Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Too many questions hung about Cassraw. What had there been in that strange distant look on his face when he had first emerged from the darkness—aloofness, arrogance, fanaticism—madness, even? Perhaps all of those and more. What had caused his mysterious collapse when Vredech had finally opposed him at the doorway of the Debating Hall? What had caused his equally mysterious awakening the following day, when the Chapter was on the verge of outright panic about what to do with him? It was surely no act of disrespect or dishonour to seek answers to such questions, and Vredech steeled himself to the task.

  Slowly, he began to relive the moments from Cassraw's sudden reappearance out of the darkness to his departure from the Witness House. He remembered the anger that had flickered briefly into his old friend's eyes when they encountered Mueran and the others coming to meet them. He recalled with a shudder the cruel look he had seen when he denied Cassraw access to the Debating Hall, and the fearful clash of wills that had come in its wake. What had prompted him to stand so firmly against Cassraw's determination? And where could such a determination have come from? What had Cassraw intended to do?

  And who was this Cassraw who had been restored to them? Despite appearances, Vredech found it difficult to accept that he was the man he seemed to be, the man he had once been—tireless, thoughtful, helpful, a true Preaching Brother. Vredech's guilt returned twofold. What in the world was wrong with such attributes?

  They're false, came a reply, cold and clear like freezing water dashed in his face. They're a mask, a shield, a disguise that he's wearing. And knowing that, how can you not seek to know what lies behind it?

  This condemnation of Cassraw would not go away. Vredech thought about Cassraw's behaviour over the last few months. More and more insistent on the literal truth of the Santyth, he had been directing—or misdirecting—his considerable energy into offending virtually everyone whom it was possible to offend. With his heightened awareness, Vredech could see now that it was Cassraw who had been working his way relentlessly towards a collapse. And now he was supposed to be well and whole. His old self again.

  Never!

  Not right.

  Not right.

  But if he was not what he seemed, then what was he?

  What demon lurked behind the mask? Vredech was jolted by the appearance of this word in his mind, but in its wake came the memory of Jarry and his tormented insistence:

  'He was up there. Now He's here. He walks amongst us again ... Ahmral.'

  Vredech stood up. The shadows etched about the room shifted restlessly as his sudden movement caused the lamp-flame to waver. Both intuition and reason told him that he must take note of such strange, unheralded thoughts, but even to come near to imagining such a notion as Ahmral in human form, was ridiculous. He tried to laugh at his foolishness but found that he could not. Not since the time of the Provers had Ahmral been seriously conceived of as a personal entity, a demon, who could possess people or work individual acts of malice against them. Granted He was still conceived of as such by some of the less sophisticated members of the church, but theological opinion, and of course reason, identified Him simply as a metaphor for the evil that was inherent in humankind; a real enemy and one to be fought constantly. But a person? A creature? That was ridiculous, even dangerous.

  The idea would not be crushed, however. Still lingering inside him was the dreadful resonance he had felt when he had looked into Jarry's black eyes and heard him announce the coming of Ahmral; the resonance that had brought to his mind, like a drowned body rising to the surface of a lake, his own frantic denunciation of Ahmral on the mountainside.

  He sat down again and began tapping his fingers nervously on the arms of the chair.

  'More primitive than I thought,’ he said out loud, as if the admission would in some way protect him.

  But where was he now? Where had his precious reasoning led him? Back through the centuries into the time of the Provers. Back into unreason and superstition, where Ahmral could be found as a scapegoat in all things.

  Angrily he stopped his fingers twitching by clutching the chair arms tightly. He could feel his heart beating and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He wanted desperately to abandon this foolishness, to get back behind his own everyday mask, pretend that everything was as it had always been. Perhaps he should stop worrying about Cassraw. After all, what was he doing that was harmful? He should also have a word with Morem to see if he had anything to help him with his sleeplessness...

  He let the thoughts trail off into emptiness. Nothing was changed. The greater part of him insisted; finish your vigil, Preacher. The dawn is still far away.

  He could not turn back, the thoughts that were consuming him not only could not, but should not be hidden behind any mask. Masks were for dealing with the trivial awkwardnesses of life, not for living behind. That way madness truly lay.

  The thought brought him back to Cassraw, and from nowhere came the name of Dowinne. Puzzled, Vredech allowed his mind to linger on her. He was still attracted to her, but that was an unspoken and long-buried desire. She was someone who lived behind a mask, of that he was sure. Charming and clever, hard-working and capable in her constant support of her husband, Dowinne seemed to be an ideal Preacher's wife. But Vredech had always sensed a disturbing quality about her, as if the eyes that looked out of her did not belong to the gestures that the hands were making, or the words that the mouth was speaking. He shook his head. Enough was enough. He couldn't be analysing everyone! Perhaps she was just shy and put on a show to hide it. And thinking about her only unsettled him. Besides, she certainly had nothing to do with what had happened to Cassraw on the mountain.

  He let Dowinne go, and closed his eyes.

  The shadows were about him again!

  For an instant his mind teetered giddily on the edge of panic. He heard his breath being drawn in with a chesty, animal squeal but somehow he took control of it. For the first time since he had seen the shadows on the mountain, Vredech remained calm in their presence. Whether they were something real that would be occupying his room when he opened his eyes, or whether they were some product of his own disturbed thinking, he would study them this time, come what may.

  He waited, motionless, ignoring the voices that arose to call his sanity in doubt once again.

  And then he saw ... felt?... that the shadows were no longer weaving and dancing. They, too, were waiting.

  What are you? he thought.

  What are you? the question echoed back at him. The shadows shivered at the touch of his voice, and as they shivered, they changed. Yet the act of changing was not perceptible. Vredech simply found his perspective suddenly different. Were these things here, close by and bounded by the limits of his blind vision or his familiar, solid room, or were they towering creations scattered far and wide across a vast plain? Nothing guided him.

  Was this a dream? No, it couldn't be. He did not dream. Never had. Yet what else could this bizarre and haunting scene be? No answer came.

  All was still. Nothing was happening. Just shadows, near or far, waiting.

  For what?

  And yet...?

  And yet, even as he looked at the motionless forms about him he knew that he was in his room. Under his hand lay the arm of the chair. His back and his head rested against familiar contours. And there were the faint scents of his chilly room in his nose. He knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the grey ashes in the fireplace and the soft formed shadows thrown by the single lamp. Or would he?

  Were these sensations only memories? No more real than the landscape he now found himself in? For he was in a landscape, he knew, as surely as he knew that he was also in his room. And if he stepped forward, then he would be both sitting in his room and walking through this strange, silent place.

  These are not the ideas of a sane man, he thought.

  This is a dream.

  But, cold now. No. You cannot dream. This is not a dream.

  Should he open his eyes? Could he expunge thi
s eerie world with its watching shadows?

  Doubt.

  No, this must take its course, he determined. He must await events.

  Thus he waited. Relaxed in his chair, relaxed in the world of the shadows that had come to him. Time was nothing. There was no past, no future. Dawn was no longer far away; it simply was no longer.

  Yet though no movement was to be seen, all about him was change. Wherever he looked, there were shadows near—or far—but always the scene was different when he returned to it. Sometimes subtly sometimes massively. And, indeed, were these things even shadows? How can there be a shadow without a light and a form to create it? And there was neither light nor form here, only darkness within the darkness.

  But if not shadows, then what?

  He peered at one intently. It seemed to him that it sensed his scrutiny. And again, though he saw no change, his perspective was different. This was not a shadow, nor yet solid. It was an opening, he thought, though the idea came to him rather as an old memory recalled than a reasoned conclusion. Yet it did not have the feeling of an opening as to a cave or a tunnel, but more of a door, a portal to ... somewhere else.

  Abruptly and alarmingly, he felt a dizzying sense of vertigo, as though if he were to move now he would find himself hurtling into some unknown depths. Oddly, the sensation was not without pleasure.

  His thoughts disturbed the landscape. Imperceptibly, a restlessness was beginning to pervade it. It was as though other doors were opening and winds were soughing through them, bringing with them the sounds and scents of those other places, and...

  ...listening ears and watching eyes?

  Am I but one of a multitude? he thought, as the echoing silence tingled through him.

  Then part of the changing darkness was a sound. He leaned forward to catch it and as he did so, so it became clearer; three notes, high and plaintive. Now here, now there. Sometimes long, sometimes short, and to an uncertain rhythm, but quite definite. And with a power that commanded attention.

  Vredech's eyes twitched convulsively behind his closed lids. And the shadows were shadows again, dancing, flitting. Regret swept over him as if he were responsible for this sudden change. Don't go, he cried out silently. Stay. Explain. What are you? What's happening? Why...?

  But time had returned. Now was the endless making and unmaking that is the way of things of the world. The shadows were slipping away from him, like smoke in the breeze. Yet the sound remained. Over and over, the same three notes. Always the same and never the same. Notes from a flute. Wilful and deliberate. And from time to time there was a rasping quality about them that turned their plaintiveness into a stark and chilling bleakness.

  Vredech searched the whirling gloom.

  Someone else was sharing this mysterious world with him...

  'Travelling the dreamways.’ Jarry's words came back to him.

  And the player was there.

  There had been no sign of his coming but Vredech could see him, standing only a few paces away, a dim, unclear shape in the darkness. Then he moved forward and his features and form became gradually more visible.

  Almost as if I were the light, Vredech thought, though he was both too occupied examining the newcomer and too afraid to ponder the strangeness of the idea.

  Similar in height to himself, but thinner and more angular, with a shape that gave the impression of crookedness though no apparent deformity was visible, the man had wide, wild eyes set in a lean face that was topped by a mane of equally wild hair, and fringed by a thin straggling beard. Long, bony fingers were moving slowly along a glistening black flute, and red lips were pursed purposefully over a mouth-hole. The sound cut heartbreakingly through Vredech.

  Then the eyes narrowed slightly and focused on Vredech. As they did so, the playing stopped, the final note fading gradually. The flute moved away from the mouth, paused, and then twisted in a slow elaborate arc from hand to hand as if it had a will of its own until it was finally trapped between the thin man's arm and his body, with his bony hand wrapped around the protruding end.

  Vredech gaped. The man leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowing further, and his head tilting slightly as if a different view might clarify what he was seeing. Then his brow furrowed and the hand holding the end of the flute brought it to his mouth. Not in a position to play, but rather as though he were whispering to it confidentially.

  'Who are you?’ Vredech heard himself asking.

  He was not prepared for the gamut of emotions that ran across the man's face. There was uncertainty and fear, mingling with relief and happiness, sorrow and acceptance. And no small amount of anger.

  The preacher in Vredech reached out to him. ‘Don't be afraid,’ he said, though even as he spoke it occurred to him that the phrase was meaningless. What did he know of the hurts that lay in this place? Still, he could not have remained silent.

  The man appeared to be whispering to his flute again. Then, suddenly, it was levelled at Vredech, a cross between a stabbing sword and a teacher's pointer. And one of the wild eyes was squinting along it.

  'Who are you?’ asked the mouth. The voice had a strange accent, and the words were uttered with a staccato clarity.

  'I am Allyn Vredech, a Preaching Brother in the church of Ishrythan,’ Vredech replied without thinking, the answer being almost jolted out of him by the impact of the speaker's words. The shadows danced.

  The eye squinting along the flute glazed momentarily as this information was accepted.

  'I suppose it was foolish to ask,’ the newcomer said, though apparently to himself. Then he straightened up and the flute twirled slowly from hand to hand. Vredech found himself being examined as though he were some unusual plant or sculpture. ‘Perhaps I should have asked, what are you? Or even better, where are you? Where are we?'

  Vredech opened his mouth to make some form of reply, but the figure continued. Again Vredech had the feeling that the questions were being spoken in his presence rather than being addressed to him.

  'Am I to be released? Am I to awaken, at last?'

  As he spoke he raised the flute to his lips and the three notes came again, very softly, idly, while the eyes widened and focused once more on Vredech. They were both expectant and scornful.

  'I don't understand what you mean,’ Vredech said hesitantly. ‘I don't know where this place is, except that I might be dreaming. But why my dream should bring such a creation as you to me, I cannot think.'

  The figure crouched low and slowly blew the three notes again. Then he leaned forward and peered at Vredech with sudden concentration.

  'Well, well,’ he muttered, screwing up his face as if trying to remember something. ‘Straight out of my childhood, aren't you? Eyes of night. Eyes of night.'

  He swayed from side to side, his mouth pursing and whistling soundlessly, then:

  'Eyes of night,

  Dreams aflight,

  Darkling gaze,

  Travel the ways,

  Find the heart,

  That's your part.'

  He seemed pleased. ‘Fancy that,’ he said. ‘It's a long while since I've heard that, I think. Question—did you bring the verse, or did the verse bring you? Strange, haunting image. How can I know? Finish the verse for me ... what have I called you? Ah, Preacher, wasn't it? Finish the verse, Preacher.’ He flicked his hands upwards and froze in position like a child at play, his head cocked on one side, expectant, challenging.

  Vredech was spellbound by these antics, curiosity overriding his alarm and the returning doubts about his own sanity. Furthermore, though he had never heard the verse before, he found it peculiarly disturbing. He did not dwell on the sensation.

  'You called me nothing,’ he said slowly. ‘You asked me who I was. I told you—I am a preacher. And I don't know your verse at all.’ He tried to be prosaic. ‘It sounds like a child's rhyme of some kind.'

  The man tapped a long bony forefinger on his lips as he listened. ‘Strange, strange. Why should I want a preacher?’ he said absently. ‘
Why a preacher?’ The flute was at his mouth again and two or three disjointed and pensive notes drifted from it as he continued to stare at Vredech. Then he addressed him directly. ‘Why a preacher, Preacher? I made you come here. In fact, I made you. Tell me why.'

  'There's the weave,

  Time to grieve,

  Fabric's torn,

  'fore all was born.'

  Vredech spoke as the words came into his head. He took in a sharp breath. He had never heard them before but they brought a terror with them that was totally disproportionate to their seeming content.

  'Aha!’ the man exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Never heard the verse, eh?’ Then the triumph faded, to be replaced by a look of resignation. His angular figure drooped. He looked around. ‘This is such a strange place. I thought ...’ He shrugged. ‘Still, I never was good at self-deception. You can go now. I'll move on to whatever's next.’ He was talking to himself again. ‘Whatever's next.'

  He did not move, however. Instead he brought the flute up and began playing a lively jig, boisterous and foot-tapping. Vredech felt his spirits lift and he became aware of the shadows dancing again. But the man's face showed none of the joy that was in the music and he kept his gaze fixed on Vredech.

  Quite unexpectedly, he lowered the flute. The shadows arched high and paused, caught in the middle of the dance. ‘Am I going to wake now?’ the man asked. ‘Is that it? Are you standing over me, Priest—watching, waiting?’ He gazed around again and then returned to his intense scrutiny of Vredech. ‘I've never been here before. Nor ever created anything as dreamlike as you, with your fairy-rhyme face. Am I going to wake?'

  Vredech winced away from the pain in his voice. ‘I don't know what you mean,’ he said. ‘And I don't really know why I'm talking to you. You're only a figment of my imagination, after all. Something that will disappear when I open my eyes.’ Then, a little indignantly, ‘And what's wrong with my face?’ His hand relinquished its grip of the chair arm and rose to touch his cheeks. He needed a shave, he decided, but that was hardly call for the newcomer's odd remarks.