Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  Unexpectedly, the Whistler sagged and looked down at his flute. ‘I daren’t,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘It’s too… sensitive. It always is when He comes too close. I daren’t play it. Everything’s too fragile – so many worlds come together. The least note opens so many, and I’ve not the skill to separate them. No control.’ He leaned forward confidentially, and spoke softly. ‘I’m frightened, Allyn. I think perhaps I’m on the verge of waking when it’s like this, but what’s waiting for me when I wake? Am I some sick lunatic bound in a cell for my own good? Or a miserable labouring peasant languishing in a hovel? Then, perhaps again, I’m about to die. But in either case, where will you be when I abandon you?’ He gazed up into the greyness about them, waving his hand, fingers twitching. ‘You’ll be nothing. Gone. All of my creations, gone.’

  Torn between compassion for the Whistler’s patent distress and fury at his own confusion and helplessness, Vredech could only stare at him.

  Then, Nertha reached forward and took the Whistler’s arm. ‘Help us, please,’ she said.

  The Whistler looked at her, his eyes full of pain. Then he gazed at Vredech.

  ‘I’ve made such fine people,’ he said. He pursed his lips and screwed his eyes tight shut. When he opened them they were wide and full of manic mischief. ‘I was always susceptible to beautiful women. And we should live our dreams with a little flare, don’t you think, Allyn? Let’s raise the devil.’ He lifted the flute to his lips and looked at Nertha. ‘For you, my dear, my favourite note.’ For an instant he hesitated and there was a flicker of fear in his eyes, then he blew a single, brief note, soft and low.

  The sound floated out into the grey dampness and seemed to enter into the very heart of everything that was there, from the misting raindrops to the glistening damp rocks. Vredech felt the presence about them change. He began to feel very afraid.

  The Whistler let out an incongruous, ‘Ooh!’ and began gingerly rubbing the ends of his thumbs with his forefingers. ‘Something nasty’s coming,’ he said, hopping on to the rock that Cassraw had announced as marking the point of his revelation. He squatted on his haunches, the flute at his lips, and his eyes peering hither and thither into the gloom.

  A figure emerged through the rain.

  It was Dowinne. She was walking slowly towards them.

  There seemed to be almost an aura about her, then Vredech saw that the rain was not falling on her. He, like Nertha, was soaked, the rain flattening his hair to his skull and running down his face. Dowinne however, was completely untouched. And there was something serpentine about the way she was moving – half-walking, half-gliding… as if she were in another place. As she rose up the final slope to the summit, Vredech saw that in her hand, hanging idly by her side, was a long, bloodstained knife.

  The Whistler drew in a hissing breath.

  Dowinne paused as she reached them, then turned slowly to Nertha. Vredech made to step forward protectively, but Nertha’s arm came out to stop him as she met Dowinne’s gaze. The two women stared at one another for a long time, then a hint of an unpleasant smile curled the side of Dowinne’s mouth and she turned to look at Vredech.

  Vredech could read nothing in her gaze, though it was profoundly unnerving. It was as though someone else was looking through her eyes at him, assessing him, coldly curious yet at the same time wildly excited.

  Finally she turned towards the Whistler, her head tilted to one side, while the Whistler, his flute still at his mouth, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You blaspheme,’ she said after a moment, her voice distant and harsh. Without comment, the Whistler jumped down from the rock and skipped a few paces away. Dowinne’s eyes followed him, still unreadable.

  She placed the knife on the rock and then laid her hand beside it. At her touch, the rock became dry, but immediately blood began to flow from her hand. Slowly it spread across the surface of the rock, wider and wider.

  ‘So much blood in him,’ she said quietly.

  The presence about them grew more and more intense.

  Nertha took Vredech’s arm. She was shaking.

  ‘Release him, woman,’ Dowinne said. ‘He is mine.’

  Nertha’s jaw tautened, but Vredech motioned her to be silent, and gently eased her grip from his arm.

  ‘How did you come here, and why have you killed your husband?’ he asked, bringing a priestly sternness to his voice that he did not feel.

  The blood stopped flowing. Dowinne addressed him. ‘I did not kill Cassraw, I sacrificed him. As I did the others. Blood and the terror of its drawing are necessary for the heartstone of His temple. And He brought me here, as He brought you also.’ She waved a graceful hand towards Nertha and the Whistler. ‘And these two are perhaps for the stone.’

  Vredech in his turn began to shake. Dowinne stepped forward until she was immediately in front of him. He felt the rain stop falling on him. Dowinne opened her mouth slightly and blew a soft scented breath in his face. Suddenly he was riven with desire for this woman; old, long-forgotten desires from his youth. His trembling became different in character, and sweat formed on his forehead.

  ‘Youare the Chosen One, Allyn Vredech,’ she said, moving herself against him. ‘You are mine, we shall be joined in His name and His service, and His will shall be done through us.’

  ‘This is madness,’ Vredech said hoarsely. He raised his hands to push her away but, as if beyond his control, they merely came to rest on her shoulders. She closed her eyes ecstatically at his touch.

  ‘No,’ Dowinne said. ‘The only madness would be to deny the destiny that has been laid out for us since the beginning of all things. We are His servants and we shall be rulers in this world. All will fall before us.’

  ‘I have no gifts,’ Vredech said weakly.

  Dowinne smiled. ‘I have the power of change,’ she said, lifting a hand to Vredech’s face. As he looked at it, he saw glittering silver spirals winding around her fingers, criss-crossing her hand and winding about her wrist, like a delicate and magical glove. Only as he stared at it did he realize that the shifting silver threads were water, twisting and flowing as water could not. ‘He has awakened it in me. And you…? You span the worlds beyond. That isyour gift, and that, His presence alone has wakened in you. Cassraw possessed merely a shadow of it. He was but a vessel through which He could attain me. Millennia might pass before such as we come together again to pave the way for His coming.’ She reached up and put her arms around his neck. Vredech’s arms moved irresistibly to return her embrace as he felt her body pressing against his. ‘Come to me, Allyn Vredech,’ she whispered. ‘Be with me. Everything you have ever desired is before you now. We are His, and you are mine.’

  Her face came closer to his.

  Vredech bent his head forward.

  ‘The hell he is, you murderous bitch!’

  Nertha’s angry cry accompanied her hand which appeared suddenly between them. She clamped it over Dowinne’s face and pushed her violently, tearing her free of Vredech’s embrace. Then, her elbow against his chest, she sent Vredech staggering backwards.

  Suddenly the cold rain was falling on him again.

  Dowinne’s spell had gone.

  The Whistler’s eyes flicked between the three protagonists.

  Dowinne had steadied herself on the rock. Her face became suddenly savage; teeth bared and eyes wide with uncontrollable rage. She snatched up the knife and spun round to face Nertha. Vredech had stumbled and was scrambling to his feet as he saw Nertha bend down and pick up a large rock in response.

  Then, before he could cry out, Dowinne’s snarl had turned into a smile. The cruelty in it froze him. Deliberately she laid the knife back on to the rock, then held out a hand to Nertha.

  Nertha reeled back as if she had been violently struck. Vredech caught her. Her hands were flailing frantically and her face was contorted. It took him a moment to see what was happening, but as water had run about Dowinne’s hand in a delicate tracery, now it ran over Nertha’s face, a shallow, suffocating she
et, forcing itself into her tightly clamped mouth and into her nostrils. Desperately he tried to brush it away, but it flowed around his hands relentlessly.

  ‘Stop it, Dowinne!’ he cried out. ‘For pity’s sake, stop it. You’re killing her.’

  ‘It must be,’ Dowinne said. ‘His need is without end. And to be mine absolutely, all the affections that bind you here must be severed. As your gift drew Him here, so your incestuous love has ensured her death.’

  Vredech looked down at Nertha. He could hardly hold her, she was struggling so violently. Her begging eyes seared through him.

  ‘Whistler, help me! Do something!’

  But the Whistler only watched.

  ‘There is no help for you, my love,’ Dowinne said, smiling still. ‘I’ll drown her in little more than would quench your thirst. It’s fascinating.’

  Nertha’s legs went from under her and she slipped from Vredech’s grip.

  ‘No, no,’ he gasped as she fell, thrashing, to the ground. Then with a furious roar he leapt at Dowinne. He had scarcely taken a pace, however, when a terrible blow struck him. He felt as though his entire body was blazing.

  ‘I can bind you with chains of water, my love, or slowly drown you like your sister here. Or boil the blood in your veins. You are mine and we are His, struggle how you may. Learn that now and spare yourself endless hurt.’

  Vredech tried to cry out, but could not. He looked upwards. A darkness was gathering.

  Dowinne moved forward and bent over Nertha. ‘See how she fights for life. See how she’ll die. Revel in it. This is the Heart Stone’s need. There’ll be many more.’ And she laughed.

  Then the Whistler spoke, ‘I, too, have the gift to move between the worlds, woman,’ he said.

  Dowinne started and spun round to face him. The pain that had suffused Vredech vanished as suddenly as it had come. And Nertha’s dreadful choking became a relieved gasping as the water fell from her face.

  ‘See?’ said the Whistler. He began to play the flute, very softly.

  Vredech felt the darkness overhead stirring, moving downwards. And as the Whistler played, Vredech saw what eyes cannot see, nor minds know. He saw a myriad worlds opening before him. Worlds beyond his imagining yet which he knew were within his reach. Worlds which had as their focus the Whistler and his haunted tune.

  Dowinne glanced from Vredech to the Whistler, her face full of uncertainty. Then she looked upwards. ‘Guide me, Lord!’ she cried out.

  The darkness began to close about the summit, as did the presence which had been there throughout; inhuman in its coldness, all too human in its barbarism and cruelty.

  Dowinne made a move towards the Whistler and the darkness crept further in.

  Then Vredech caught the Whistler’s eye. There was such fear there!

  He must do something. Whatever the Whistler was, he was as trapped here as himself, pinioned by the worlds he held open to save this foolish priest. Yet the ravening desire that Vredech could feel in the approaching darkness told him that he must not allow Dowinne to reach his saviour.

  But what could he do?

  One, two, three, four…

  The terrible litany he had taught himself while awaiting the arrival of Cassraw returned to him.

  This time, guilt-driven, he did not hesitate. As Dowinne reached out to touch the Whistler, Vredech felt for his father’s militia knife.

  It was not there.

  Panic surged through him.

  ‘Allyn!’

  Nertha’s cry cut through it. She had crawled to the bloodstained rock with the same intention. But she was too weak. As he turned, he saw her slithering to the ground, Dowinne’s murderous blade in her hand. Then, her face riven with despair, she made a final effort and hurled the knife towards him.

  Before his mind could register what was happening, he had seized the twisting handle.

  With two long strides he reached Dowinne and, gripping her around the throat, tore her away from the Whistler and drove the knife into her back.

  As he did so, the Whistler’s soft tune became a harsh, screaming trill. He felt the many worlds about him shimmering, moving, becoming a great whirling tumult. And then there was no summit, no Nertha, and no Whistler, save for his frantic trilling call pervading everything. And the dark presence scrabbling to seize the still-living Dowinne.

  Dowinne clutched at Vredech’s hand, still about her throat.

  ‘No, Allyn, please!’ she cried. ‘Please!’

  Pity and a lifetime’s memories filled him.

  ‘Damn you into eternity,’ he howled into the enfolding darkness. Then he stabbed her again, and with what strength he had left he pushed her away from him into the chaos between the shifting worlds.

  He heard her crying his name as she fell.

  * * * *

  Cautiously, Skynner approached the fallen figure. Baton ready, he kicked the knife away from her. Then he bent down and placed his hand against her throat.

  After a moment he looked up.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said.

  * * * *

  The Whistler’s tune carried Vredech and Nertha through the time and distance that could not be, to return them to the Meeting House. It mended many hurts and told many tales, but still Vredech and Nertha wept for a long time as they embraced one another.

  Chapter 39

  Privv’s Sheet was quite sombre the following day. It seemed that following the assassination attempt by the tragically deranged Jarold Harverson, Covenant Member Cassraw had died of his injuries. His steadfast wife Dowinne, broken-hearted, had succumbed to her grief on hearing the news. The couple would be a great loss to the community.

  After hearing the news of Cassraw’s death there had been an emergency debate in the Heindral in which it had been agreed, with remarkable unanimity, that while the levy of the militia should continue, envoys should be sent to Tirfelden with a view to discussing recent events before further harm was done. The envoys were discreetly briefed to attribute the ‘incident’ at Bredill to Cassraw’s… zeal… if need arose. Toom Drommel sat silent throughout, occasionally rubbing his stomach.

  Another item was also reported, which served to explain the comparatively modest tone of the Sheet. It seemed that, doubtless due to overwork following his energetic reporting of recent events, Privv had collapsed and died. He would be missed, but his erstwhile employees would continue with his sterling work, albeit with some slight changes in style – ‘such as telling the truth,’ one of them was heard to say.

  No one paid any heed to the dead cat that was found by Privv’s body, though an official church order was subsequently given to the buriers to the effect that the animal be buried with him and that its name be carved on the headstone along with its owner’s.

  A final tiny item noted that the strange haze which had lingered about the summit of the Ervrin Mallos for the past few days had not returned when the rain had ended.

  Over the next few weeks Troidmallos settled back to normal. With the passing of Cassraw, the fanaticism which he had inspired faded rapidly. His Knights disbanded when several were arrested for assaulting the Sheeters, and instigating the panic at the PlasHein Square. People who had recently been suffering from nightmares and the like found that these faded away. Negotiations with the Felden went remarkably well. The return of the survivors of Bredill had caused an initial uproar, but as one faction had instigated the invasion, so now another had its say. Judiciously, they pointed out that the aggression had been theirs, after all, and that the Madren militia was noted for its ferocity when provoked. And, as the Madren seemed quite keen not to pursue the matter, it was best to let it lie.

  Vredech was appointed Covenant Member in Mueran’s stead, but he immediately delegated his authority jointly to Horld and Morem as he wished to go on a pilgrimage to study the origins of Ishrythan and the Santyth.

  His fellow Chapter Brothers had been somewhat taken aback, until he also announced that he would be marrying Nertha. There was some rather uncler
ical winking at this, and for a while the word ‘pilgrimage’ was spoken in inverted commas at Chapter meetings.

  * * * *

  Darke and Tirec were more than a little surprised when Nertha and Vredech rode into their camp one afternoon. They talked a great deal. Darke’s relief on hearing what had happened was almost palpable, but that it had happened at all still disturbed him badly and left him resolute to carry the news back to his homeland. The two foreigners were further surprised by Vredech’s request that he and Nertha be allowed to accompany them with the intention of learning more of Madren history and other things that were happening in the world beyond Gyronlandt. Vredech also confided that he needed to learn what he could about his strange and uncontrollable gift and the part that Leck had played in it.

  ‘And too, the darkness you’ve found in yourself,’ Darke said to him quietly when they were alone, placing an understanding hand on his shoulder. Vredech nodded, but did not reply.

  Tirec had been reluctant to agree. ‘It’s a long way through difficult country,’ he protested at length, but Darke merely smiled a welcome and said, ‘They’ll learn. And I doubt they’ll be as difficult as you were.’

  After they had shared a meal with their new companions, Vredech and Nertha wandered off together. They came eventually to a small hillside. Vredech looked about, slightly puzzled, then he sat down. ‘This is like the place where I first met the Whistler,’ he said. And as the memory came back to him, so did the peace of that moment. He reached out and took Nertha’s hand. There were no answers to any of the questions they had asked themselves about the Whistler – who he was, if he was – but they would continue to ask them.

  * * * *

  The Whistler, sitting on a broad branch and leaning back against the trunk of the tree, played his three notes softly. He watched Vredech and Nertha on the distant hillside. After a little while he smiled, then he played the three notes very loudly so that they rang out over the fields.