment, with disbelief at his own impudence.

  Much more than this, though, was occupying his mind. Deny it as he might, he was now certain of Yseld’s feelings. After two more months in the residence, two more months of night meals and conversations in which only the words spoken were formal and impersonal, he was certain. Worse: he was afraid that some of the entourage – particularly Rian – were beginning to suspect how matters lay.

  His growing certainty about Yseld had been matched by his growing unhappiness with the Order and what it stood for. His qualms had started long ago – as far back as that night after seeing the Lady Atane at the lake, when Starrad had explained Lord Heite’s motives for taking her there. His misgivings had greatly increased on the tour; the steady accumulation of disturbing sights had finally overflowed, perhaps, in that small room at Chaer where Reisen had died; or, if not there, then at the brigands’ camp and during the ensuing scenes at the fort. And, here in Brennis, Paoul had found his doubts crystallizing into something which, for want only of proof, would become a firm conviction. If that happened, he would no longer want to be a priest. He would no longer wish to be part of the conspiracy of religion and military power that fed upon the weakness of the common people and kept them in a permanent state of deprivation.

  The tour had taught him that the empire relied for its continuance on a single truth: that farming, demanding a relatively settled way of life, alone created a fixed population which could be cheaply dominated and controlled. The farmers got very little back for their taxes. It seemed to Paoul that the Gehans were nothing but a highly successful version of what those brigands had tried to be. The Order bestowed on the ruling clan a spurious sheen of rectitude, of divine right springing from a deity that the Gehans had themselves invented. Like much of the faith, the Gehans’ place in the scheme depended upon circular argument. They were the ruling clan and hence occupied the dominant place; because they occupied the dominant place, Gauhm had fitted them to be the ruling clan.

  This was heresy of the first magnitude. Except in his bleakest moments, Paoul could still not bring himself to believe it might be true.

  In recent months – especially since his visit to the archive – he had found himself thinking more and more often of Tagart and the stories Tagart had told him about the old times. Although Paoul had been so young, he knew that Tagart had loved him with a father’s love, perhaps the only genuine love he had ever received. He was beginning to see how important it had been. Tagart had laid the foundation of Paoul’s character and given him an independence of spirit that now threatened to be his undoing. Paoul recalled that Tagart, who had been right about so much else, had condemned the farmers and farming itself as unnatural and therefore evil. And had not Tagart also warned him to beware of the priests, the red priests with the five-pointed stars on their left hands? Had he not called them worse than the soldiers, worse even than the Flint Lord himself?

  Paoul was profoundly perplexed. It would be so much easier to forget his doubts and hold to the faith as an ideal, to accept that it was the only way of describing and explaining the world. Indeed there was much in it that was undeniably true. It would be easy and safe to accept it all and play his allotted part in the hierarchy. He could never hope to leave: they had marked him for life. His tattoo announced to the world that he had taken the vows that made him a servant of the Earth Goddess. But, by doubting, he had already broken those vows and forfeited the right to wear the pentacle.

  He did not know what to do. He was young and inexperienced; he was prepared to believe himself mistaken. He longed to receive some evidence of it. That was what he wanted from Enco, and that was what he wanted from Kar Houle, but had always been afraid to ask.

  Above Kar Houle’s bed, hanging from a peg against the roughness of the wall, was an oak and boxwood confirmation plaque, his own. This was the only permanent decoration in the room; but on a wicker table beside him, next to Paoul’s chair, someone had placed a patterned bowl containing a cluster of moon-daisies.

  “Kar Thurman brought them,” Kar Houle said. “That was kind of him.”

  The heat of the morning sun, falling on the canopy at the window, was making the timbers expand and creak. From the outer enclosure, beyond the vansery grounds, came the clinking of the flint knappers at work, the sound of parading soldiers, the bleating of goats, and, from somewhere nearer at hand, the repeated cadences of a singing chaffinch.

  All these sounds, the commonplace sounds of an ordinary day, seemed to stop short at the window and enter in a more respectful form, as if reluctant to intrude; but the light, the intense, wholesome sunshine of late spring, entered fearlessly and found itself transformed by the white walls and ceiling into a diffusion that found its way among the pale shadows cast by the petals of each daisy and penetrated even to the recesses of the yellow disc of florets at the heart.

  Paoul felt as if he were standing at a threshold. Behind him was the cold and desolate room where no one could be trusted. Ahead was another room which might be different. He had no way of knowing, except by taking one more step. With that step he might begin to learn the truth, but taking it might alarm and distress Kar Houle, and that would be unforgivable. Unless he spoke now, though, Paoul knew he might never be presented with another chance.

  The bowl of flowers had become the exaggerated focus of his attention, sparing him from looking at Kar Houle. The daisies had become strangely peaceful and sharply defined, at one with the natural world. In a few hours they would begin to wilt. Tomorrow they would be thrown away.

  “Is something troubling you, Paoul?”

  There was no expression in Kar Houle’s eyes, no clue to his feelings. Surely he knew he was dying. What thoughts were passing through his head, what memories of his long years of rich yet abstinent life? What did he see when he looked at Paoul? Himself as a y
oung man?

  “Kar Houle, I would like to ask your advice.”

  “I am listening.”

  “Kar Houle …” he began, and then the words were coming of themselves, “is it right that one should question the faith?”

  Still there was no expression Kar Houle’s eyes. “We should always question. Questioning is all we ever do.”

  “Then … is it right to question the aims of the ruling clan?”

  “Be more specific.”

  “Is it right to ask whether the Gehans exist as a force for good?”

  Kar Houle did not answer; his eyes registered no reaction, but he moved his left hand on the counterpane, opening it towards Paoul in an invitation which Paoul instinctively accepted. Kar Houle’s grasp was feeble. It was no longer the firm and confident grasp with which he had bade Paoul farewell on board the Veisdrach. Now it seemed to convey an urgent warning that could not be put into words, a fear for Paoul’s safety.

  Kar Houle turned his head on the pillow. “How beautiful they are,” he said. “The flowers. You would not think we use them as an irritant. They promote the flow of blood. In the skin. Everything has its place, you see.” He looked back at Paoul, and for a moment it seemed as if he had said as much as he dared.

  Then, suddenly, his whole expression changed. Yes, he knew he was dying: there was no longer any reason to keep silent or to let anything artificial remain between Paoul and himself.

  The grip of his hand tightened. “They’re evil,” he said, almost in a whisper. “All of them. I’m sorry for what I have done to you.” He let Paoul’s hand go. His head seemed to sink deeper into the pillow.

  “Kar Houle —”

  “No.” Kar Houle weakly shook his head. “No more talk. I am feeling very tired, and you must return to your duties.”

  “Shall I come to see you later?”

  “Yes. Please do. I would like that.”

  * * *

  The temple at Valdoe had been built not in the vansery, but on a slight and partly man-made eminence on the southern slope of the hill, between the Trundle and the flint workings. The temple doors, facing south towards the sea, commanded a panoramic view from the newly built fort at Bignor in the north-east right round to Bow Hill in the north-west.

  The structure, thirty-four feet across at the widest point, was of imported stone, with a pitched and deeply eaved roof. In plan view it occupied an unequal pentagon with its long axis running from east to west. The altar ran the length of the west-facing wall. It consisted of a wide slab bearing the four figures of the Family of Gods. On the right, on the northern side, stood Tsoaul the Father, the spirit of manifestation and of summer. On the left was Ele the Daughter, ruling spirit of winter and dormancy. In the centre, the largest and most striking of the sculptures, Gauhm the Mother, was depicted in the act of giving birth to Aih the Son.

  On the hill forty-five yards away to the east was a curving stone wall, the height of a man and with a small aperture at its centre. The aperture aligned with a vertical slit in the eastern corner of the temple at the junction of the two longest walls, in such a way that, at the moment of sunrise on the day of the equinox, a beam of light illuminated the figure of Gauhm. The two ends of the curving wall were also aligned with the slit, and defined the furthest travel of the point of sunrise between the summer and winter solstices. Thus, in the absence of cloud or fog, the altar was illuminated four times a year, the beam striking the figure associated with the forthcoming season.

  “Yes, my lord,” Paoul said. “I saw it myself, at the spring equinox.”

  Hothen was peering through the slit. “What about the winter solstice? Did you see it them?”

  “No. That day was cloudy.”

  Paoul had brought him here this morning as part of a lesson illustrating the potential of accurate construction. The visit was not going well. It had been specially arranged in advance through Phede Keldis; otherwise, Paoul would have cut it short and gone back to the residence. Hothen was in an awkward mood, and Paoul felt in no condition to control him.

  Since leaving Kar Houle’s room, Paoul had been in a kind of daze. There was no unusual sound in his ears, but his thoughts were immobilized as though by a deafening roar of surf. He could not comprehend, not yet, not really, what Kar Houle’s reaction meant to him.

  Hothen raised his hands to shield either side of his head. “It’s dark in there.”

  They were standing on the glaring shingle that extended from the temple walls to the surrounding yew hedge. The hedge was now waist-high, consisting of seedlings taken from hallowed ground on Mount Atar and grown along four of the five sides of the temple court. The rest of the temple precincts, two acres in all, were enclosed by a line of chalk boulders. On the south side the turf had been marked out for a new tumulus; the old barrow of the Brennis Gehans had been destroyed by Torin Hewzane. On the north side was the vansery burial mound, already occupied by three priests who had died in service here.

  In the precincts and beyond, across the face of the hill, were many pairs of notched posts, short or tall, temporary or permanent, which the phedes used for the study and measurement of the heavens. A few of these posts had been planted among the spoil-heaps and shaft-heads of the flint mines, farther down the hill. Paoul had once wondered what the luckless slaves there made of them or of the ceremonies enacted at the temple itself.

  Hothen said, “I want to go inside.”

  “I am afraid that is not possible, my lord. The doors are locked.”

  “Unlock them, then.”

  “I do not know how. Besides, we have no business inside. We should not even be looking through the slit. Phede Keldis gave us permission only to examine the exterior.”

  “Phede Keldis, Phede Keldis,” Hothen said, becoming ominously more fluent. “That old turd. He doesn’t own the hill. I do. That means I own the temple as well.”

  Paoul said nothing.

  “Open the doors.”

  “My lord, that is impossible, as I have explained.”

  Hothen looked over his shoulder, towards the place where his bodyguards – a team of five men in black and grey armour, hand-picked by General Teshe – were waiting outside the hedge. “Are you disobeying my orders, you stuck-up little prick?”

  This was the way he usually addressed his slaves, or anyone who displeased him; he had never spoken to Paoul like that before. He had always treated Paoul with a certain timidity, deferring to his person as well as his rank. That had now vanished: in its place was a hot, sudden surge of resentment. Paoul could not help but think that behind it all was Yseld, as if Hothen unconsciously knew what had happened and remained unspoken between his wife and his priestly, supposedly incorruptible tutor. For a curious moment Paoul thought Hothen was going to throw a punch. Hothen was taller and heavier, but he was also clumsy and soft, and he would know that Paoul, that any red priest, was adept in an invincible and exasperating system of self defence that turned the adversary’s every move against itself.

  Hothen unclenched his fists. He looked over his shoulder again. “Hace!”

  The five bodyguards, each armed with a shield and a short spear, jumped over and through the hedge and, boots crashing on the shingle, ran to Hothen’s side. The team-leader, Hace, a dark, powerfully made man of thirty, gave his crispest salute. “My lord!”

  However good his unarmed combat, no single man was a match for spear-wielding soldiers, least of all a team chosen in person by General Teshe. The way they had leapt the hedge showed how little they cared for Paoul’s authority or the sanctity of the temple. Hothen was so unpredictable that he might order his men to do anything, and there was no absolute guarantee that they would not obey.

  But he did not tell them to attack Paoul. “Go to the flint workings,” he said. “Get an axe. Better still, get something heavy. Really heavy. A tree-trunk, or something. Then break down the temple doors.”

  Hace managed to conceal his surprise, but let slip an apprehensive and questioning glance at Paoul w
hich filled Paoul with relief.

  “There’s no need to look at him! You get your orders from me!”

  “I’m sorry, Team-leader,” Paoul said. “Lord Hothen is jesting. He knows it is more than your life is worth to damage the temple. We just wanted to test your readiness and see how you would react to such an impossible command.”

  Hace visibly relaxed. “Very good, my lord. Will that be all?”

  Without making himself seem ridiculous, Hothen could say nothing more. He had been thwarted. His anger, thus turned in on itself, became more heated than ever, and Paoul saw a flash of genuine hatred in his eyes.

  “No, Hace, that will not be all. I’m going back to the residence. Without him.” He turned obliquely towards Paoul, but took care not to address him directly. “I’ve had enough of this shit for one day.”

  At Hohe, whenever one of the newer pupils had thrown a tantrum, he had been chastised by his teacher. The technique had proved effective. Not a few of the boys, those perhaps from wealthier homes, had at first shown signs of being spoiled which had been quickly eradicated. Hothen was not too old to benefit from the same treatment. Indeed it was remarkable that he had escaped it for so long, remarkable and strange, even suspicious. For, although Phede Keldis had outwardly given Paoul wide discretion in his approach, Paoul knew that a request to use the most obvious form of control would be refused.

  As Hothen turned his back and walked away, Paoul considered bypassing the Vansard and acting on his own responsibility. But this was not the time to do it, when Hothen was with his bodyguards, and nor was it the place. The temple had already been defiled enough, by Hothen’s intrusive inspection of the interior, by his behaviour and bad language, and by the boots and weapons of his guards.

  Watching Hothen and the guards climbing the slope, letting them go, Paoul acknowledged that there was something else making him hold back. He saw that he wanted to punish Hothen not from any high-minded motives of correction, but from personal animosity that had its origins with Yseld. Had it not been for her, Paoul would have been able to view Hothen and his failings properly, with detachment. That was no longer possible.