by Roger Taylor
‘Did you see Brother Cassraw?’ Vredech asked, trying not to seem too concerned.
‘See him? He nearly sent me sprawling,’ one of them replied with some indignation.
Vredech ignored the injured tone. ‘Which way did he go?’ he demanded.
The second novice pointed. Not along the winding road that led to the town below, but towards the far corner of the high wall that surrounded the Witness House. Vredech grunted an acknowledgement and set off in pursuit.
This isn’t happening, he thought, as he half-walked, half-ran, keeping close to the wall, instinctively placing it between himself and the forbidding clouds. This was supposed to be a routine Chapter meeting to discuss routine administrative matters, but somehow Cassraw had succeeded in turning it into a major theological debate. No, debate was not the word – it had been a diatribe. He had latched on to some trivial point that Mueran had made and managed to build a spiralling, self-sustaining harangue out of it. Vredech had been slightly amused at first, as this seemingly coherent string of arguments blossomed out of nothingness. It had been like a metaphor for the Creation itself; out of the emptiness came the Great Heat, and from that, all things. Nearing the end of the wall, he could not help smiling. It was still such, he reflected, for that too had gone sour.
Then he was at the corner of the wall. Puffing slightly, he leaned on it for support as he stepped round.
Judgement Day...
The words formed in his mind as he found himself standing alone and totally exposed before the black, billowing masses that filled the sky.
He was not aware how long he stood there and it was only with a considerable effort that he managed to drag his mind back to his friend. From here, Cassraw could have moved on down towards the valley or up towards the mountain’s shattered summit. There was a small, isolated chapel a little way down the mountainside that the Brothers sometimes used when they felt the need for quiet contemplation. But Cassraw had not run out of the Witness House grounds like a man seeking silence. Vredech scoured the ground rising steeply ahead of him, its dun colours strangely heightened by the oppressive darkness above.
‘He is coming. For me.’ Cassraw’s dreadful words returned to him. Vredech clenched his fists tightly as if the pressure could squeeze the implications of Cassraw’s utterance out of existence. The man was going insane.
A movement caught his eye. Vredech gasped; it was Cassraw. But he was so far ahead. And he was almost running up a steep grassy slope.
Vredech shook his head. He would do many things for his old friend, but charge up that mountainside after him was not one of them. It must be fifteen years or more since he had run in a mountain race, and he had done little violent exercise since, being quite content to move at a pace compatible with the dignity of his calling. He was still a little breathless simply after running from the gate.
With a sigh he turned round and headed back.
* * * *
High above the retreating Vredech, eyes wide and fixed on the boiling darkness overhead, Cassraw staggered relentlessly forward, his shoes muddied and scuffed, his cassock torn. In between rasping breaths he implored, ‘I am coming, Lord. I am coming. Have mercy on the weakness of Your faithful servant. Do not desert me.’
The darkness seemed to be reaching down towards him, listening.
A silence enfolded him.
Then a voice answered his prayer.
Chapter 2
Dowinne was pacing fretfully from room to room. An unease had been growing on her all day. It was probably the weather, she tried to convince herself, taking her cue from the grim clouds that were steadily building up over the town. But even as this thought came to her, she dismissed it. Whatever was troubling her was deeper by far than any pending storm.
It was not in Dowinne’s nature to tolerate difficulties with equanimity and, from time to time, she gritted her teeth and bared them in anger and frustration as she strode about the house. Until she caught sight of her image grimacing out at her from a mirror: it seemed to be snarling at her for this exposure of her inner feelings and she straightened up hastily and forced her face into a bewitching smile.
Something behind the image seemed to be mocking her. She moved again to the window. The Haven Parish Meeting House at Troidmallos was a well-appointed one, and the living quarters were excellent. As they should be, Dowinne thought. This was far from the poky, down-at-heel Meeting House they had begun with, way out in the wilds, ten years ago, and Cassraw’s appointment to it so young was no small achievement. Yet…
Yet it wasn’t enough.
She folded her arms and squeezed them hard into her body as if to contain the ambitions that for some reason were clamouring to be heard today. Then, secure in the silent stillness of her home, she gave her old desires their head. They excited her. It did not matter what she had now – she would have more. She would be important – powerful. Not just in Troidmallos, but in the whole of Canol Madreth. People would defer to her – would watch their words, their very gestures, in her presence, just as she did with others now. And they would seek her patronage. Dowinne could scarcely contain herself at the prospect of what would eventually be hers, if she managed the affairs of her husband correctly.
With remarkable perceptiveness she had seen, even in her youth, that the church in Canol Madreth wielded almost as much authority as its secular counterpart, the Heindral, and that her best hope for future wealth and security lay that way. For despite its austere protestations, the church was rich, and its senior figures, though for the most part not ostentatious in their lifestyles, were most agreeably comfortable. More significantly, in political matters the church’s opinions and discreet support were always carefully sought because of the influence it exerted over the people. Dowinne particularly appreciated the fact that the church’s utterances were substantially unburdened by popular debate and that, above all else, it did not need the affirmation of the people every four years for its continued reign.
Of course, she could not enter the church herself – that was a privilege confined exclusively to men – but she could perhaps do even better than that. By marrying and mastering the right man she could master in turn those whom he commanded. And Cassraw was the right man beyond a doubt. She had judged him to be her own restless ambition given form, and he had confirmed her judgement time after time.
True, his fierce passion had been an unexpected burden to her at first, but she had gradually redirected it into proclivities that she found more tolerable and which had subsequently proved to be useful both as goad and lure. She smiled secretively, instinctively bringing her hand to her face to hide the response even though she was alone.
She must always be careful. She must never fall into the trap of imagining that Cassraw was an ordinary man like any other; that much she had learned through the years. For all his intellect and reason, he resembled a wild animal, and as such he could perhaps be trained, but he could never be tamed.
Her unease returned as she gazed up at the Ervrin Mallos. Within the building clouds she sensed a power which seemed to echo the power she felt within her husband. Unexpectedly, a flicker of self-doubt passed through her. How could she hope to manipulate such a thing? How could she have the temerity?
She crushed the doubt ruthlessly. All storms could be weathered by those with the will.
Yet Cassraw had been behaving in an increasingly peculiar manner of late. His sharp intellect seemed to be feeding upon itself, shying away from the shrewd and subtle conspiring at which he was so adept. It was almost as though he was searching for ever more simple solutions. His preaching had become more impassioned, but more primitive, and it was not fully to the liking of all his flock, although, she mused, some of them seemed to be responding to it. Dowinne frowned. They were not the kind of people she wanted following her husband. Not only would they be of little value in furthering his progress through the church, they would probably be an outright hindrance. Still, support was support, even from malcontents and in
competents, and it must surely be usable one way or another. She made a note to turn her mind to this problem in the near future. It was always worthwhile having alternatives available. You never knew. Her thoughts returned to Cassraw. Life would be easier if she could keep him safely in the mainstream of affairs. Perhaps she had been holding the reins a little too tightly of late. Perhaps she should help him to… expend… some of his burning energy. She tapped her hand lightly on her chest. After all, it wasn’t too unpleasant a prospect these days.
But, even after this resolution, her unease lingered. She would not be able to settle until he returned from the Witness House. Cassraw had never been desperately enthusiastic about Chapter meetings and, thanks to the bleating of some of his offended flock, he had been on the receiving end of one of Mueran’s soft-spoken rebukes only a few days ago. He had laughed it off on his return, mimicking the pompous old hypocrite, but she had felt the rage beneath the mockery and, on the whole, would have preferred that he did not meet Mueran so soon afterwards.
Then, from deep inside her, came an awful intuition that something was terribly amiss. She began to shake and, for an unbelievable and giddying moment, she felt the long-built edifice of her ambitions begin to totter. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again, posture wilting, eyes haunted.
‘No!’ she cried out and, swinging round, she brought her hands down violently on the windowsill. Her right hand caught the base of a heavy metal dish and sent it clattering to the floor, but she made no outward response to the pain, letting it pass through her unhindered, to burn away this unexpected and fearful spasm of weakness.
The effort left her breathless, however. It was the storm coming, she decided. That was all – just the storm. But this explanation held no more comfort than it had earlier.
She looked out again at the mountain. She could just make out the grey stone Witness House halfway up. It had always seemed pathetically small against the rugged might of the Ervrin Mallos, but now even the mountain looked small against the ominous banks of clouds.
‘Come down, Cassraw,’ she whispered. ‘Come down. Get off the hill before the storm comes.’
* * * *
‘Come, My servant. Come closer.’
Cassraw did not so much hear the voice as feel it suffuse through him. His body began to tremble, and his mind to whirl with a maelstrom of incoherent thoughts. It was as though all that he was, all that he had ever known, was struggling frantically to escape lest it be scattered and destroyed by the power that had just touched him. A preacher both by profession and inclination, however, he instinctively reached out and found his voice. It was hoarse, broken and shaking, but it served as an anchor to which he could cling, if only for the briefest of moments.
‘Lord, I see the dust of Your mighty chariot and I am less than nothing even before that. Guide me, Lord. Guide me.’ The words seemed pathetically inadequate.
Despite the screaming demands of his body following his precipitate charge up the mountain, Cassraw held his breath through the long silence that followed. Then the voice came again.
‘Come closer.’
Cassraw’s tumbling thoughts stopped short. He gazed around desperately, not knowing what to do and fearing to repeat his plea. The clouds were above him now, but from the south some residual daylight still lit the mountain, throwing long shadows like an unnatural, pallid sunset. It made all about him unreal, ill-focused and dreamlike; a strange image seeping through to him from some other place – a place in which he did not belong. Only the darkness overhead and his own awareness were real now – the one opaque, oppressive, unbearably solid, the other guttering and feeble. He felt as though he were not standing high up on a mountainside, but cowering in some dark cavern far below, in the very roots of the mountains, with their crushing weight towering above him.
Yet he must go upwards. There the Lord waited. Waited forhim.
He set off again, clambering recklessly over the rocks, heedless of the damage to his shoes and his cassock, heedless of the cuts and bruises he was gathering as he stumbled and fell repeatedly in the failing light.
Questions tormented him. What was happening? What madness was driving him? Bringing him into confrontation with the leaders of his church, jeopardizing his position both in the church and the community – jeopardizing old friendships, perhaps even his marriage? But these thoughts held no sway. All were carried along by the stark certainty of what he had felt as he had dashed out of the Witness House and turned to see the sky beyond it turned black and forbidding, like the anger of a beloved parent writ large.
And he had been right. With each step he had felt that confirmation. He was right. He was right.
And now the Lord had spoken to him; touched him. Him! Summoned him to his presence on this ancient and most mysterious of hills.
Cassraw cursed his legs for their heavy reluctance as he struggled on.
The chain of seemingly trivial events that had eventually brought him raging out of the Debating Hall flickered briefly before him, taking on the appearance now of a mighty golden pathway along which he had been propelled. ‘Your way is beyond our understanding, Lord,’ he gasped. ‘In the fall of the least mote is Your design.’
‘I have little time, servant.’
The voice raked chillingly through Cassraw, reproaching him for this momentary diversion from the call.
‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he repeated over and over in a frantic litany, as he scrambled up the piles of broken rocks that would lead him to the summit.
Then the strange daylight was gone. He was vaguely aware of a faint haziness from the south, but did not look at it for fear of losing so much as an eye-blink of time on this desperate journey.
He could not forbear a frisson of alarm and despair, however, as the darkness closed about him. But nothing must stop him. He must go forward. He must obey his Lord’s command, no matter what the cost.
Then there was light – a dancing, disturbing light that made his shadow jerk feverishly hither and thither over the rocks, but enough to see by, nonetheless. And it was coming from overhead. He made no attempt to look up at its source for fear of what he might see. Classical images of the Watchers of Ishryth, grim and terrible to doubters, filled his mind.
‘Great is Your wisdom, Lord. To You are all things known.’
Onwards, upwards, Cassraw struggled, such rational thoughts as he had being swept aside by the monstrous rapture now compelling him forward regardless of his protesting limbs and pounding heart.
And at last he was there, standing on top of the canted, broken obelisks of rock that formed the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. He dropped to his knees with a jarring impact, then immediately dragged himself to his feet again. He held out his arms and, closing his eyes, threw back his head to offer his face to the might of his god.
Such few doubts as he had known were gone now, driven out by the power he could feel all around him.
‘Lord, You will do with me as You will, but I implore You, though I am but the least of Your servants, give me the strength to fulfil Your will in the world of men. Great are the sins done there in Your name. Great is the ignorance of Your Word and great the deceit and contention with which it is read.’
He waited.
A coldness touched his mind. He started violently then willed himself to stillness.
‘Lord,’ he whispered painfully. ‘I am Yours. I will serve You with all my being.’
The coldness began to spread through him, and with it a sense of foreboding. Whatever this was, it was but the beginning.
Yet there was a strange quality about it – a human quality, it occurred to Cassraw – though he quickly disowned this blasphemous thought and concluded by praying for forgiveness. There was no response.
Still the coldness seeped through him purposefully, growing in strength as it did so.
And then it possessed him entirely.
He waited, scarcely conscious that he existed any more, though he could still sense, deep within
him and far beyond his reach, doubts slithering and murmuring. Then the coldness shifted and, for a timeless, searing moment, the doubts flared up, screaming and demanding to be heard. For the feelings that were suddenly flooding into him were far from godlike. Dominating them was a terrible, almost uncontrollable anger.
Anger that so much, built so painstakingly over so long a time, should be lost so totally and so easily.
Anger towards the servants who had betrayed Him by their weakness and folly.
Anger, and something else…
Hatred! Deep and implacable. Hatred towards those ancient enemies who had risen to plot and scheme against Him.
And in the wake of this came an overwhelming lust for revenge, bloody and foul.
Yet, too, pervading everything was an almost unbearable sense of loss, and Cassraw could feel the clawing, scrabbling desperation of someone who must hold on to something, however slight, if He were to remain… here? And not plunge into… the void? The images eluded Cassraw but he sensed well enough the terror of slipping from this place and tumbling eternally through a nightmare of solitude and powerlessness.
Then everything was changed. As suddenly as it had come, the turmoil was ended. A new awareness moved through Cassraw. A slender hold had been found, and the terrible fall halted. All was not yet lost!
‘Be silent, My servant. I must judge you, know the true depths of your faith.’
Cassraw remained motionless, his eyes closed, his head still thrown back to face the black sky. ‘As You will, Lord,’ he whispered.
Then, where before there had been a coldness, there was now a searching warmth. Though he was waiting for a questioning, a harrowing, nothing happened. Yet something was moving within him. Like the faint rustling of distant trees, elusive and unclear. Then, fleetingly, a grim, malicious satisfaction passed through him.